Her Husband's Harlot Page 10

  Nicholas felt a rush of blood to the head, bringing the pounding to a near unbearable intensity. Goddamn Northgate. Likely he was spinning some Cheltenham tragedy about mistreatment at the hands of his son-in-law. The innocent, noble lord being lambasted by the ill-bred, penny-pinching merchant. It was material rich enough for Drury Lane. Watching the movement of Northgate's lips, Nicholas could almost hear the words.

  Bastard ... good-for-nothing ... laughingstock ...

  The muscle twitched along Nicholas' jaw. He cared not about Northgate's lies, but about Helena's reaction. How would she take to the slandering of her husband? Suddenly, the question seemed of great importance to him, as if his future was somehow hinging upon her response.

  He studied his wife's face, willing her to ... what?

  Yell at her father?

  Slap the old man in the face?

  Surely, he did not expect her to do any of those things.

  Yet neither did he expect her eyes to well with tears, nor her hands to clasp the earl's in a comforting gesture. Or perhaps, he thought with blinding fury, he did expect it. Had expected all along that she would soothe her father's injuries and leave her husband to bleed in the gutter. After all, had she not tried to protect her father earlier on in the evening? She had attempted to hide Northgate's activities from him—her own husband—until he had convinced her he could help her father.

  He rubbed a hand over his eyes.

  "Lord Harteford?"

  He turned his head at the low whisper. A footman was holding the door open, his head cocked in question. Nicholas went over. Once outside the room, he said, "Yes. What is it?"

  "This came for you, my lord." The footman bowed and handed him a note.

  Brow furrowing, Nicholas broke the seal and unfolded the heavy stationary. At that moment, the orchestra reached a crescendo, a fusillade of sound exploding in his head. His vision wavered.

  "My lord? Is everything alright?"

  Fighting down a surge of nausea, Nicholas re-folded the note and managed, "Who gave you this?"

  "I'm not sure, my lord." The servant looked uneasy. "It just appeared on the missive salver, and the butler instructed me to deliver it. If there is a problem—"

  "There is not. That will be all."

  Nicholas tossed a coin to the footman. He managed to hold onto his composure until the servant disappeared down the empty hall. Then his knees gave out. He caught himself, bracing his forearm against the wall. Some distant part of his brain registered that the orchestra was still playing, that the air was scented with camellias, champagne, and candle-wax. A musicale in Mayfair, he thought numbly. The last place he'd thought to be ambushed, hunted down at last by the past. He didn't have to look at the note again; the lines glowed red-hot in his head.

  You didn't think you could bury Ben Grimes forever, did you? The price for keeping your crime secret is upon you. Await my instruction.

  Darkness closed over him. His lungs burned, suffocating with soot and terror as he felt himself being pinned by a wall of hairy muscle and fat, the stench of onions and sweat scalding his nostrils. His pleas were drowned by a fist and the bright, rusty welling in his mouth. He flailed out, mindless as an animal. A trickle of sweat cleaved his palm as it bumped against something smooth, something jutting from Grimes' back pocket. A knife—

  "Harteford?"

  He jumped. It took him an instant to recognize Helena. She was standing there, looking at him with wide eyes. "Harteford, what is the matter? I saw you leave during the performance. Are you unwell—"

  She raised a hand toward him.

  "Do not touch me." The words left him in a hiss. He stumbled back.

  For a second, her hand remained arrested mid-air. Then it dropped slowly to her side. "I b-beg your pardon. I only came to apologize."

  "For what?" he bit out.

  "Please, you must forgive Papa," she said. "He cannot help himself. He was born to a gentleman's life, you see, and I think ... it is sometimes difficult for him to imagine there could be consequences to his actions." She flushed, her lashes sweeping downward. "All his friends play at the cards, after all."

  God's blood, he could hardly think. He needed to get away, to get air. Like a caged beast, he swiped out blindly. "Damn your father to hell. Because he is a gentleman his every behavior is to be excused. That is how the ton treats liars and cheats—by overlooking, nay, exalting such behavior."

