The Courtesan's Secret (35 page)

Things being as they were, namely, that Eleanor was not going to be forced into divulging any information about Louisa's whereabouts, and Mary having quite a bit of experience in how easy it was to lose track of Eleanor's whereabouts, resulted in Amelia being sent for. As it was evening and Hawksworth was on his way out anyway, he accompanied Amelia to Melverley House. Hawksworth, it was obvious, was more than a little curious.

Hawksworth, knowing very well both Louisa and Melverley, should have been able to puzzle it all out on his own. But then, Hawksworth was notoriously lazy, so he likely couldn't be bothered and would much prefer having everything spelled out for him, rather like Aunt Mary in that, actually. Aunt Mary was suspicious and experienced in dealing with Amelia, Louisa, and Eleanor, but she had yet to find a satisfactory method for preventing any of them from doing whatever it was they particularly wanted.

It made for a most convenient and congenial relationship, at least from Eleanor's perspective. She was quite certain that Aunt Mary, somewhat haggard and usually hungover, would likely disagree.

Those were the perils of being the only woman alive in two families who could function as a chaperone for two, almost three, marriageable daughters. Eleanor had determined from an early age that such a future was not to be hers. She could see no benefit at all to being an elderly woman without a husband; certainly in fiction they did not fare well at all.

Hawksworth, lounging in fashionable boredom on a long sofa in the library, eyed the women casually and with almost insulting lack of interest, his longish blond hair splayed out on the pillow beneath his head. Eleanor had never had more than a passing interest in Hawksworth, even if he were her cousin. He was the heir apparent to her uncle, the Duke of Aldreth; he was handsome; he was rich; he was, as a result, very tired of life at the profound age of twenty. She found
him
altogether tiresome.

"Hawksworth," Aunt Mary said, "how lovely to see you. You're not in Paris with the rest of them?"

Paris
because the Treaty of Amiens had just been signed, which meant that Paris was free of war and therefore open and available to the wastrels of the world. Eleanor knew this because she did, after all, read Fielding.
The rest of them
being the other youngbloods of London, who were all, presumably, in Paris behaving as perfect wastrels.

"I'm back," Hawksworth drawled. "I shall go over again, as the mood strikes or does not strike, Aunt Mary. Is that why you asked us over? To discuss my travel plans?"

"No," Aunt Mary said, pretending to be cowed by his rebuke, but she was not. Aunt Mary had so much experience in dealing with overbearing and underchivalrous men, namely, the men her sisters had married, that she was very well accustomed to behaving in whatever ways pleased the men while simultaneously behaving in whatever ways best suited herself. Eleanor had long ago come to the conclusion that she liked that about Aunt Mary and that, even though often drunk, Aunt Mary was not often stupid.

"I asked you to come because, well . . ." Aunt Mary hedged.

Eleanor moved as quietly as possible to the farthest corner of the room, a corner almost completely drenched in shadow, and stood stock-still. Unseen was as near as she was going to get to being unnoticed. She, of course, knew what Aunt Mary was about to say and she had strong suspicions about where the discussion would lead. If she were correct, and she knew she was, then she would be sent from the room as it would be decided that she was inappropriately young and far too innocent to hear the particulars of the conversation as it pertained to Louisa.

She was not too young at sixteen to hear the particulars, but she would certainly remain far too innocent if she were ushered from the room.

"Yes?" Hawksworth prompted. Eleanor noticed that Amelia was looking around the room, likely trying to find her own shadowed corner.

"I seem to have misplaced Lady Louisa," Aunt Mary said.

"I beg your pardon?" Hawksworth said, sitting up slightly.

"Louisa is not at home," Mary said. "I don't know where's she gone. You don't think she could have eloped, do you? With Henry Blakesley?"

"She might have done," Hawksworth said, sitting up fully now.

"Certainly, it would serve. She would thwart Melverley and acquire Blakesley. A double gain, that."

"Don't be absurd, Hawks," Amelia snapped, standing up to walk over to her brother, her
younger
brother, and scowl down at him. "If you'd been in Town as often as you ought to have been, you would know that Louisa is and has been interested in only one man since her coming out, and that man is not Henry Blakesley, but the Marquis of Dutton. She would hardly gain what she wants by marrying Lord Henry."

"She's ruined now, Amelia," Hawksworth said stiffly, standing to face his sister, "she'll take whatever man she can and be thankful for him. If Blakesley is willing to have her, she'll be wise to snatch him up. She was silly enough to let him ruin her in the first place, it's only to be expected—"

"But Dutton ruined her as well," Amelia interrupted. "He could still be managed to the altar. If a male member of this family had the brass to do so."

Eleanor almost giggled at that, which would have seen her tossed from the room like so much garbage. She swallowed all sound, stilled all movement, though she did so want to clap for joy over Hawksworth's set down. He so deserved it, lazy sot.

"The point is"—Aunt Mary interrupted what was certain to become an argument between Amelia and Hawksworth that would entertain the servants of Melverely House for the following week as they repeated every word amongst them—"that Louisa is not here and that, given events as they have so recently transpired, I do think that she must be found, if only to be saved from herself."

"She is ruined, Aunt," Hawksworth said. "Saving her, even from herself, is certainly beyond our doing."

"Of course,
you
would say that," Amelia said sharply, "for it might require you to get up off the sofa."

Hawksworth, lazy to the last, saved his most energetic of looks for his sister. Amelia, it appeared, appreciated the effort made on her behalf. Certainly, they should all be glad when or if Hawksworth ever showed any sign of effort on any point.

"You have no idea where she could have gone?" Hawksworth asked Aunt Mary, turning from Amelia with flagrant irritation.

"She has gone to the Theatre Royal," a male voice, which was not Hawksworth's, said.

