Anne Barbour (15 page)

Jonathan responded with an uninterested shake of his head.

“But Madame de Robitaille’s place grows more popular by the moment. One may meet everyone there.”

“So I have heard.” Jonathan yawned, inspecting the platter of sirloin through his quizzing glass.

“Yes, indeed,” continued Mr. Delberforce slyly. “Last night the Countess of Bellewood spent several hours there. I believe she was accompanied by her cousin, Miles Crawshay.”

If Mr. Delberforce had anticipated a violent reaction on the part of the viscount, he was doomed to disappointment. Beyond a momentary stillness, he might have not heard his guest’s words.

Mr. Delberforce persisted, his eyes glittering avidly. “Unfortunately, her luck was not in, I hear. She lost rather heavily, I understand.”

“Mm, yes,” Jonathan responded mildly, “the countess does enjoy a fling at the tables. Perhaps next time she will recoup her losses. It frequently happens that way.”

Mr. Delberforce sank back into his chair, disappointed. Petulantly, he refused an offer of more toast and marmalade, and in a few moments had taken himself off.

It was many moments later before Jonathan rose from the table, and when he did so, he moved with a controlled anger that would have been easily recognizable to any of his friends. Certainly his valet had no difficulty in perceiving that his master was in the foulest mood he had encountered in a very long time. By the time his lordship was dressed to go out, the man was exceedingly relieved to see him out the door.

Not many minutes later Lady Bellewood was startled to behold her betrothed in the doorway of her boudoir. She was reclining on a chaise longue of palest blue, her favorite color, and at Jonathan’s entrance she started visibly. For an instant she observed him warily through a curtain of thick, curled lashes, then opened her eyes wide to display a look of mischief, nicely blended with one of contrition.

“Jonathan, dearest,” she purred. “How is it that you are out so early, and on such a wretched day?”

“It is, indeed,” agreed Jonathan grimly. “I thought we had agreed that you would not visit Madame de Robitaille’s gambling establishment.”

“
You
agreed I should not go there,” Clea responded with a toss of her shining curls. “I made no such promise.”

“Very well, then. I asked you not to go, because I care for you, and I wish to guard your reputation. I told you what kind of place it is, and you completely disregarded my wishes. And you went in the company of Crawshay.”

Peeping at him again through her lashes, Clea felt a stirring of uneasiness. She had never seen him so angry. Was that contempt she detected in his gaze? Abruptly, she changed tactics. She widened her blue eyes and extended a trembling hand to him.

“Ah, Jonathan. Do not be angry. I... I was lonely. You have not taken me to a single gathering this week. And I was bored.” She curved her mouth into an appealing smile and allowed a few tears to bedew her great blue eyes. “As for Miles, you know he means nothing to me.  He is my cousin, after all.”

“Mm, yes, so you have told me.”

“Well, he is my friend, as well. Surely you understand how precious a good friend can be.”

She smiled inwardly.
We must all have our little friends to play with, mustn’t we, love?
Glancing at Jonathan, she perceived that his face was still darker than the thunderclouds to be seen from her boudoir window.

“Besides,” she continued, smiling even more winsomely. “I have been punished enough for my transgression. I lost dreadfully last night, and I shall have Faversham bleating at me again.”

“Martin Faversham is your man of business, Clea, and he does a superb job. He has your interests at heart; you would do well to listen to him.”

Clea sighed tremulously and rose to stand before Jonathan. “You are right, of course, my dearest love. Oh, Jonathan, I am such a giddy creature. I need you to keep my feet on the straight and narrow, and” — she rose on tiptoe — “right now I most desperately need a kiss.”

Jonathan stared down at her for a moment, then, with a sound that was almost a groan, gathered her into his arms and kissed her with a desperate passion.

As he drank in the intoxicating honey of her lips, his wrath was forgotten, and his only thought was of the exquisite beauty who was the fulfillment of his dreams, and for whom he had waited so long.

Chapter Thirteen

Tally squinted against the early morning sunlight and pulled the bedclothes around her shoulders. She really should be up and away to her studio, but, oh, just a few more minutes of sleep would be heaven. Last night had been very long, starting with a musicale at Devonshire House, and continuing later with another prowl through the alleys of London with Jonathan. The evening’s excursion had included two gin shops and a dog fight.