  "Papa isn't a liar—"

  "Your father is a liar of the worst kind. Masquerading as a noble, virtuous lord," Nicholas snarled, "when, in truth, he's nothing more than a bloody, degenerate gambler. He is digging his own grave, and I forbid you to assist him in that endeavor."

  Helena lifted a hand to her mouth. Her eyes shimmered as she said in a suffocated voice, "He is my father. I have always h-helped where I could. 'Tis my duty."

  "Choosing your duty as a daughter over a wife," he sneered. "Hardly surprising."

  "Harteford," she whispered, "what are you saying?"

  End it. End it now, and get the hell out.

  "Nothing but the truth," he said. "This marriage was a mistake, and we both know it."

  She looked as if he'd struck her. "You can't mean that—"

  He felt himself coming apart inside. Her beauty and innocence heightened the sense of filth crawling over his skin, the self-disgust roiling in his stomach. He'd never been good enough for her and never would; that he'd thought otherwise made him the dumbest bugger who'd ever lived.

  "I do mean it, Helena." Each word burned like acid on his tongue. "Marrying you was the worst thing I have done in my life."

  Before she could reply, he turned and walked away.

  From his wife. From the life that would never be his.

  NINE

  "You are quiet this evening," Marianne remarked from the other side of the carriage. "Are you certain you wish to do this?"

  Helena gave a determined nod. Through the window, she saw they had turned onto a secluded, one-ended street close to Piccadilly. She had never visited this neighborhood at night. Under the street lamps, the row of unadorned, Palladian-style buildings possessed a ghostly aura. Shades were drawn over the windows, concealing any sign of the activities within. A tremor crossed over her nape, but she stiffened her shoulders.

  "My marriage is at stake," she said. "I have to win Harteford back."

  "And you are certain, dearest, that you cannot just tell him you were the harlot he tupped?"

  Three days had passed since the musicale, yet the memory of her last interaction with Nicholas retained a frozen sort of clarity. This marriage was a mistake. She blinked back tears. Surely he hadn't meant that. Surely it had been his frustration talking, and she couldn't blame him for that, not when Papa had treated him so badly. But the loathing in Nicholas' eyes as he'd spoken of liars—those who masqueraded as virtuous ... she swallowed painfully. "That is not an option, Marianne. He cannot know that I deceived him."

  "If you say so." The other smoothed the fingers of her sapphire satin gloves. "Well, then, here we are."

  The footman let down the steps and helped them to descend. With increasing curiosity Helena trailed her friend to a plain-fronted shop. The weathered sign above contained an advertisement for ladies' conveniences. Helena frowned. 'Twas not a wardrobe she was in need of, but more direct reinforcements. Perhaps Marianne had misunderstood her request.

  "I have already purchased the necessaries from Madame Rousseau and do not need more clothing. Rather, I had hoped that you might show me ..." Helena began.

  But Marianne had already disappeared into the shadowed entrance. With a sigh, Helena followed.

  This store was much different from Madame Rousseau's. The interior was dark, for one, and the merchandise exhibited in haphazard fashion. A handful of glass-topped cases crowded the small front room, showing gloves of dubious quality alongside bits of hosiery and other frippery. Growing ever more intrigued, Helena was examining a rather risqué pair of black stockings trimmed in fuc
hsia ribbon when a robust, middle-aged woman appeared from behind a blue curtain. She wore a low-cut gown and a spangle of glittering jewels upon her generous bosom. Her fleshy fingers sparkled with rings.

  "Lady Draven, how nice to see you," she said, her simpering tone at odds with her imposing person.

  Marianne inclined her head. "Good day, Mrs. Bell. I have brought a friend with me. I hope that will not be a problem."

  "Of course not, dearie," Mrs. Bell replied. "Guests are included in your subscription. And lucky for her, we have a nice selection today. Fresh from market." She laughed. "Follow me, then."

  Before Helena could ask, "A selection of what?", she was ushered through the curtain. She found herself in a dim passageway lit by wall sconces.

  "Right this way," Mrs. Bell said, taking the lead. Helena looked at Marianne, who merely smiled and gestured for her to follow. Helena found herself taking quick steps to keep up.

  "What is it exactly that you sell, Mrs. Bell?" Helena asked, a trifle breathlessly.

