The child blushed and looked down. “Abigail Fitzwilliam,” she whispered to her toes.
“Ah.” Melisande’s mind worked as she looked from the child to her mother, whom she’d seen just the other night at the masked ball. Helen Fitzwilliam was the Duke of Lister’s mistress. The duke was a powerful man, but no matter how powerful the man in such situations, the woman was still considered beyond the pale. She smiled at Helen Fitzwilliam’s daughter. “I am Lady Vale. How do you do?”
The girl still stared at her toes.
“Abigail,” a low feminine voice said. “Curtsy to the lady, please.”
The girl dropped a wobbly but pretty curtsy even as Melisande looked up. The woman who had spoken was beautiful—shining golden hair, wide blue eyes, and a perfect cupid’s-bow mouth. She must be a little older than Melisande, but she would outshine women both younger and older than herself. But then it wasn’t surprising that the Duke of Lister would choose a blindingly beautiful woman as his mistress.
She should walk away, not acknowledge the courtesan by either look or word. By the set of Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s shoulders, that was exactly what the other woman expected. Melisande’s gaze dropped to the little girl, her eyes still firmly fixed on the ground. How many times had she seen her mother cut dead?
Melisande inclined her head. “How do you do? I am Melisande Renshaw, Viscountess Vale.”
She saw the flash first of surprise, then gratitude, on Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s face before the woman sank into a curtsy. “Oh! It’s an honor to meet you, my lady. I am Helen Fitzwilliam.”
Melisande returned the curtsy, and when she rose, found the little girl looking at her. She smiled. “And what is your brother’s name?”
The girl glanced over her shoulder to where her brother was squatting by the water, poking at something with a stick. Mouse was sniffing at whatever they’d found, and Melisande hoped he wouldn’t take it into his head to roll in something noxious.
“That’s Jamie,” Abigail said. “He likes stinky things.”
“Mmm,” Melisande concurred. “So does Mouse.”
“May I go see, Mother?” the girl asked.
“Yes, but do try not to paint yourself with the mud like your brother,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam said.
Abigail looked insulted. “Of course not.”
She walked carefully over to where the boy and dog were playing.
“She’s a pretty child,” Melisande commented. Usually she disliked trying to make conversation with strangers, but she knew that if she was quiet, the other woman would take it as a snub.
“She is, isn’t she?” Mrs. Fitzwilliam said. “I know a mother isn’t supposed to notice, but I’ve always thought her rather lovely. They’re the light of my life, you know.”
Melisande nodded. She wasn’t sure how long Mrs. Fitzwilliam had been Lister’s mistress, but the children were almost certainly his. What a strange half-life it must be to be a man’s concubine. Lister had a legitimate family with his wife—some half-dozen sons and daughters already grown. Did he even acknowledge Jamie and Abigail as his own children?
“They love the park,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam continued. “I come here with them as often as I can, which, I’m afraid, isn’t often enough. I don’t like coming when there are too many other people about.”
She said it matter-of-factly, without any self-pity.
“Why do you suppose little boys and dogs love the mud so much?” Melisande mused. Abigail was keeping her distance, but Jamie had stood and stomped at something in the muck. Mud flew up in great lumps. Mouse barked.
“The stench?” Mrs. Fitzwilliam guessed.
“The mess?”
Abigail shrieked and leaped back as her brother stomped in the mud again.
“The fact that it disgusts little girls?”
Melisande smiled. “That certainly explains Jamie’s fascination, but not Mouse’s.”
She found herself wishing she could ask the other woman to tea. Mrs. Fitzwilliam wasn’t what she’d expected at all. She didn’t ask for sympathy, didn’t seem distressed at her lot in life, and she had a sense of humor. She might make a very good friend.
But, alas, it would never do to invite a cyprian to tea.
“I understand that you are newly wed,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam said. “May I offer my felicitations?”
“Thank you,” Melisande murmured. Her brow wrinkled as she was reminded of how Jasper had left her the night before.
“I’ve often thought that it must be hard to actually live with a man,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam mused.
Melisande darted a glance at her.
Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s cheeks reddened. “I hope I haven’t offended you.”
“Oh, no.”
“It’s just that a man can be so distant sometimes,” the other lady said quietly. “As if one is intruding on his life. But perhaps not all men are like that?”
“I don’t know,” Melisande said. “I’ve only the one husband.”
“Of course.” Mrs. Fitzwilliam looked down at the ground. “I wonder, though, if it is even possible for a man and a woman to be truly close. In a spiritual sense, I mean. The sexes are so far apart, aren’t they?”
Melisande clasped her hands together. Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s view of marriage was rather cynical, and a part of her—the sensible, pragmatic part—urged her to agree. But another part of her disagreed violently. “I don’t think that always has to be the case, surely? I have seen couples very much in love with each other, so close that they seem to understand each other’s thoughts.”
“And do you have such a bond with your husband?” Mrs. Fitzwilliam asked. The question would’ve been rude coming from any other lady, but Mrs. Fitzwilliam seemed honestly curious.
“No,” Melisande answered. “Lord Vale and I don’t have that type of marriage.”
And that was what she wanted, wasn’t it? She’d loved once before and had been wounded to her very soul. She simply couldn’t endure that kind of pain again. Melisande felt a shrinking, a sadness, infuse her being as she acknowledged this fact. She would never have one of those glorious marriages based on love and mutual understanding.
“Ah,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam said, and then they stood together silently and watched the children and Mouse.
Finally, Mrs. Fitzwilliam turned to her and smiled, a wonderfully beautiful smile that simply took Melisande’s breath away. “Thank you for letting them play with your dog.”
As Melisande opened her mouth to answer, she heard a shout from behind her. “My lady wife! What a joy to find you here.”
And she turned to see Vale riding toward them with another man.
MELISANDE HAD BEEN so deeply in conversation with the other woman that she didn’t even notice Jasper until he hailed her. As he and Lord Hasselthorpe rode closer, the other woman turned and strolled unhurriedly away. Jasper recognized the woman. She called herself Mrs. Fitzwilliam, and she’d been the Duke of Lister’s mistress for almost a decade.
What had Melisande been doing, talking to a demimondaine?
“Your wife keeps fast company,” Lord Hasselthorpe said. “Sometimes young matrons get the idea in their head that they can become fashionable by skirting the edges of respectability. Best warn her, Vale.”
A biting retort was on Jasper’s lips, but he swallowed it. He’d just spent the prior half hour ingratiating himself to Hasselthorpe.
He grit his teeth and said, “I’ll keep it in mind, sir.”
“Do,” Hasselthorpe replied, pulling his horse to a stop before they’d reached Melisande. “No doubt you wish to discuss matters with your lady wife, so I’ll part ways with you here. You’ve given me much to think about.”
“Does that mean you’ll help us find the traitor?” Jasper pressed.
Hasselthorpe hesitated. “Your theories seem sound, Vale, but I dislike rushing into things. If my brother Thomas was indeed killed because of some cowardly traitor, you will have my help. But I would like to contemplate the matter further.”
?
??Very well,” Jasper said. “May I call on you tomorrow?”
“Best make it the day after,” Hasselthorpe said.
Jasper nodded, though he hated the delay. He shook hands with the other man and then rode toward Melisande. She had turned to watch him approach, her hands folded at her waist, her back as usual impossibly straight. She didn’t look at all like the woman who’d seduced him so expertly the night before. For a moment, he wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her, make her lose her impenetrable poise, make her back bend.
He did no such thing, of course; one didn’t accost one’s wife in a public park in the middle of the morning even if she had just been conversing with persons of low repute.
Instead, he smiled and hailed her again. “Out for a walk, my heart?”
Mouse caught sight of him and, abandoning a small, muddy boy, raced toward Vale’s horse, barking frantically. The dog really did have the brains of a peahen. Fortunately, Belle merely snorted at the terrier dancing at her hooves.
“Mouse,” Jasper said sternly. “Sit down.”
Miraculously, the dog planted its arse in the grass.
