He paused and looked at her, his head cocked to one side. “Something like that. Do not forget Harold Coachman.”
“How absurd.”
“I agree. But back to your name, it would be best if it were not a total lie yet the more exotic the better. Mona is too plain. Sima?”
“Noma. That was what my brother called me when he was little, when Simone was too hard for him to say.”
“Ah, perfect. Noma suits you, with your un-English looks. You might be from the American Plains, or the tropical Indies, or the steppes of Russia. What last name?”
“I am tempted to use Ryland, to shame my father’s family for not doing better by us, but it is Auguste’s name also, and I would not have him connected to my scandalous actions.”
“Hmm. Reilly is too common. Roland too close. How about Royal? Noma Royal, favorite in the race for Queen of the Courtesans.”
“No one will believe that is my real name. It sounds more like one you’d give a race horse.”
“But an actress often adopts a stage name, the way an author uses a pseudonym. They select a prettier name, something memorable and easier to pronounce than their own. I know, but shan’t tell anyone but you, that Gorham’s mistress, Claire Hope, is really Claudinia Colthopfer.”
Simone laughed. “You are making that up.”
The major shook his head. “I do not lie, Miss Royal.”
“Royale, I think, with an e. Miss Noma Royale.”
“Lovely. Tell Sally and Jeremy so they and you can become familiar with it. And you must start calling me Harry, Noma, as intimate acquaintances would.”
Somehow the notion of sleeping in the same room was easier to contemplate than the familiarity of using an older gentleman’s given name. “I shall try…Harry.”
“Capital. Now when we leave on Wednesday, the coach will take you and Sally out of town. I have matters to attend to along the way, but I’ll meet up with you before you reach Richmond. I’ll visit a barber and my tailor before then. Why, I’ll be so dashing you might not recognize me.”
Simone smiled politely, not speaking a lie. “Whatever is convenient, ah, Harry, as long as I do not have to arrive at Lord Gorham’s estate without you.”
“Have no fear, we shall make a grand entrance together. Which reminds me, you’ll need to practice acting the part. You’ll have to be a bit more convincing as a courtesan if we are to succeed.”
“I did not put on the face paints this evening, or the most revealing gown.”
“No, my dear. What I meant is about showing affection: kissing, touching, standing close, holding hands, sending smitten glances.”
“In public?”
“Such displays will be expected at Gorham’s, even common. A proper female would be aghast at the blatant behavior, but you must not be shocked, no matter what you see. In fact, you have to be just as forward and free with your favors, to me, naturally. Make no mistake, the house party is about sex also, not merely games and intrigue. If you do not seem loving, receptive of my attentions, no one will believe we are lovers, and then they will start asking questions neither of us wants to answer. We will not be paramours, in fact, but only the two of us must know that.”
“I…I think I can do that.”
“Then kiss me, Noma, for practice, of course.”
“Of course.” Simone stood and stepped toward his chair. She bent down, closed her eyes, and pressed her pursed lips to his moustache.
“Lud, sweetheart, you really are no actress, are you?”
Chapter Ten
Simone sprang back as if she’d been scalded. “You knew I was no Cyprian.”
“I didn’t know you’d never been kissed, dammit!”
“I have, too.” Before he could accuse her of a lie—had the kiss been that bad, that he could tell?—she amended her statement: “That is, the baron did, before I hit him with the poker. The son of my previous employer caught me alone in the nursery once, and kissed me until I could scream for help. And I was properly kissed by a gentleman under the mistletoe my last Christmas at home.”
“By your blasted curate? None of those count. Lud, we’ll be found out within an hour of our arrival. You might as well wear a chastity belt if you are going to show that much enthusiasm for lovemaking. Damn, you’ll stand out like a donkey at Epsom Downs. I’ll be a laughingstock, bringing a virgin to a bacchanal; you’ll be banned from the foolish games. Worst of all, no one will talk to you.”
“I can learn. How hard can it be?”
“It’s not supposed to be hard, by all that’s holy, and a lot that’s not! I’m the one supposed to— Never mind. Relax and try again.”