  "Why, didn't Lady Draven tell you?" Mrs. Bell asked in astonishment. "My merchandise is the finest in all of London, in all of England I daresay."

  "Yes, but what is it?"

  They stopped at a heavy oak door guarded by a cloaked footman.

  "Give the lady a look then, Jim," Mrs. Bell said.

  The footman slid open the viewing hole.

  Helena peered inside and gasped.

  "Amour, dearie, the most premium lot of it you ever saw. Just like I said." Mrs. Bell looked at Marianne, her thinly plucked eyebrows raised. "What is your flavor today?"

  "Crimson for me," Marianne said. "White for my friend."

  "Here you go, then." From a basket, Mrs. Bell withdrew fabric masks of the specified colors and handed them to Marianne and Helena, who took hers with uncertain fingers. Seeing Helena's hesitation, Mrs. Bell laughed. "Go on, luvie. It won't bite you."

  "What is it for?" Helena asked, as she tied the gold laces behind her ears.

  "To let the others know what kind of amour you're looking for. Keeps the guessing out of the game. Let me take your coats, and enjoy yourselves a time, miladies."

  The footman opened the door, releasing a swell of voices and music.

  On the threshold of decadent debauchery, Helena felt her determination teeter. She gripped Marianne's arm. "I do not know if I can do this."

  "Fustian," Marianne whispered back. "You said you wanted to win your husband back. There is no better place in London to learn the art of seduction."

  Desperation warred with a lifetime's upbringing. On one side of the battlefield, Helena could imagine her mother and Lady Epplethistle. They both wore horrified looks and were emphatically shaking their heads. On the other, there was Nicholas—dangerous and irresistible, he stood alone, his eyes smoldering with sensual promise. His mouth took on a wicked curve, and he crooked his finger toward her.

  Oh, Nicholas ...

  Helena stepped inside, and the door closed behind her.

  "You have acquainted yourself with the Nunnery. The only difference here is that only the best ton is permitted entrance," Marianne said. "Mrs. Bell is more of a stickler than the patronesses at Almack's combined. Believe me, I had to submit to several inquisitions before my subscription was accepted."

  Helena's gaze flitted over the opulently dressed masked women circulating about the room. "You mean those women are not courtesans?"

  "They are duchesses and countesses, perhaps even a princess or two thrown in," Marianne said. "All here with one purpose in mind: to seduce a lover for the evening. That is why we are here. There is no better place to learn how to seduce a man."

  Helena swallowed. "And the masks? What do the colors signify?"

  Marianne's lips curved. "Not to worry, dear. White means you are here to observe only."

  "And red?"

  Marianne's smile took on a feral quality. "Perhaps there is more than one purpose for our visit."

  Marianne led Helena in a slow promenade around the room which, by Helena's reckoning, was similar in size to Almack's. But that was where the similarity ended. Mrs. Bell's establishment was the farthest thing imaginable from a genteel assembly. Decorated in a vivid red and orange Oriental motif, the room catered to exotic fantasy. The strings of paper lanterns overhead shed a muted, seductive glow. Along the perimeter of the room, alcoves sheltered by painted bamboo screens and curtains of raw silk provided customers with the privacy to indulge in their heart's desire. Spicy sweet notes of sandalwood and cinnamon mingled with the musky scent of pleasure.

  Helena felt her senses whirl.

  "Marianne, may we sit down?" she asked unsteadily.

  "Over there." Marianne gestured to a chaise longue situated next to an enormous potted palm.

  Helena sank gratefully onto the maroon and gold brocade. Her relief was short-lived, however, when she saw that Marianne remained standing.

  "I will return in an hour's time," her friend was saying. "Observe and learn, Helena, if you wish to win your husband."

  "Marianne, don't leave—"

  But Marianne had already melted into the melee.

  With a huff, Helena leaned back against the cushions. After a minute, she slid a furtive glance around her. Once one got past the impropriety of it all, the scene was really quite ... fascinating. Caroline's batting of eyelashes was child's play compared to the flirtation happening here. Eyes widening, Helena observed a woman dressed head to toe in scarlet. Every movement the woman made—from the parting of the lips to the caress of the necklace at her bosom—seemed imbued with secret meaning. Sexual meaning that held her partner in a thrall, bound to her as if by invisible strings.

