The Courtesan's Secret Read online

  “You can and shall marry the girl, Blakesley!”

  Upon which, Blakesley appeared at the rail, looking deliciously disheveled, his waistcoat all but stripped from him, his hair a perfect halo of wantonness, and, smiling, held his hand out behind him to catch Louisa to his side. She looked just as wanton and disheveled and, plainly, fully debauched. As a pair, they grinned at each other and then at Melverley. And it was in complete perfection of purpose and with ringing clarity that Louisa called out across the theater, “Of course he shall, for I shall have no other!”

  At which point, most delightfully, the entire theater rang out in applause and calls of good cheer. It was one of those rare moments when London, all of London, seemed in the same state of high good humor.

  RUAN watched Sophia in Melverley’s box and could not help smiling, not that he tried. She had done it. He didn’t know precisely what or why, but he knew that look of hers by now, that smiling, satisfied look, that I’ve done what I set out to do look. She’d had it when her daughter had been ruined by Ashdon and she had it now, watching Louisa Kirkland being ruined by Henry Blakesley. Apparently, Louisa had been encouraged to forget all about her passion for the Marquis of Dutton. Just like that.

  Nothing happened just like that, not without a considerable bit of help.

  It did seem strange to him that Sophia Dalby appeared to enjoy helping girls of good family, starting with her own daughter, get ruined. But the evidence was blinding.

  As was the woman.

  She was fascinating.

  He wanted her.

  The problem, as he saw it, was that getting her might be more of a challenge than he’d thought. She was not a woman easily won nor easily managed, though, again, watching Henry Blakesley and Louisa Kirkland leave their box, Louisa’s hair a complete ruin, it was clear that Sophia found it very easy to manage others.

  He was not too proud a man to learn from his betters and in this, Sophia just might classify as his better.

  He wanted her.

  He meant to have her.

  The thing to do was to watch and learn how best to acquire her.

  With that thought foremost, Lord Ruan left the Theatre Royal. He’d come alone and he left alone, though he was beginning to wonder if being seen with a woman was the surest way to get Sophia’s attention.

  What sort of woman would annoy her most?

  He grinned, in a better humor than he’d enjoyed for the past week.

  ELEANOR watched the Indians in her house and felt such absolute joy that she could barely breathe. She had her very own Indians, in her own house, and she could study them at will. Every rumor of them was being proved true.

  They were a handsome race. So very true.

  They were savage in their dress and deportment. Also true.

  They were stealthy and ruthless. Obviously true, for they had successfully entered her home and kept them successfully sequestered without the servants knowing a thing.

  It was a brilliant bit of work. She was immensely impressed. Eleanor had not a thought of being distressed or anxious because, after all, these men, savage as they were, were relatives of Sophia Dalby and Sophia was a countess and, really, who needed to be afraid of a countess’s relatives?

  “Hawksworth,” Amelia said softly, as if no one would hear her, but of course, they all could, “do something.”

  “What do you propose?” Hawksworth said in a completely normal tone of voice, which irritated Amelia obviously and instantly.

  Amelia and her brother had one of the most peculiar sibling relationships Eleanor had ever seen; Amelia was one of the calmest, most soft-spoken of women in every situation with every sort of person. Certainly, she was all that was kindness and tact with Louisa, and who knew better than Eleanor how impossible that was to accomplish? Yet with Hawksworth and only with Hawksworth, Amelia lost her gifts of patience and kindness completely. Of course, Hawksworth was irritating, Eleanor was not arguing that point at all, but it was that Amelia lost all capacity for patience and good humor when in his company and only in his company.

  Actually, it was rather like her relationship with Louisa. Eleanor, naturally enough, felt far more provoked and was equally certain that she managed her emotions better than Amelia seemed capable of doing. Of course, she fully expected her relationship with Louisa to improve by leaps once Louisa got married because then, obviously, they would so rarely see each other.