Jasper swung down from the bay and looked at Mouse. Mouse wagged his tail. Jasper continued to stare until Mouse lowered his head, his tail still wagging so vigorously that the dog’s rear half wriggled as well. Mouse laid his head almost on the ground and crept toward Jasper on his elbows, his mouth drawn back in a grimace of submission.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Jasper muttered. One would think from the dog’s behavior that he’d beaten the animal.
Mouse took his words as permission to jump up, trot toward him, and sit expectantly at Jasper’s feet. He stared down at the dog, nonplussed.
He heard a muffled giggle. Cocking an eye at Melisande, he saw that she now had one hand over her mouth. “I think he likes you.”
“Yes, but do I like him?”
“It doesn’t matter whether or not you like him.” She strolled closer. “He likes you and that’s that.”
“Hmm.” Jasper looked back at the dog. Mouse had his head tilted to the side as if awaiting instructions. “Go on, then.”
The dog gave one bark and ran in a wide circle around Jasper, Melisande, and the horse.
“You’d think he’d dislike me after I shut him in the cellar,” Jasper muttered.
Melisande gave an elegant shrug. “Dogs are funny that way.” She bent and picked up a stick between forefinger and thumb. “Here.”
Jasper eyed the stick. It was muddy. “I’m overwhelmed by your thoughtfulness, my lady.”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s not for you, silly. Throw it for Mouse.”
“Why?”
“Because he likes to fetch sticks,” she said patiently, as if talking to a very slow child.
“Huh.” He took the stick, and Mouse immediately stopped running and looked up. Jasper flung the stick as far as he could, absurdly aware that he was showing off.
Mouse raced after the stick, pounced on it, and shook it vigorously. Then he trotted off around the pond.
Jasper frowned. “I thought he was supposed to bring it back to me?”
“I never said he was very good at playing fetch.”
Jasper looked down at his wife. The morning air had pinkened her normally pale cheeks; her eyes were sparkling at having winged him, and she looked . . . lovely. Quite, quite lovely.
He had to swallow before he could speak. “Are you informing me that I’ve lost a perfectly good stick?”
There was a muted snap! from across the little pond as Mouse chewed through the stick.
Melisande winced. “I’m not sure you’d want it back now anyway.”
“He won’t eat it, will he?”
“He never has before.”
“Ah.” And then he wasn’t quite sure what to say—a circumstance that happened very rarely in his life. He wanted to ask her what she’d been talking about with Mrs. Fitzwilliam, but for the life of him, he wasn’t exactly sure how to phrase the question. Have you been taking lessons in seduction from a courtesan? didn’t seem quite the thing. He noticed that Mrs. Fitzwilliam and her children seemed to have left the park. They were no longer in sight.
“Why did you not wait for me at breakfast?” she asked into the silence.
They had begun to stroll about the pond, Jasper leading his horse. “I don’t know exactly. I thought after last night . . .”
What? That she would want some time alone? No, that wasn’t quite true. Perhaps he was the one who needed the solitude. And what did that say about him?
“Did I disgust you?” she asked.
And he was so startled that he halted and looked at her. Why ever would she think he was disgusted by her? To even ask revealed a tender spot in her soul. “No. No, my heart. You could never disgust me if you tried for a thousand years.”
Her eyebrows were slightly knit as she searched his face. She seemed to be watching to see if he lied.
He bent toward her and murmured, “You intrigue me, you tempt me, you inflame me, but disgust? Never, sweet wife, never.”
She caught her breath, and when she spoke, her voice was low. “It wasn’t what you expected, though.”
He thought of her assured and controlled as she’d taken his cock into her hand last night. The feel of her cool fingers, the sight of her intent face, had nearly made him spill right then and there.
“No,” he said, just a little hoarsely. “Not what I expected. Melisande—”
A shot blasted from across the park. Jasper instinctively pulled Melisande into his arms. Mouse began barking hysterically. They could hear shouting and the high whinnying of a horse, but whatever was happening was hidden by a copse of trees.
“What is it?” Melisande asked.
“I don’t know,” Jasper muttered.
A hatless gentleman on a big black horse galloped into view, coming from the sounds of the commotion.
