Variety’s the very spice of life.
—William Cowper
Angel dreamed he was in the Regent’s temple made of shells, seated on a marble bench with a warm woman on his lap. Lamplight reflected from the minerals set in the walls, and the tinsel in her dress.
He traced his fingertips across her face. Her breath caught in her throat. His lips followed the curve of her cheek to the corner of her mouth. His hand slid down her side to rest on the curve of her hip.
She sighed with pleasure. Her breath was hot and sweet against his skin. He wanted to slide her beneath him on the bench and kiss her senseless; to explore her luscious body with his lips, and fingers, and tongue; to pleasure her as no one had pleasured her before.
Her kisses were sweet, and urgent. He edged her bodice off her shoulder, and her chemise; pushed aside the soft fabric until the curve of one plump breast was bared.
Her skin was soft, silken beneath his lips. He yearned to feel her lips on
his
skin. No sooner had the fancy struck him than she sat up, grasped his jacket and—
Voilà!
He wore nothing. She wore nothing. They were both naked as newborns.
Angel was only mildly startled; this was, after all, a dream. A most pleasant dream, he decided, as he savored the sensation of flesh sliding against flesh, her hand moving across his chest, his belly. Those clever fingers approached his navel and his heart pounded fit to burst—
Not pounding, but knocking. “Enter,” Angel groaned.
The door opened. Angel’s valet informed him that he had a guest.
Daphne,
concluded Angel. She continually sent messages he chose to ignore.
“Tell her to go away,” he snarled, and pulled the pillow over his face, determined to savor the last vestiges of his dream.
“Which ‘her’ are you expecting?” inquired Lord Saxe. “Actress, opera dancer, wife?”
Angel lifted the pillow to glare at his friend. “What in Hades are you doing here at this ungodly hour?”
Kane pulled out his pocket watch. “It’s past twelve o’clock.”
“You make my point.” Angel lowered the pillow back onto his face. “A normal person would still be abed.”
“You think me abnormal?” Kane picked up the pillow and tossed it aside.
Angel scowled at him. “I
know
you’re abnormal. Else you wouldn’t go around disturbing people’s rest.”
“I need to speak with you.” Kane drew a chair closer to the bed.
“Not before coffee, I beg you! See to it, Jessop, if you will.”
The valet — a pale, thin, infinitely discreet individual — silently departed. Kane settled in the chair and stretched out his long legs. “Breakfast in bed?”
“My last clear memory is carousing until six of the morn,” retorted Angel. “That was two nights ago. I am not done recuperating. Such are the indignities of advancing age.”
Lord Saxe was prevented making a rude remark by Jessop’s return. Following the valet was a footman bearing a tray. On the tray reposed a coffee pot, cups, and a plate of toasted bread.
Angel pulled himself up against the headboard. “Jessop, you are worth your weight in rubies. Now go away.”
The servants departed. Kane removed a slice of toasted bread from the breakfast tray. “Help yourself,” invited Angel. “Have some coffee, why don’t you? And while you’re at it, you may pour a cup for me.”
Kane picked up the coffee pot. “As I said, we need to talk.”
“Speech
is
the most common means of communication.” Angel watched Kane pour. “Though not the sole method by any means. Or the most pleasurable.”
Kane handed him the cup. “That may be. However, I’ve no desire to communicate in any other manner with you.”
“You relieve me.” Angel sipped his coffee. “I daresay that any number of fellows might be more, ah, accommodating in their mode of intercourse. The lovely Lilah could provide an introduction, were you to ask.”
The baron felt an exasperated muscle twitch in his jaw. Important documents had gone missing, as had Fanny Arbuthnot and Verity Vaughan; Maddie Tate had fled from a pharaoh straight into Angel’s arms. How these matters were related, Kane had not yet determined, but any number of people might attempt to alleviate their pecuniary embarrassments by the sale of stolen documents, including the Prince and Princess of Wales. “Cut line! Or I will empty this pot over your head. Have you learned anything more from Mrs. Tate?”
Angel had learned that he enjoyed kissing the lady. Hers hadn’t been the most experienced kisses he had ever received, or even the most passionate, but he suspected they had been the most sincere.
How odd in him to suddenly admire sincerity. Maybe it was another sign of approaching senility. “I believe I spoke with Mrs. Tate at Prinny’s fête.”
“You strolled with Mrs. Tate in the gardens of Carlton House for at least half an hour. One might ask — if one cared, which I do not— what game you are playing now. I
will
ask if you think it wise to have brought her to the notice of the ton.”
“Who has ever called me wise? Mrs. Tate sings beautifully, and her voice deserves to be admired, and I might as well have tossed a new-born lamb into the midst of a pack of sharp-toothed wolves. At your — and Castlereagh’s — request, I might point out. In atonement, I am doing my poor best to ensure she is harmed as little as possible by the experience.”
“That is well and good, if amazingly unlike you. But may I remind you: Fanny Arbuthnot?”
