That’s exactly what she would do.
That’s not what she did.
The clock chimed and she still hadn’t come down. It had been nearly thirty minutes.
Was he imagining her guilt because of his own? Or were her breathless denials of another lover just fabrications?
He caught the faint whisper of rustling fabric as someone descended the stairs. Clarissa spoke to a footman in quiet tones and then he opened the door and went outside. Clarissa turned and rushed back to her room.
Michael waited until he heard the door reopen, then on stealthy tread approached the footman. “What did Lady Dunnaway need?”
“A hackney, my lord.”
“Not the carriage?”
“No, my lord.”
“Could you fetch one for me too?” he said, while pulling a coin from his trouser pocket, “and be discreet about it. And notify me the moment Lady Dunnaway leaves the house.”
The footman nodded and went about the master’s business.
A drink sounded good. He’d had two by the time the footman returned and knocked on the library door.
Michael stepped onto the street and glanced in the direction of her hackney, wondering what rendezvous his dear, sweet wife had planned and why she’d risk flight in the middle of the morning?
Before he entered the black cabbie, he gave further instructions to halt a distance from the other vehicle once it stopped and the occupant disembarked.
They passed the respectable residential areas and entered into a familiar business district with low-rent, three-story homes. Michael refrained from peeking out the window. He’d find out where she was going the moment she arrived.
The cabbie lurched to a halt and the driver rapped on the ceiling.
Michael scooted to the window and watched as Clarissa exited one hackney and entered a second one.
There could have been a thousand reasons she needed to go somewhere in a hurry. There was not a reason in the world to explain why she’d need to change transportation along the way.
Except for one and it didn’t bear contemplating, but made him feel sick all the same.
The second jaunt was shorter, though Michael could have sworn it was miles in the making.
A second thump had him peering out the shaded window to watch as Clarissa descended with a dark veil over her face.
She dashed up the familiar steps of Madame DuPuis’ bordello.
He slumped back, sinking into the cushioned squabs. He labored for breath. At first, all he heard was the hard beating of hammer against nail. When he realized it was his own heart he sat up, bracing his arms against his knees. He’d not been physically ill since his final year at university.
Two hours ago, he’d been sitting in the library with his wife on his knee, over the moon that he’d fucked her for the first time in months and that underneath her soft ass, he felt the strong stirrings of a second erection that might come to fruition right there at his desk.
The cabbie stood outside the window, allowing a stench of smoke to waft inside, further upsetting his equilibrium.
“How long you want me to wait, milord?”
“How long has she been in there?” Michael didn’t bother to look up. He waited for someone else to come along and kick him now that he was down.
“Nigh on fifteen minutes.”
“We’ll wait until she leaves.”
“Aye, governor. Pretty little thing she was too. I wouldn’t be waiting out here for her, were I you.”
“Well, you’re not, so I’d thank you to keep your thoughts to yourself.”
After the cabbie moved away, Michael reached for his watch. He held the open face in his hand as he watched the second hand
tick, tick
around the dial.
Another twenty minutes passed while he debated barging in the whorehouse to find her and drag her out by her hair. Yes, he felt that barbaric.
At forty minutes, he snapped his watch shut. He swung the door wide, about to step out when he saw Clarissa leaving.
Near an hour?
“Want me to follow?”
“No. Take me to White’s.”
Chapter Eight
Martin DeLacy had the ill luck to be the first person Michael encountered at the top of the steps of White’s.
“Dunnaway.”
“DeLacy.”
DeLacy pushed past him, but Michael gripped his upper arm, bringing him to a quick stop.
“A word, if you please.”
“What’s this about?” DeLacy huffed.
“My wife.”
“Lady Dunnaway? Has something happened?”
“Your concern is touching.” DeLacy tried to shrug him off, but Michael gripped tighter and leaned in close. “If I hear that you have come within dancing distance of my wife—oh, wait—perhaps that won’t be clear enough. If I hear that you are in the same room breathing her air, in the same house talking to people she has talked to, I will give you the choice of pistols or swords. I will even let you choose the venue.”
DeLacy sputtered and then clamped his mouth shut.
Michael glared hard at DeLacy before the debaucher bound down the steps and disappeared into a waiting carriage.
Inside the club, Michael found a quiet corner and slouched low in a roundly padded chair that felt as if it would swallow him whole. Looking out the bay window, he ignored any who tried to engage him in conversation.
Each drink grew warm in his hands.
Two card games proceeded behind him. He was perfectly willing to ignore them, too, even though he could throw away a small fortune without thinking twice.
Not one coherent thought formed in his brain. Each time he forced his mind toward a reasonable answer to what he’d seen, dark clouds threatened to erupt.
His Clarissa. His Clarissa at a whorehouse. That was the best he could do, the farthest he could get before he drew a debilitating blank.
“Bugger your Queens. Aces over Knaves,” a familiar voice shouted.
Randall VanLandingham, Marquess of Foxley, had joined the game at some point. Michael nearly got up to leave the club, not wanting a reminder of his accusations or his suspicions. Rather than order tea, he did just that.
“Ho, Dunnaway. Take a seat, I’m feeling very lucky today,” Foxley said.
“Oh, why is that?”
“Woke up with my wife riding my cock to the races, just cleaned out old Bertram here, and I saw the lovely Lady Dunnaway not a few hours ago as I walked out the door. Who could ask for a better day?”