Relax, after he yelled at her loudly enough to make the cat run out of the room? This time Simone did try to soften her lips. She kept her eyes open, too, to make sure she found his mouth, not his moustache. She did manage to hit her target, after bumping his nose. His lips were firm but pliant under hers, a not unpleasant feeling, she decided. “There,” she said, pulling away so fast she dislodged his spectacles. “You see, I can do it.”
He did not see at all, for he kept his eyes closed while he replaced the glasses on his nose. “That was hardly a kiss. More a cold brushing of lips so quick it might have been a passing snow shower. Devil take it, couples married for thirty years manage to put more emotion into an embrace than that. Tell me, Simone, do you wish to kiss me or not?”
“That’s Noma, sir, not Simone.”
“That is avoiding my question. I know who you are. Yes or no?”
Simone couldn’t say “No,” not and keep her job. “Yes” would be a lie, which he’d know instantly. “It’s…it’s the moustache. I do not like the feel of it.”
He stroked the offending article. “I would feel naked without it. But tell me this, Noma, what if I asked you to attend the party with another man, one who was clean-shaven, young, passably good looking?”
Simone was more indignant than if he’d said she kissed like a cow. “I will not be handed around like a flagon of wine. I made an agreement with you and no one else. Your friend might be far more demanding of my services, or far less appealing to me.”
“And hell might freeze over,” he muttered. Aloud he said, “I was afraid you’d say that. But what if he was Harry, too?”
“How can he be? Either you are Harry or you are not. You said you never lie.”
“Aye, that’s a problem.”
“Which makes no sense. There can be any number of Harry’s, but only one you. Harry, Harrison, Harold, a name means nothing. You said so yourself. Why, I would never kiss Mr. Harris, no matter what that dry stick calls himself.”
The major started coughing, so she brought him another cup of tea.
When he was done choking, he said, “People are not always who or what they seem to be.”
“If that is a riddle, you will have to solve it for me.”
“I cannot, not yet. Too many lives are at stake. If you spoke to the wrong person before we leave, unknowingly whispered a doubt, plans could go awry and end badly.”
“But you said you want me to listen to gossip.”
“Listen, yes, but not give anything away. You’ll understand later.”
Now she understood that for all her pretty clothes and intentions, she seemed to remain Miss Simone Ryland at heart, a sensible woman who disliked paradoxes and puzzles. “I do not know if I can manage this after all.”
“You simply have not grown into your character yet. Unfortunately we have no month to rehearse. Come, let us try again. This time I will take charge.”
“Take charge?” She did not like the sound of that, but before Simone could react, the major pulled her onto his lap where the cat had been moments ago. Startled by his quick move and his strength, she still noticed his surprisingly firm thighs under her bottom. She would have expected weak and wasted muscles if she’d considered a gentleman’s thighs at all, which she had not until now. He must ride his horses after all, she thought, before he tilted her chin and brought his mouth down on hers.
The moustache tickled and the beard rubbed at her chin, but now she understood about a real kiss. His lips felt warm and dry, not parched like the curate’s, not slobbery like the baron’s, not cold and hard like that lecherous son’s. Now her lips grew warmer. They even tingled. Then his tongue flicked out and licked her lips, a butterfly’s caress, not threatening, not intrusive, just…nice. That ought to be enough to convince any watchers. How many could there be, anyway? No matter what the major said, no one but farm animals indulged in such pastimes amid company. She certainly did not. Simone pulled back, and his hands immediately left her shoulders.
“Maybe you would enjoy this more if you imagined that younger man.”
She had been enjoying his kiss, somewhat, at any rate. “Hm, tall, dark and handsome?”
He brushed her lips with his again. “More or less.”
“Blue eyes?”
“If that’s what you like.”
It was. And sure enough, she had the picture of him in her mind’s eyes, the Harry she must have dreamed about from the stories at Lydia Burton’s. With her eyes closed, with the moustache forgotten, she kissed him, and Harry kissed her back. His hands stroked her back and her neck and down the sides of her ribs, and she grew heated, wanting to be nearer. She dared to raise her hand, then reconsidered. No, she did not want to touch his old-fashioned wig and ruin her dream.