  Of course, she would write her weekly, but it was so much easier to be pleasant in a letter than face-to-face, especially as she was almost certain that Louisa would not be writing her. In point of fact, Eleanor was not entirely certain that Louisa was literate.

  But that would be her husband’s problem. One did wonder, however, who could be found to take on the job of husbanding Louisa.

  “You are her sister,” one of the Indians said to her. He was the youngest of the three sons, and he had the most remarkable blue eyes. He was standing, his legs scandalously displayed, his dark chest clearly visible through the opened edges of his shirt; why, he was almost nearly naked. Eleanor could not stop staring at him and, thankfully, had been raised in a household that did little to discourage her from exploring her interests. She was very interested in Indians in general and these Indians in particular. And this Indian in very particular.

  He was very, very handsome in a perfectly marvelously savage way.

  Why, she could feel a shiver down to her very toes.

  “Whose sister?” she said softly, because, while she could and did explore various topics, she did not make a habit of displaying her varied interests to Aunt Mary.

  “The other redhead,” he said. “Louisa. Your hair is the same.”

  In point of fact, her hair was not truly the same; hers was darker than Louisa’s brilliant orangey red, and hers was almost straight while Louisa’s was quite vividly curly. But, yes, they both had red hair. She did find herself wondering if all redheads with white skin looked alike to Indians.

  “What is your name?” he asked. He was not holding a knife, not the way John Grey was, but he had one in plain sight, in a scabbard attached around his waist. It looked appropriately savage and slightly irresistible on him.

  “Lady Eleanor Kirkland,” she said. “What is yours?”

  “Mr. Matthew Grey,” he said.

  “But that is not your Indian name,” she prompted, because, truly, wouldn’t it be lovely if he had some marvelous name like Running Wolf or Tall Fire or something equally poetical?

  “It’s not?” he said, and while his voice and his expression were completely solemn, she just knew that he was laughing at her.

  Strange, but in all her thoughts about American Indians, she had never imagined them as having a sense of humor and she certainly, in her secret dreams, had never imagined that an American Indian would find it necessary to make fun of her.

  Sometimes reality could be distinctly disappointing.

  “Surely not,” she said with great dignity. She had read all about Indians, after all. He couldn’t fool her on a subject as basic as the common practices of the average Indian on the naming of children. Why, she’d read an entire chapter on it, though, admittedly, it had been a short chapter in a very old book. Still. “It’s a well-known fact that Indians on both the North and South American continents name their offspring names of significance, of personal significance,” she clarified.

  “Matthew Grey’s not significant?” he said.

  Again, it was becoming horridly obvious that he was mocking her. She didn’t find anything remotely amusing about it, and it was becoming more and more clear to her exactly why Louisa hadn’t wanted to discuss Sophia’s American relatives.

  They were, it was proving, highly unpredictable.

  “Not significant in the proper way,” she said. Really, did he require instruction upon the customs and habits of his own people? How very odd. “For instance, what is your father’s name?”

  “Mr. John Grey,” Matthew, for what else was she to
call him, answered solemnly.

  “I mean to say, what do you call him?”

  “I don’t call him much. He calls me,” Matthew said pleasantly. It was very irritating.

  “Very well, what about your brothers? They are your brothers?”

  "Yup,” he said. "George is the older and Young’s the younger. I’m the youngest.”

  “Oh, yes, Young,” she said in some excitement for this was more directly to the point, “now from where does that name spring?”

  Matthew looked at her in open bemusement and said, “Because he’s John the Younger. Younger than John, his father. Young.”

  It was very irritating.

  “Matthew,” John the Elder called from across the room. “Come here.”

  Upon which, Matthew turned and left her without a polite word to ease his parting and stood at his father’s side. Young and George were already in attendance upon their father, Mr. John Grey, as if any proper Indian would have such an ordinary name, and they were all staring at Aunt Mary. It was most peculiar. Even Hawksworth sat up from his slouch on the sofa, something he had not done in at least ten years.

  “This is Lady Jordan,” John Grey said.