She squeezed her eyes shut and turned her face into the pillow, but sleep would not return. And she knew the reason very well.

“You stupid chit,” she scolded herself, “all because Jonathan...” She sighed.

Jonathan had been in an odd mood all evening. He had arrived at Devonshire House with Clea on his arm, and a whisper had gone around the room. All the
ton
had heard of Lady Belle’s indiscretion at the tables and wondered what would be Chelmsford’s reaction. There was a certain air of disappointment in the gathering when it became evident that no perceptible rift had occurred. Jonathan appeared to be as enchanted as ever with his beautiful fiancée, and Clea behaved toward him with unusual attentiveness. Indeed, the two had remained close together the whole time, and Tally had experienced an odd pang as she watched Clea flutter lovingly about the viscount.

Still, there occasionally crept into his eyes a most peculiar expression as he gazed at his love. Tally could have sworn he looked almost baffled. Later, when Tally had joined Jonathan in the darkness of his carriage, her disguise securely in place, he had appeared distracted and out of sorts. Once she observed him watching her, with that same expression of puzzlement.

She had found the dog fight to be an exercise in human degradation. In a cavernous old building overlooking the river, a match was taking place between a mastiff, half mad with terror and rage, and a monkey, which, it was said, had been imported from Italy. What it lacked in brawn, the monkey more than made up for in quickness and cleverness, and the dog was soon covered in saliva and gore. From her corner Tally sketched the watchers of the carnage. Some waved money in their fists, and others screamed exhortations at the combatants. All seemed to have been reduced to a blind, animal lust for death. The battle ended only when the mastiff had been left a motionless, bloody bundle of fur on the earthen floor.

Afterward, Jonathan berated himself for having subjected her to such a scene, but she shakily assured him that she was not a simpering miss, after all, and had witnessed many a wrangle among the animals at Summerhill. Jonathan had squeezed her shoulder, and his smile had been warm.

“Pluck to the backbone, aren’t you, little one? Any other female of my acquaintance would have gone into strong convulsions less than two minutes after the match began, assuming she could have been coerced into poking her dainty nose in such a place.”

Tally had basked in his praise. And then it happened. A large man, dressed in the clothes of a navvie, and much the worse for drink, lurched out of the building. Evidently he had wagered badly, because he was in a towering rage. As she turned away from Jonathan, Tally inadvertently brushed against the man, and with a roar, he swung his arm against her, catching her on the side of her head with his fist.

When Tally opened her eyes a few seconds later, she was lying on the ground, cradled in Jonathan’s arms. A few feet away, her attacker lay stretched out in an unconscious stupor. A large bruise swelled his jaw. Tally lifted her head and moaned a little at the unexpected pain. Jonathan drew her against his breast, and she was instantly aware of the strength of his arms around her, as she had been at the moment of their collision those few weeks ago.

She knew she should withdraw and rise to her feet, but she was lost in the dizzying wonder of his embrace. If she were to tilt her head upward—just an inch or two—his lips would be nearly resting on hers. The impulse to do so was almost overwhelming, but she remained still, unwilling to risk destroying the moment.

Tally,” Jonathan was whispering hoarsely, Tally, my dear, are you all right?”

His fingers brushed her cheek with the lightest of touches and moved to touch her mouth. Her breath caught, and she was struck by the realization of what was happening. Ignoring the pain, she jerked her head away, and as she did so, she met Jonathan’s eyes. She read a sudden awareness there, followed by embarrassment, and in another moment, she had jumped to her feet. She turned her face away so that he would not find the shame she knew must be written there.

“Are—are you all right?” Jonathan repeated awkwardly.

“Yes, I’m fine. Really, I am not injured at all.”

In her rush to get away from him, she almost broke into a run toward the carriage. She had already wedged herself into the farthest corner of the vehicle when he seated himself.

Thank you,” she muttered through stiff lips, “for coming to my assistance.”