Feeling disloyal for thinking of an imaginary hero while kissing her feeble old patron, she spread her hands on his chest and his shoulders. They felt hard and strong, muscular like his legs, far more suited to the man in her mind than the man in her future. Then she forgot about everything but him, Major Harrison, the Harry who held her. Now her own body told her what to do, what it wanted, what he most likely wanted back. Those were her only thoughts, while shooting stars danced across her sky. She’d never… No wonder… His tongue could do that? There was more?
Eventually they both needed to breathe. Simone pulled away and grinned. “I can do this!”
“Oh, lady, you certainly can.” Harry pushed her farther onto his knees and straightened his coat over his lap. He was panting, so she worried that kissing, kissing his way, was too much exertion for a frail man. But he was smiling. His wig was askew, his neckcloth was unknotted—had she done that?—and now one end of his moustache tilted up, the other down.
She was going to Richmond.
*
Harry was going to burn in hell if they did not stop. He sent her to bed, her own bed, and poured himself another glass of port. Then he sat back, readjusted his clothing, his privates, and his thinking.
This new plan would work perfectly, he told himself. She’d keep her virtue; he’d keep his reputation as a rake.
She’d be acting; he’d be the perfect gentleman, not the bastard he was born to be.
Keeping her chaste would be easy; he didn’t want the woman anyway.
Then he set the port aside and ate three sugar cubes from the tea tray.
*
Harry had his spies, his ears to the ground throughout London, his cadre of intelligence officers. He had paid informants at the highest levels of society and the lowest dregs of humanity. Nothing of his, however, compared to the servants’ grapevine.
Everyone, it seemed, knew about the courtesan competition. Why, Sally could tell Simone the names of half the women supposedly attending Lord Gorham’s house party, plus their special talents, favorite dressmakers, and scruples when it came to cheating. She had to watch out for one who hated all women, another who liked women all too well. One was known to be desperate for money to settle gambling debts her protector refused to pay. A viscount was about to marry and leave town, so his mistress needed funds until she found a new financier. The desperate ones were the most competition, Sally warned, after Miss Claire Hope, of course, Lord Gorham’s constant companion when his wife wasn’t looking. Simone had to hide her chuckle behind a cough, knowing of the woman’s true name.
Sally understood entirely about using aliases. Why, she was going to be Sarah Doyle, from her own given name and her mother’s maiden name. It would not do, she said, begging miss’s pardon, for Sally Judd to be known as a ladybird’s dresser, not if she wished to find a position with a proper lady of fashion afterward. And thanks be to Miss Royale for all the training she’d be getting. She was that thrilled to be going to the high flyers’ gathering, but, begging miss’s pardon again, ’twould be a poor reflection on both her mother and the Kensington household for a connection between them to become known.
“Mum’s gone right respectable, I swear, and doesn’t intend me to follow in her shoes. Not that I’d throw my bonnet over the windmill for the first handsome face and pretty talk, of course.”
Her brother Jeremy would be Jem Doyle, for the same reasons. Besides, the major had asked both siblings to use a different name, and no one refused Master Harry, or asked for explanations.
Likely because they never got answers to their questions, Simone thought, but she listened carefully to everything Sally could tell her.
She made a mental list until the information grew too complicated. Then she had to write it down. With over twenty couples invited, according to the rumor mill, the pages of her notebook quickly filled.
Sally—Sarah—was happy to report all the news she could gather from nearby households and the scandal sheets she adored; Jem did his research at the taverns where footmen took their ale; Mrs. Judd, herself, took to visiting her old friends at the theaters. She listened to the Green Room gossip for Harry’s sake, Simone knew, not Simone’s. Even the surly driver, Harold, who she supposed did not need a new name since he never spoke his old one, or anything to anyone but Mrs. Judd, passed on scraps of knowledge about Lord Gorham’s stables and the surrounding countryside. What surprised Simone most was Mr. Harris’s cooperation.
Everyone was fairly certain that one of the contest events would involve the maze at Richmond, close to Lord Gorham’s estate of Griffin Woods. The maze was notoriously complicated, with a groundskeeper seated on a high ladder to direct lost trekkers back out. Everyone was also certain that Lord Gorham would provide his mistress with a map of the paths. All the other gentlemen were scrambling to purchase or purloin one for their own partners. Viscount Martindale was known to have sent a groom to Richmond last week, to figure it out and make a diagram. The man had not returned.