Henry's Bride (London Libertines Book 1) Page 7

  Jeanette’s body throbbed, each pulse sending a bolt of fire through her.

  She opened her eyes and the light blinded her, a malevolent flame dancing to the beat of her pain. She tried to move, and an inferno of agony burst in her arm.

  “Keep still!”

  A shape came into view, blurred edges sharpening to reveal an unfamiliar face. Eyes dark with disapproval, lip curled into a sneer, yellowing teeth which reeked of cheap cigars.

  A second, deeper, voice spoke. “Does she need more laudanum?”

  Jeanette lifted her head and the world tipped sideways.

  “My arm…”

  “I said keep still! I’ve not finished binding it.”

  Jeanette lay back. The sooner she complied, the sooner he’d be finished.

  The rim of a glass was forced against her lips. Liquid oozed into her mouth and trickled down her throat.

  “Foolish woman. If I’d known…”

  “Your bedside manner is sadly lacking, Doctor Lucas.” The second voice seemed familiar, but the drug muffled her senses.

  “I’ve no time for this, Lord Ravenwell. This woman has disgraced herself publicly with one rake and now languishes in the bed of a second. I’ve been dragged from my fireside to tend to a harlot who’s been involved in illegal dueling…”

  “…you’ve been well paid for your troubles. Now get out.”

  “With pleasure.”

  Warm fingers touched her cheek. Shapes circled before her eyes, an amorphous gray mass sharpened into two pinpoints of clear blue.

  A voice whispered her name, and the shapes blurred into darkness, pulling her into oblivion.

  *

  The next time she opened her eyes, it was morning. A shaft of sunlight streaked across the room, picking out the facets of a decanter on a nearby table which winked at her.

  “Good morning, miss.”

  A maid, barely out of childhood, red hair peeking from underneath her servant’s cap, drew back the curtains and approached the bed.

  Small, thin hands helped her to sit, plumping the cushions behind her and easing her back. Her head no longer ached, but a hot flame burned along her right arm when she tried to move it. Her forearm had been bandaged from wrist to elbow.

  “Here you are, miss.”

  The maid held out a tray on which stood a porcelain bowl, a delicate pattern of roses adorning the rim. Next to it was a silver spoon, its ornate, polished handle gleaming. It sat at a perfect right angle to the linen cloth on the tray, as if someone had taken great pains to place it. A senseless exercise in exactitude, yet society’s need for such rituals was very likely the reason why the young woman before her was able to find employment and feed her family.

  A veil of steam rose from the bowl, smoke-like patterns dancing in the sunlight before dissipating into the air. The aroma of herbs reached Jeanette’s nostrils and her stomach growled in recognition as the maid placed the tray on her lap.

  “Are you needing any help, miss?”

  “No, thank you.”

  The maid bobbed a curtsey, “M’lady will be along shortly.”

  Jeanette reached for the spoon and dipped it into the broth.

  Chicken, but more sophisticated than the hearty soups Jeanette had enjoyed as a child. She pushed aside the dainty pieces of vegetable floating on the top. The rose pattern stretched to the bottom of the bowl, visible through the clear liquid. Only the best chefs could refine something as simple as a chicken broth almost out of existence.

  The door opened to reveal a woman in a purple gown. Lady Holmestead epitomized the qualities of a lady. Her honey-blonde hair had been fashioned into an elegant coil. She outshone Jeanette as a diamond compared to a lump of coal.

  “May I come in?”

  Jeanette nodded.

  “Clear the tray, Mary, then leave us.” With a rustle of heavy silk, Lady Holmestead glided across the room.

  “You strike me as a very—frank—young woman, Miss Claybone, so I won’t prevaricate with niceties.” She turned her gaze to Jeanette, and the sunlight caught her eyes, the pupils contracting to tiny pinpoints.

  “You must leave here at once.”

  Lady Holmestead paused, as if waiting. But for what? Did she expect Jeanette to indulge in hysterics?

  Or plead for mercy?

  “You ask for no explanation.”

  “Do I need one?”