They all turned to the sound of that voice. He was tall, lean, dark, that was what registered first. Then, his clothing: leather leggings, some scrap of fabric hanging down over his manly bits, a coarse linen shirt. A knife.

A very large knife, almost a short sword. It glinted in the candlelight, a mesmerizing glow of deadly metal.

Then, his face. Deep-set eyes under a slash of ebony brows. Prominent cheekbones. A bold and hawkish nose. An angular face that was in want of shaving.

He stood in the room, his back to the open window behind him. Open because the rain had stopped and the evening breeze had been fresh and cool.

Eleanor looked around the room. In front of each open window stood another just like the first, younger, but just as savage. Just as foreign.

"You will not intrude," he said. "You will stay here."

"I think not," Hawksworth said.

"Think again," one of them said, the oldest of the younger set.

Indians.

This time, Eleanor could not help herself. She clapped her hands for joy.

IF Sophia had been any less sophisticated than she was, she would have clapped for joy the very instant when Blakesley trapped Louisa against the dark back wall of their box and, to judge from his position, kissed her into oblivion.

Things were proceeding so nicely and without needless interruption, too. That was so important in events such as these, to keep things moving forward, as it were. Sophia rose to her feet, smiling meaningfully at Anne and Markham, though she had grave doubts as to whether Markham would understand what she meant, though she was certain that Anne would explain everything as needed, and walked out of her box and down a short flight of stairs and, knocking lightly, entered Melverley's box.

He was engaged in sweaty activity with Emily Bates, his breeches loosened sufficiently to get the job done, Emily's skirts lifted, her cheeks pink, her gaze wandering about the theater. Sophia smiled and winked at her and held her finger to her lips, watching Melverley at his toils, rather like Hercules, though certainly not as well formed as Hercules must have been.

When Melverley, who had a revoltingly white arse sprinkled with curling red hair, grunted and lurched for perhaps the twentieth time, though it could have been merely the third, she was simply too revolted to be relied upon for an accurate count, she decided she simply could not wait any longer and must speak out.

She was completely certain that Emily, young and struggling as she was to maintain even the display of ardor, would thank her.

"Lord Melverley," she said lightly, grinning when he jerked to a halt and swore a curse into Emily's bodice. "How delightful it is, bumping into you this way. Though, I suppose that is not quite accurate. 'Tis Miss Bates whom you are bumping into, so to speak."

Melverley, thankfully, covered his most unappealing arse, and stood, clumsily, to face her. Emily, by the look of it, was struggling not to grin and to appear properly embarrassed by the interruption. Dear Emily would simply starve if she ever had to rely upon her acting skills alone.

"Are you lost, Lady Dalby?" he said gruffly, still adjusting his breeches as he faced her.

"No, but I am so very afraid that you are, Lord Melverley. You seem to have quite completely lost your way with your elder daughter," Sophia said, looking at Emily, who read her nicely enough, smart girl, and who, mumbling, left the box to them. Melverley did not look pleased, but then, when did he ever?

"Louisa is none of your concern," he said, still gruffly because the poor man simply had no other way of communicating. It would have been distressing if it were not so amusing.

"She certainly is proving to be none of
your
concern, though Lord Henry Blakesley does not seem to mind giving her the attention she deserves and, perhaps, requires. How like you she is. How gratifying it must be for you, to observe at least one of your daughters following in your deliciously debauched footsteps."

"What the devil are you talking about, Sophia?" he said. Gruffly. "Lord Henry ruined her and she can stay ruined. 'Twould teach her well."

"I'm not precisely certain what you think it will teach her, unless it be how to live a life debauched, which, while it has a certain appeal, is not the route most men choose for their daughters."

"You know as well I, as well as all of London, that she is none of mine," he said. Yes,
gruffly
.

"Darling Melly, they do say that the father is always the last to know, but I do think you are pushing it. Louisa is all yours, from her ginger hair to her stubborn will and, I hesitate to say it to your face, her sharp tongue. How could you think otherwise?"

"Westlin told me as much," he said. "Margaret warmed his bed. She even admitted it once."

"Darling, Westlin thinks he has fathered every person of ginger hair between the ages of twenty-five and two who live within fifty miles of Town. It is a rare conceit, and I am quite certain he expects everyone in Society to indulge him, but I see no reason why I should, nor why you should. Can you?"

His poor battered face, for he did suffer from an extremity of color about the nose and chin that was most alarming, grew thoughtful and still. Poor dear, thinking was proving something of an effort after decades of fleshly indulgence. Well, he required managing, a tender leading string to prompt him to the correct conclusion.

"Her mother confessed," he said, belligerently, which did prove some improvement over gruffly.

"Darling, of course she confessed," she said in a gay tone. "Let me guess as to how the stage was set for that particular performance. You were then, as you are now, prone to dalliance. Westlin had started his rumors, all to benefit himself, which even you must admit. You accused her, the scent of another woman likely still fresh upon your skin, and she...? She was supposed to play the long-suffering wife, true to the end, as you played Othello and smote her down?" Sophia laughed to see the look on his face. "Melly, you simply must stop living your life by some play or other you've seen. What did you expect her to say? She'd been accused, you were neither faithful nor discreet, and you presented her with the perfect revenge. I applaud her for taking it. What woman would not?"

"She could have denied it," he said.

"In the face of your disbelief?" she said. "Admit it, Melly, remember Margaret as she truly was, not as you've rewritten her in your memory. Could she have been faithless to you? Did she not love you? Was she not a good wife, a credit to your name?"

Melverley looked very thoughtful, melancholy, almost on the point of tears. How very well-deserved they were. He had behaved abominably, and he should repent of every foul deed from the day he first tupped a dairymaid to this.