“It is because I like her,” Angel continued. “Mrs. Tate, that is, not Fanny Arbuthnot. Not that I
dis
like Fanny. How could I, after the tender moments we shared? At least, I think it was Fanny who shared those moments with me, but memory may not serve. Imagine, if you can: no posturing, no simpering, no casting out of lures. No affectation or artifice. Mrs. Tate is a most unusual female.”
Kane brushed toast crumbs off his jacket. “I have never known you to mislead an innocent.”
“I don’t believe I
am
misleading her. How goes Castlereagh?”
“As one might expect. This latest business with Princess Charlotte has inspired Francis Horner to compare the Regent’s conduct to that of a Prussian corporal, and Brougham to inquire whether anything so barbarous as the Regent’s treatment of his daughter may be found outside Turkey. Meantime, Liverpool proposes to increase Princess Caroline’s allowance on the grounds that she desires to travel abroad. Should that happen, it will cause no little consternation among the Whigs.”
‘No little consternation’ was an understatement. Before Kane could snatch it up, Angel helped himself to the last slice of toast. It had fallen to the Tories as Prinny’s Ministers to disapprove the Princess of Wales’ doings and to support, as best they could, her husband’s, which was no small feat. In their turn, the Whigs championed Princess Caroline, even if the majority of them held her in contempt. Were she to leave England, the Whigs would lose a powerful political tool.
“Someone has been interrogating Dianas,” Kane continued, “but we have been unable to acquire a description; he has presented himself to each of them in a different guise. Fanny is rumored to be taking the waters at Margate, or Brighton, or Bath, but inquiries in all those places have turned up no trace of her.”
“Has it occurred to you that Fanny may have merely ventured further afield?”
“I begin to suspect Fanny may not have ventured at all.”
The baron departed. Angel finished his coffee in contemplative silence; called for his valet. Bathed and shaved, dressed to that individual’s satisfaction, he too left the house.
The day was overcast, the sun having taken up residence behind a bank of lowering clouds. After ascertaining where Wellington was being lionized that day, Angel chose a different route to Wimple Street.
He drew up his phaeton in front of his sister’s house. A groom hurried to take the reins. Angel tossed the man a coin. “Walk the horses. I won’t be long.”
He found Bea in her morning room, a charmingly informal chamber. She was standing at the window, her profile to the door.
“In a brown study, are you, sis?” asked Angel, as he entered the room.
She swung to face him. “Angel! I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Have I come at a bad time?”
“Goose! You are always welcome.” Bea crossed the room to kiss his cheek. “Corbin isn’t here, and I’m glad he’s absent, because I wish to speak to you alone.”
Angel said, cautiously, “Oh?”
“Indeed.” Contrary to the opinion of the rest of London — save possibly Lord Saxe — Angel’s sister
did
believe Angel meant to set up Mrs. Tate as his next flirt. She inquired what maggot he had taken in his head, and demanded that he shake it out.
Angel wondered if maggots were responsible for the queer circumstance that he’d got his feelings hurt. “You should not listen to gossip. I promise you, Mrs. Tate is immune to my wicked wiles. Which brings me to the reason I am here. You are my sister and therefore must be truthful. Do you think me spoiled?”
Bea blinked at him. “How could you not be spoiled? You’ve been doted on from the crib. Even men admire you, while women go to ridiculous lengths to earn one of your smiles.”
Angel recalled Mrs. Tate’s parting salvo. “Not every woman,” he said.
“Are you referring to Bella?” Bea tilted her head to one side. “She dotes on you, and at the same time loathes you because you do not dote on her in return. Whereas you
do
dote on every other female in town.”
Angel protested, “You think me such a rake?”
Bea’s gaze returned to the window. “A rake enjoys the conquest and then moves on to other prey.
You
are the perfect companion, charming and amusing; and even though your conquests know from the beginning that they cannot keep you for themselves, they seldom regret having been the focus of your attention for a time.”
Angel was uncomfortable with this conversation, which he suspected was but marginally about him. “Damned with faint praise. I hate to think what you might say if you were feeling unkind.” He took leave of his sister, resolving to not only wring her husband’s neck, but to draw and quarter him as well.
He descended the front steps, and halted. His phaeton waited where he had left it; but when he had left it, there had been no young woman perched in the high seat. A young woman with chestnut curls and big blue eyes, wearing a high-waisted gown with a low square neckline, a short pink satin spencer with a standing collar, and a matching hat. Angel recognized the bonnet, and the spencer, and those lime green gloves. He would probably recognize her undergarments, were she to display them to him. “Daphne. What are you doing in my phaeton?”
She dimpled. “It is a splendid phaeton. And when I saw it waiting here — I happened to be passing by — I decided, ‘he has gone to see his sister, but he will not stay long, and so I will sit here and wait for him, and he will be surprised.’ And so I sent my carriage away.”
“Surprise is not the emotion I am feeling.” Angel swung into his seat and took up the reins. “I have business to attend. Where shall I drop you off?”
At last, Daphne had managed to be taken up in Angel’s phaeton. She didn’t plan to dismount until the whole world had seen her riding at his side. “Can you not bear to spend even a moment with me? You did not used to be so cruel.”
Angel wasn’t cruel, but he was having a miserable day. “What do you want, Daphne? I will not ask again.”