  “The incident of the other night has been mentioned in the papers. You compromised yourself and have been in Lord Ravenwell’s bed ever since. Mary has packed your belongings and will help you dress. My carriage is at your disposal.”

  “Thank you.” Jeanette said quietly.

  A warm hand covered hers, and Lady Holmestead’s expression softened.

  “Believe me when I say how sorry I am, my dear. Our society is a delicate organism at the best of times, a fickle friend and a formidable enemy. I have my children to think of. What lies beneath the veneer of respectability of any woman must remain hidden. The sin lies not in giving yourself to a man, but in being discovered.”

  How could she speak so, when she herself had succumbed to temptation with that rake Ravenwell?

  Lady Holmestead held her hand up, stopping the protest before it had formed on Jeanette’s lips.

  “I make no apology for my own behavior, Miss Claybone. A rake is, by definition, accomplished in the art of lovemaking, but the delights he offers are not worth sampling until one is safely married.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Many women ask that question. He left for London two days ago.”

  “Two days?”

  “You’ve been unconscious for three nights. You took a chill when you took the air the other night.”

  “Will he return?”

  “Forgive me, but that’s another question countless women have asked.”

  She took Jeanette’s other hand. “You cannot rely on him, child. I’m told he’s a generous patron, but he’s never kept a mistress long before replacing her with another.”

  Hot, salty moisture stung Jeanette’s eyes and she blinked, the action causing a tear to spill onto her cheek.

  Lady Holmestead averted her gaze and sighed. “I’m sorry for your plight, Miss Claybone. As a lady, I cannot openly condone your behavior, but as a woman, I want to be assured of your safety. Do you have somewhere to go?”

  “I’ll go to London. Papa said he’d write to his solicitor.”

  “My carriage can take you to Dorking. From there, you should have no trouble picking up a mail coach. I’ll give you sufficient funds to complete your journey.”

  She patted Jeanette’s hand before she rose and returned to the door, turning momentarily to look over her shoulder.

  “I’m sorry for what happened to you, Miss Claybone. But for the grace of the Almighty, I might have found myself in your position.”

  *

  A ball of nausea curled in Henry’s stomach, exacerbated by the rocking motion of the carriage. He drew down the window and inhaled a lungful of air.

  Two days. Two blasted days he’d spent searching for Oakville, but the lazy wastrel had disappeared, most likely to languish in the country until the scandal died down.

  And now Henry was on his way back to Holmestead Hall, back to face the consequences of Oakville’s antics. And so he should; after all, he’d done nothing to prevent Miss Claybone’s ruination, or stop the duel.

  His stomach lurched at the image of her broken body as he’d picked her up in the field. Her hair had come loose, hanging limply, mirroring that of the dead woman he’d seen in the arms of the Runners in Hyde Park. Oakville, the bloody idiot! It might have been an accident, but he could have killed her. And what had he done? Left the very next morning without a word, not for his friend, or the woman he’d ruined.

  And now Miss Claybone had nobody. Louisa, obliging as she was, would not want her at Holmestead Hall for much longer, not now that the newspapers had got wind of the story.

  It was up to him, though wh
at he’d do with her, he didn’t know. With luck, he’d eventually be able to persuade Oakville to offer for her. Rupert would protest, of course, but in time, he might grow to appreciate her worth, that spirited intelligence, the barely-concealed passion, those ripe, round curves, just fashioned for a man to worship.

  No cold-blooded society lady was she. Love might be the destroyer of all reason, but imagine what it would be like to be loved by one such as her; to experience that wild abandon in his bed…

  Henry’s body tightened with a jolt, and he leaned forward to ease the ache in his groin as his manhood surged insistently against his breeches.

  Voices called outside, and the carriage drew to a halt. What the devil was the driver playing at? They could only be halfway there, at most. He leaned out of the window and caught sight of the lone figure of a woman sitting on a trunk, shivering under a cloak.

  So, Louisa had turned her out. Henry couldn’t blame her. Most ladies would have evicted her immediately. He opened the door.

  “Get in.”