  With a renewed sense of purpose, Helena sought to learn all she could. She attempted to decipher the meaning of the masks. On a nearby settee, a woman wearing a pink mask sat next to her companion. He was feeding her berries from a glass dish. When the fruit's juice dribbled down the woman's chin, the man leaned over and leisurely licked up each sweet trail. The woman sighed. The man reached for another berry. The game continued, with no touch between them save soft, nibbling kisses.

  Other lovers had bolder diversions in mind. On the dance floor, a pair in red masks moved in a shockingly sensual rendition of the waltz. As Helena watched, the male cupped his partner's bottom and lifted her against him. He allowed her to slide slowly downward, her flesh pressed against his. This clearly aroused them both: their mouths tangled fiercely before they departed the dance floor. In their haste to reach the privacy of an alcove, they nearly collided with two purple-masked women holding hands.

  Not all the secrets of the masks revealed themselves so easily. Helena puzzled over a couple standing by the refreshment table. The man sported no jacket, only a linen shirt worn open at the neck. His black waistcoat matched his tightly fitted black leather breeches, which, to Helena's mind, made for a rather odd choice of evening wear. Even stranger, he held a black leather strap, the end of which was attached to the collar worn by the woman beside him. His mask was black, hers yellow. As Helena watched, the man held up a glass of champagne. When he tugged on the strap, the woman's lips parted obediently to receive the sparkling liquid.

  "Might I share this seat with you?"

  The male voice jolted Helena into awareness. She shifted her gaze upward to see a man smiling at her. His hair stood in ginger-colored tufts above his white mask.

  "I apologize if I startled you. It is only that my legs grow weary from all the standing. As you can see, the other seats are occupied."

  A swift glance around the room confirmed his words. Helena had no choice but to nod. When the man sat down next to her, she inched closer to the opposite end.

  "Fine evening, what," he said in a cultured voice.

  "Yes," she replied stiffly.

  She did not want to make polite conversation. She did not want to be sitting next to a stranger. Her brain searched feverishly for the correct etiquette in such a situation. As usual, Lady Epplethistle's advice ca
me up short.

  "Do you come often, then?"

  "No." Please go away.

  "I do," he said. After a silence, "I've often wondered what the ladies' entrance is like."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Where you ladies enter this fine establishment. We gentlemen employ the walking stick shop on the street behind. Devilishly clever, isn't it?" At Helena's blank look, the man laughed. "A place to purchase a hard rod, what."

  Helena felt her cheeks flame.

  "Personally, I come to watch all the fucking." Suddenly, his breath burned against her ear. "Have you seen what happens in the alcoves?"

  Helena shot to her feet and walked away as quickly as she could without running. Palm fronds whipped her face as she stumbled forward. Pulse hammering, she wove through the throng of laughing people. She pressed desperately on, her head turning back now and again, fearful of any flashes of orange hair. She came upon a row of alcoves and, spotting an unoccupied space, darted in. She yanked the silk coverings closed behind her, her heart galloping in her chest.

  Several minutes passed before her pulse steadied. She regained enough of her senses to realize that she ought to look for Marianne. It was then that she heard the sounds. Low and throaty, the very music of seduction. On legs that trembled, Helena walked toward the wooden screen that separated her alcove from the one beside it. The panel was painted with knots to resemble a row of bamboo and affixed with exotic images of birds and flowers. Amongst the white plumage of a crane, Helena noticed a slight gap in the wood. She pressed her cheek against the cool slats.

  She glimpsed the profiles of a dark-haired pair sitting upon on a divan. Both the man and the woman had their upper faces hidden behind scarlet masks. At first glance, the two appeared to be conversing, but there was an intimacy about their postures which gave Helena pause. She saw that the woman held a long-stemmed rose between her white satin-covered fingers. With a husky laugh, the lady caressed the flower over her décolletage; the crimson head fluttered and dipped over the generous mounds. When one petal detached and drifted into the bodice, she sent her companion a coy look.