  Whereupon the boys bowed and kissed Aunt Mary’s hand, which was completely ridiculous as she was almost positive that Indians did not kiss hands in the French style, and, most peculiarly of all, Aunt Mary stood straighter and with more pride than she had in Eleanor’s memory and smiled with rather more warmth than was necessary at John Grey. It was the most peculiar event of an entirely peculiar evening.

  Aunt Mary looked as Eleanor had rarely seen her, and the shade of the beauty she had been, she and her two sisters, shone out with a pale glow. Her hair, still pale, but mostly gray and silver strands from Eleanor’s earliest memory, seemed almost to sparkle in the candlelight and her blue eyes shone. She looked almost lovely, standing there, smiling up at Mr. John Grey, almost as if she knew him. In fact, now that Eleanor thought about it, Aunt Mary had not seemed very much alarmed at the sudden appearance of four Indians in their midst, and she certainly did not seem alarmed now.

  She seemed, beyond all reasonable expectation, to be pleased.

  Eleanor did know a fair bit about people and events and things; she did read quite a lot and it was nearly impossible not to learn a good deal about a great many things from books. For some peculiar reason, which she could not puzzle out, the events of the past quarter hour did not fit in with anything she knew.

  It was most distressing.

  “You have lovely sons, John,” Aunt Mary said, which, it must be admitted, was entirely too familiar, even if he were an Indian. “I am so glad for the chance to get to know them.”

  “We’ve met,” George said with a lopsided grin, “but I was busy seducing your niece. Sorry.”

  “Yes, well,” Aunt Mary said, “you clearly take after your father in that. Though I do remember him as being rather more successful at it.”

  To which John seemed to grin, though it was rather difficult to tell as his features bore a remarkable resemblance to chiseled granite.

  “Now, don’t count me out,” George said. “It was hardly a fair fight. Her heart was set, and there was no turning it.”

  He was referring to Louisa, obviously, as her heart was clearly and relentlessly set on Lord Dutton. Everybody knew that, even Indians new to Town. Poor Louisa, to have made such a cake of herself.

  Hawksworth was standing at this point, something of an exertion for him, and walking over to where Aunt Mary stood with what could only be termed her admirers. It was quite extraordinary. She didn’t even, and this was the truly extraordinary bit, appear drunk.

  “You know my aunt, sir?” Hawksworth asked of Mr. Grey, which truly, given Hawksworth’s temperament, was a gigantic effort. “I would ask how.”

  “I have been in England before this,” John Grey answered. “I know not only Lady Jordan, but knew each of the Whaley women. Before they were married. And after.”

  “You knew my mother?” Hawksworth said.

  He clearly was not pleased by the thought. Eleanor understood the feeling entirely. Her mother had known an Indian, and told her nothing of it?

  “Yes,” John Grey answered, his dark eyes revealing nothing, but nevertheless showing the gleam of amusement.

  These Indians certainly did enjoy their inexplicable jests. It did not seem at all a very Indian sort of thing to indulge in. Though, perhaps because they were part English, that would explain what Eleanor could only think of as a discrepancy. Certainly Indians should never be jolly. That would be absurd.

  “In what capacity?” Hawksworth asked Mr. Grey, which surely was most inappropriate of him, and in mixed company, too. “I mean to say, how did you meet?”

  Well, that was slightly better. It might have been the rather frigid look in Mr. Grey’s eyes when he’d asked the first bit that had resulted in asking the second. Hawksworth was not known for his bravery, not that she blamed him in this instance.

  One thing was very true about Indians: they did appear most formidable.

  “I don’t believe that’s any of your concern, Hawksworth,” Mary said, showing more steel than she had in ten years. “Both of my sisters are deceased; clearly their memories are buried with them. My memories are my own. I don’t care to share them with you.”

  Well.

  Eleanor looked at Aunt Mary with more interest than she had ever done.

  “It’s enough that you know,” Aunt Mary continued, “that I have an old acquaintance with Mr. Grey and that I am pleased, very pleased, to renew it.”