  She looked up, fire swirling in the depths of her eyes.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He opened the door wider. “I said, get in.”

  She shook her head. “Leave me alone. Haven’t you done enough?”

  “You have no choice. Your reputation is in tatters and nobody of any consequence wants anything to do with you.” A stab of guilt needled at him as pain flickered across her expression.

  “I refuse to tarnish my reputation further by getting into a carriage with you,” she said. “I’m going to London, and you’re travelling in the wrong direction.” She held up a purse. “I’ve money for my passage and a friend awaiting me. So you’re wrong, Lord Ravenwell. Some people are kind enough to admit me. In my mind, if not yours, that gives them consequence.”

  “Of all the stubborn…” He climbed out of the carriage. “You’d do well to keep your money. Be a good girl and stand up so my man can take your trunk.”

  “No.” she said. “Are all men half-witted brutes, or just you and your friend?”

  He pulled her to her feet and she pitched forward with a cry.

  “Miss Claybone, are you all right?”

  She opened her mouth but no words came, only an airless gasp. She stumbled against him, her body going limp. He wrapped his arms around her, and she gave a soft sigh. Leaning forward, he caught the scent of lavender, and he pressed his lips against her forehead.

  “Hush, you’re safe now.”

  He clung to her, savoring the moment of holding this extraordinary woman in his arms.

  The driver coughed and broke the spell. Issuing orders to the footman to take her trunk, Henry lifted her up and climbed into the carriage.

  Chapter Eight

  Once again Jeanette found herself in a strange bed. An embroidered canopy hung over her head, suspended from carved wooden pillars. The chamber walls and door consisted of wood paneling. Its rich brown hue was the same as the bedposts, darker and more exotic than the pale oak of her trunk placed near a dressing table. Tall windows stretched from floor to ceiling. Thick, dark red curtains had been partially drawn back to let in the light.

  By the window stood a marble figure of a woman, her decadent curves polished into shiny smoothness. One arm barely covered her breasts and a soft mound peeked invitingly over her elbow. A drape fell across her stomach, held by her fingertips. The merest movement and it would fall to expose her nudity. Her sightless, marble eyes bore a soft expression of satisfaction.

  A goddess of love, it was the face of a woman who had known limitless pleasures. Jeanette’s breath caught in her throat.

  A ray of sunlight flickered through the window, a halo, bathing the goddess. Her mouth curled into a secret smile and her eyes seemed to look right at Jeanette. Sightless they may be, but they understood her.

  The entire chamber reeked of decadence, an earthy masculine aroma clinging to the air as if the very fabric of the room had been soaked in a fog of passion.

  She drew back the coverlet. Someone had replaced her gown with a nightshift. The silky fabric rippled as she moved. The front was cut low enough to reveal the dip between her breasts, the lace trim designed to defy rather than promote modesty. The gown of a harlot.

  Had she ended up in a bawdy house?

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed and padded to the door.

  Opening it, she almost collided into a man standing outside. Though he wore a footman’s uniform, his head was bare, hair growing in unruly tufts, defying the rules of convention. He bore the same air as his surroundings.

  “Ah, you’re awake.” He spoke matter-of-factly, as if the sight of a barely-clad woman was a daily occurrence.

  It probably was.

  “Can you tell me where I am?”

  He coughed, an odd, high-pitched little sound. “The master’s townhouse. His second townhouse.”

  His tongue slithered around the word, laden with implication. Not a main residence, but a house suited for the pleasures of the flesh. The wealthier men of London set up separate residencies where they could house their mistresses or indulge in more specialized pleasures.

  “Where is your—your master?”

  “He’s left for the day.”

  “And you are?”

  “Sanderson. At your service.” He bowed. “Would you like to take tea?”

  How very proper! She may be ruined, but society’s rituals must always be observed.

  Interpreting her silence as assent, he bowed. “I’ll let you dress, then show you to the morning room.”