Michael buried his fist in Foxley’s face, knocking him and his chair to the floor. Michael shook his fist to banish the sting. “Don’t ever mention my wife’s name again.”
Once outside, he started to walk. He would much rather have had rain running down his back, drenching his clothes and soaking his boots, than for the ridiculous sun to be shining. This was England. The sun didn’t shine.
Would Clarissa cheat? Would she go to a whorehouse to do it? Yes, maybe. But no, not a whorehouse.
And why the same whorehouse he’d been visiting the last six months? No matter how he tried, he couldn’t dispel the notion that she knew everything he’d done in that place.
He glanced up to see that he stood across from Madame DuPuis’. All the answers were inside, if he wanted to know the ugly truth.
Stepping into the street, Michael’s legs felt like lead bricks as he moved forward, crossing to the other side of the street and laboring up the steps.
Inside, Madame DuPuis was there to greet him. The rooms were dark and quiet, the activity not picking up until later this evening. He could probably have his pick of whores, if he wanted.
He had a mind to fuck until he went blind.
“Lord Dunnaway, you’re early. I wasn’t expecting you until later this evening. Will I need to send for your girl or would you be interested in other entertainments?”
“Send for her.” He started up the stairs but turned to face the madam. “Is anyone else available until she arrives?”
Madame DuPuis’ face went white and her lips pursed, but a quick second later she put a smile on her face and said, “Most definitely. What would you be interested in today?”
“How long before I can have the French whore?”
“It will be awhile.”
“Where is she? I paid for her. Is she already fucking other customers, Alice? She was to be mine for five weeks.”
Alice touched his arm in assurance. “Oh no, she’s only been with you, but tell me what else can I do for you until she arrives? My finest Bordeaux perhaps?”
Alice had pretty whores and smuggled wines. And more secrets than British Intelligence.
“I want two girls. Large breasts, good hips, dark hair.”
“The French girl has all that, why not wait for her?”
“I don’t want to wait. Are you saying you can’t deliver?”
“No, it’s not that.”
“Send me any two girls.” He started up the stairs. “Just as long as they’re clean and smell like…” Clarissa. Apples and rain and soap and something else.
On the fourth step, he glanced at Madame DuPuis again. “Madame, exactly where is the French girl? I thought your whores lived here.”
Alice hoisted her skirts and trod the stairs, puffing as she did so. She entwined her arm with Michael’s and led him upward. “She’s a special one, no?”
Inside his usual room, Alice poured drinks and insisted he relax. “We’ll have her ready for you in no time at all.”
Ready? This was a whorehouse. Girls were always ready.
There was something in his brain that wanted to speak. To shout out what it was he knew, but wouldn’t admit or could only see through a misty shroud.
Why was Clarissa here to begin with? Why was his French whore not here now?
A widow. New to whoring. The mask. The smell.
He sipped at his drink while he allowed the possibility of this truth to settle in.
He stared, his lids half-masted, sure that he’d never seen Alice DuPuis uncomfortable about anything. She plucked at some invisible lint on her skirt.
“Madame DuPuis, why did you select me for your French whore? The Marquess of Dane would have paid ten times what you charged me to initiate her into the not-so pleasant realties of fucking ten times a day.”
“I prefer my whores know the pleasantness of intercourse before I introduce them to the more lurid aspects of the business.”
“So it’s all about money?”
“It’s always about money.”
“Did the French whore ask for me?”
“She asked for someone like you.”
He swallowed the rest of his drink and set the glass aside, feeling a hint of relief for the first time this afternoon. “I think I would like the two whores now. And send that freak with the oversized dick. He might prove to be entertaining.”
“As you wish.”
* * * * *
Clarissa tore the message up, but ultimately she had to go back to Madame DuPuis’.
Her heart had already been shredded into tiny pieces, and she’d been gullible enough to think she could put things back together after the temporary interlude last night.
One night of sex didn’t a marriage make. Or repair.
And to find out now the one night of passion wasn’t enough for Michael, either, caused a deep burn in her stomach.
She stared down at her ringless hand. How had she failed to pick up her wedding band? Madame had assured it would be found, that one of the girls had picked it up thinking to sell the gold. Maybe it was already pawned. How would she explain the loss to Michael?
Had she not panicked, her day might have turned out much differently.
Last night’s marital fidelity seemed ages ago.
Clarissa stood rigidly while Madame and another girl assisted with her clothing. The dressing took no time. In ten minutes, she could be transformed from lady to tramp.
“Lady Dunnaway, do you recall my saying that I could write the script?”
“Yes, of course.” Her first night here. Clarissa tugged at the tight bodice where it dug into her breasts.
“The stage is yours tonight. Make the most of it.”
The garish red rouge went on her cheeks and lips, the patch applied and then she was ready, once again, for her clandestine stage show.
Clarissa donned the mask, watching herself disappear behind the deceitful facade of a would-be whore.
Tonight seemed harder only because she’d experienced the joy and closeness of being with her husband last night. This act brimmed with hollowness and defeat. Like the conquered being forced back to the battlefield after the war was over.
Bitterness rose in her. She didn’t know if there would be a last time, or if this would play out until the end of the Season. She doubted her ability to perform that long, or her ability to fool Michael either.
Once she reached the adjoining door, she tapped and heard the beckoning voice to enter.
Forcing herself inside the room, her limbs froze at the sight of two couples entwined—one on the bed, one sitting in the chair. She didn’t care about the two on the bed, only the man who had the naked whore in his lap. Her husband.