Jasper put Melisande behind him. “Oy! You there! What’s happened?”
The man yanked on his horse, pulling it into a half rear. “I’m after a doctor. I haven’t the time.”
“Is someone shot?”
“A murder attempt,” the man cried as he spurred his horse. “Someone’s tried to kill Lord Hasselthorpe!”
“BUT WHY WOULD someone shoot at Lord Hasselthorpe?” Melisande asked later that night. Vale had bundled her into the carriage and ordered her home before going to the scene of the assassination attempt. He’d been away until after dinner, and this was the first she’d been able to question him.
“I don’t know,” he answered. He had come to her rooms, but now he paced as if he’d been caged. “Perhaps it was some kind of accident. An idiot practice shooting without a proper straw target to catch the bullet.”
“In Hyde Park?”
“I don’t know!” Vale’s voice was overloud, and he looked at her in apology. “Forgive me, my lady wife. But if it was an assassin, he was a damn bad shot. Hasselthorpe was merely winged on the arm. He should make a full recovery. I saw plenty of similar wounds in the war, and they were hardly worth noting as long as infection didn’t set in.”
“I’m glad the hurt is so slight, then,” Melisande said. She sat on one of the low armchairs before the fire—the one they’d made love in the night before, in fact—and watched him. “You hardly ever talk about the war.”
“Don’t I?” he replied vaguely. He was standing by her dresser, poking his finger in a bowl of hairpins. He wore a red and black banyan over his breeches and shirt. “Not much to tell, really.”
“No? You were in the army for six years, though, weren’t you?”
“Seven years,” he muttered. He moved to her wardrobe, which he flung open and peered at as if he’d find the hidden secrets of the cosmos amongst her gowns.
“Why did you join?”
He turned and stared at her blindly for a moment.
Then he blinked and laughed. “I joined the army to learn how to be a man. Or at least that was my fa
ther’s purpose. He thought me too lazy, too effete. And since there wasn’t any use for me at home”—he shrugged carelessly—“why not buy a commission for me?”
“And your best friend, Reynaud St. Aubyn, bought a commission at the same time?”
“Oh, yes. We were terribly excited to join the 28th Regiment of Foot. May it rest in peace.” He closed the wardrobe doors and went to brood at the window.
Perhaps she should leave it be. Stop poking at him, let his secrets lie buried. But some part of her wouldn’t let go. Every bit of his life was fascinating to her, and this bit that he kept hidden even more so than the others. Sighing, she rose from the armchair. She wore a heavy satin wrap over her chemise, and she slipped out of the wrap now, carefully laying it on the chair.
“Did you like army life?” she asked quietly.
She could see his reflection watching her in the black glass of the window. “Some of it. Men complain of the ghastly food, the marches, the living in tents. But it can be a lark at times. Sitting by a campfire, trying to eat boiled peasemeal and bacon.”
She drew off her chemise as she listened, and he abruptly stopped talking. Nude, she walked toward him and laid her hands on his back. His muscles were rock-hard, as if he’d turned to granite.
“And the battles?”
“Like being in hell,” he whispered.
She smoothed her hands down his broad back, feeling the valley of his spine, the muscles on either side. Like being in hell. She ached for the part of him that had been in hell. “Were you in many battles?”
“A few.” He sighed and lowered his head as she dug her thumbs into the muscles above his hips.
She tapped his shoulder. “Take this off.”
He shrugged out of his banyan and shirt, but when he made to turn around, she firmly pushed him back. She pressed her thumbs in hard, small circles on either side of his spine. He groaned and his head fell forward again as he braced his hands on either side of the windowsill.
“You were at Quebec,” she said softly.
“That was the only real battle. The rest were skirmishes. Some lasted only minutes.”
“And Spinner’s Falls?”
His shoulders hunched as if she’d hit him, but he didn’t say a word. She knew that Spinner’s Falls had been a massacre. She’d comforted Emeline when word finally came back that Reynaud had not survived his capture there. She should push—this was obviously his weak point. But she couldn’t be so ruthless. She hated the thought of hurting him anew.