Jonathan merely nodded, and neither of them referred to the incident again. Something had been changed between them though, Tally realized. The easy camaraderie that had marked their relationship up to this point was gone, and the gentleman who escorted her home as dawn began to creep over the chimneypots of London was a cool, correct stranger.

Now, as she squirmed among the bedcovers, she castigated herself once again. Why had she behaved like such a ninnyhammer, clutching at him in a fevered swoon. What must he think of her? It was only, she told herself, that she was unused to finding herself in the embrace of a handsome man—or any man at all, for that matter.

She recalled with a shudder of distaste her only previous experience along those lines. Squire Mayhew’s oldest son had come upon her in the cloakroom at a local assembly one evening. He had been more than somewhat in his cups, and his sweaty fondlings had turned her stomach. She had planted an instinctive and very hearty slap across his plump cheeks, and he had never repeated the endeavor.

There had been the vicar’s nephew, of course, but he had never carried his sentiments beyond an occasional bashful glance. The only other males, she reflected ruefully, who had displayed any designs on her immediate person were young men whose interest lay in her father’s title.

The only thing to do, Tally Burnside,” she told herself firmly, “is to put the whole thing out of your mind.”

This she was able to do with less difficulty than she had anticipated, because two days later Cat’s morning callers brought the intelligence that the first installment of a scandalous new novel had that day appeared in Hatchard’s Book Store.

It’s called
Town Bronze
,” twittered Mrs. Drummond Burrell, who had arrived with her good friend, Lady Sefton. They were both patronesses of that bastion of propriety, Almack’s in King Street. Tally had already been granted vouchers for the subscription dances, but Cat had impressed upon her the importance of remaining in the good graces of these august personages.

“It’s simply disgraceful!” continued Mrs. Burrell, her narrow cheeks aquiver. “Nothing but a piece of trash, of course.”

“Yes,” agreed her companion, with a mischievous sparkle in her eyes that belied her words. “But such delicious trash! I declare, I should imagine George Wendover is simply livid this morning. The author’s portrayal of him as the personification of Corinthian arrogance is quite wicked!”

“Who is the author?” asked Cat in her blandest manner. “Is he anyone we know?”

“I should think that will prove to be the mystery of the Season. Lady Sefton laughed. “For, like his illustrator, he writes under a nom de plume. What was it, now? Hash or Bash or some such. Rumor has it that he is a peer, since no one else could be so conversant with the ways of the ton.”

“Really, Maria,” Mrs. Burrell said repressively. “It could be any one of a number of persons—a servant in a great house, perhaps, or someone’s man of business.”

Cat glanced at Tally, whose heart was thundering so loudly in her ears that she was barely able to follow the conversation.

“We must procure a copy at once, don’t you agree, dearest?”

Cat’s voice held only the piqued interest of a bored lady of fashion, and Tally, twisting her little ring about her finger so that it fairly spun, nodded mutely.

The two ladies, after graciously assuring Mrs. Thurston that they looked forward to seeing her and her charming guest at next Wednesday’s gathering in King Street, took their stately leave. Tally sank into the nearest chair and noisily expelled a long pent-up breath.

“Cat,” she breathed in an awed voice. “You were magnificent!”

Cat bobbed an impudent curtsey, then giggled unaffectedly. “Oh, Tally, that was such fun. I begin to believe Richard was right. I was born to be a conspirator.”

“But did you hear what Mrs. Burrell said? I know for a fact the first chapter of the book came out only yesterday, and she had already read it!”

“Along with half of London, apparently. And did you hear Maria Sefton? “Delicious trash,” indeed! Mark my words, Tally, you and Jonathan have, like Byron, awaked to find yourself famous!”

Cat’s words proved to be true beyond Tally’s wildest dreams. At the Italian Opera that night, the usual buzz of conversation that nearly drowned out the performance was all
Town Bronze
and the mystery of its authorship. One dandy went so far as to bring a copy with him to the theater, where he remained immersed in the work all evening long, studiously ignoring the players on the stage, and emerging only occasionally to level his quizzing glass at certain other members of the audience with a knowing smirk.

From her seat, Tally had a clear view into the box occupied by Jonathan and Clea, but after one glance, in which she found her gaze returned with a swiftly uplifted eyebrow, she forbore to look at him again.