  It was the way she said very pleased that was astounding. It did appear that Aunt Mary might be something of a lightskirt, at least where Mr. Grey was concerned.

  As far as that, seeing Mr. Grey and his sons up close, Eleanor was entirely sympathetic. They were, as a group, compelling. Individually, they might actually be irresistible.

  “But if it is a question of honor,” Hawksworth said, speaking to Mary and, in effect, ignoring the Greys, which Eleanor did not think quite wise of him, “I must insist upon—”

  “What would you do?” Matthew asked, which really was remarkable, to interrupt a marquis that way. It simply wasn’t done and certainly never by a commoner. It was becoming increasingly clear that the Greys did not think of themselves as commoners. “You have no heart for battle, even when the honor of one of your women is at stake.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Amelia said, staring at her brother. “What is he talking about, Hawks?”

  Hawksworth looked uncomfortable; it was a look which suited him completely.

  “Dutton and Blakesley dueled this morning. I took Louisa to watch,” Hawksworth said, looking slightly sheepish.

  “That was highly improper, Hawksworth,” Aunt Mary said, which was truly remarkable as everything about Aunt Mary spanning the past twenty years was beginning to look improper. “A duel is no place for a woman.”

  “Or a man unwilling to fight,” George said.

  Upon which Hawksworth cleared his throat and said, “It wasn’t my fight.”

  “It should have been,” John Grey said, which appeared to be the final word as every man in the room fell silent after that.

  “I am concerned, Mr. Grey,” Aunt Mary said, “about my niece Louisa. She is not here and she should be.”

  “She is at the Theatre Royal, Lady Jordan,” Mr. Grey answered conversationally, “being ruined by Henry Blakesley. Again.”

  Amelia sighed and sat down again, her hand to her brow. Hawksworth didn’t seem to know what to do with himself, so he sat. He liked to sit and did so at every opportunity.

  Aunt Mary, on the other hand, looked at Mr. Grey in a state of excited agitation.

  “Melverley is at the Theatre Royal, I believe,” she said.

  “Exactly,” John Grey said. “It was necessary. To move things in the right direction.”

  “He’ll have to insist,” Aunt Mary said.

  “He will,” Mr. G
rey agreed.

  Upon which, Aunt Mary sat down with what could only have been a sigh of relief.

  “Oh, thank goodness for that,” she said, which was something of a surprise, as most chaperones and aunts did not wish for their nieces’ ruination.

  “Thank Sophia,” John said.

  Aunt Mary looked up at John Grey, her blue eyes thoughtful and perhaps resigned.

  “I suppose I must,” Mary said.

  Twenty-six

  BEING a duke carried with it many advantages, one of which was the ability to make things happen upon a moment’s notice. That the elder daughter of Melverley had been repeatedly ruined and that one of the sons of Hyde was willing to marry the girl was the subject for not a little gossip and the speedy acquisition of a special license to marry.

  Lord Henry and Lady Louisa were married, appropriately, in the yellow drawing room of Hyde House.

  “I met you here, in this room, you know,” Blakes whispered to Louisa just minutes after the ceremony.

  “You remember where you met me?” she said. “You’re just trying to convince me you’re a romantic, and I’ll believe many things of you, Blakes, but not that.”

  “It was in the yellow drawing room,” he said, “two years ago at the assemblie.”

  “Everyone attends the Hyde House assemblie,” she said, walking the short distance to the fireplace.

  “You were talking to Amelia.”

  “I’m always talking to Amelia.”

  “You were wearing white.”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “You were wearing white silk with a pale green sash and the Melverley pearls.”

  She looked up at him, completely ignoring everyone in the room, her eyes wide with disbelief and profound appreciation.

  “You are a romantic,” she said.

  “Only since meeting you,” he said, taking her by the arm and leading her to the door to the dressing room.

  “That’s a very romantic thing to say, Blakes. Are you going to make a habit of saying pretty things to me”—Louisa stopped and looked around her at the dressing room—“and are you going to make a habit of saying them in this dressing room?”