  *

  Jeanette looked out of the window onto the street below. Her world might have inverted but outside the passers-by conducted their business as if nothing had happened. Couples walked together on the pavement, traders wheeled their carts, shouting their wares. Sanderson had told her they were in Holborn, within walking distance of Papa’s lawyers. She dropped a sugar cube into the tea, the brown liquid engulfing the white crystalline shape, dissolving its edges until it no longer existed.

  Harsh, female tones echoed outside the morning room door, together with Sanderson’s distinctive little cough. The door opened, and a woman walked in; Elizabeth De Witt, dressed in a silk overcoat of a bright poisonous green, her sharp, close-set eyes narrowing into slits. She sat on the chair furthest from Jeanette.

  “Fetch me some tea.”

  Sanderson rolled his eyes and poured her a cup.

  “Are you incapable of helping yourself?”

  Sanderson’s hand shook at Jeanette’s words, the crease of a smile playing on his lips before he smoothed his expression and passed the cup to Elizabeth.

  “Leave us.” The woman waved a dismissive hand at him and waited for the door to close before she focused her spiteful gaze on Jeanette.

  “We all wondered where you were,” she said. “Out of concern, of course.”

  Jeanette drained her cup. “I doubt that.”

  “For your sake, I came to warn you. Henry won’t hesitate to discard you once he’s had his fill. Is he here now?”

  “No.”

  “It’s as I feared.” The concern in her voice contrasted with the satisfaction in her eyes.

  “If you want him, you’re welcome to him,” Jeanette said.

  “If that’s the case, Miss Smith—forgive me—Claybone…” Lady Elizabeth’s eyes widened in mock innocence “…I wonder at your willingness to remain in London. For the publicity perhaps?”

  She drew out a piece of paper, unfolded it, and handed it to Jeanette.

  Someone had sketched a parody of a woman. Plump curves had been emphasized, accentuating the thighs and chest. The feet had been replaced by hooves to compliment the tail sprouting from the skirt. Her facial features had been exaggerated, the nose replaced by the bulbous features of a Hereford cow and the mouth magnified with buck teeth poking out from the upper lip. A caption completed the picture.

  The Holmestead Heifer.

  Beneath the dra
wing, words nestled into an ugly mass, the letters pulsating on the page as if they, too, laughed at her.

  …or the Holmestead Harlot? It has come to the attention of the writer that an incident of some concern has taken place at Holmestead Hall, the seat of Lord William Honeychurch. A Miss C has fallen to temptation though no announcement will be forthcoming. The unfortunate gentleman suffered no ill effects from the escapade, and the writer has it on good authority that he has sought comfort in the arms of the celebrated courtesan, Miss W…

  Jeanette crumpled the paper, wanting to crush the words into oblivion. A nasal voice broke through her thoughts, triumph seeping from every word.

  “As a friend, I’d suggest you leave London at the earliest opportunity. I’ll wager Henry is waiting for you to go before he returns home.”

  As a friend, indeed! With a rustle of stiff silk, Lady Elizabeth stood. She raised an expectant eyebrow, but Jeanette remained sitting. Decorum be damned. She wasn’t going to bestow any civility on someone undeserving of it.

  Elizabeth exhaled through her nose. “I pity your education, Miss Claybone, for failing to bestow an understanding of how to behave when a lady takes her leave.”

  “My education has at least enabled me to understand what a lady is.”

  Confusion clouded Elizabeth’s eyes, and she shook her head as if to dissipate her stupidity. She turned her back and swept out of the room. Shortly afterward, Sanderson reappeared, but Jeanette waved him away. More tea wouldn’t alleviate her predicament. Elizabeth De Witt was right; Ravenwell wouldn’t hesitate to turn her out. Jeanette might have lost her reputation, but she still had her dignity. She must leave before he ejected her.

  *

  The solid black door stood like a barrier shutting her out of society. Jeanette traced the names etched into the brass nameplate, her fingerprints leaving a stain as ugly as her reputation.

  Allardice, Allardice, and Stockton.

  She pushed the door and stepped inside. The last time she’d come here she’d been a hopeful young girl entering womanhood, accompanying Papa on a business trip. Uncle George had lifted her onto his knee and patted her head affectionately while he talked with Papa.