At Her Service

  Her morning sickness had dissipated, for which she was grateful. Etienne had never been aware of it since he rarely came home at night and when he did, he slept until noon. By which point, Aurore was always feeling hale and hearty.

  It took a certain self-possession and grim resolve to finally have the difficult conversation with her brother. She stopped him one evening as he was about to leave, having decided that evenings were always less unsettling for her stomach even now. “Might I have a moment of your time,” she said. “I have something I wish to say to you.”

  Etienne looked up, his hand—clasping his gloves—arrested above the hall console. “Good Lord, have I done something wrong?” He knew that tone.

  “No, no, it has nothing to do with you. Come into the drawing room.”

  As Etienne followed her in, he said, “If it’s about that young female who called the other day, I had no idea she knew where I lived.”

  “No, it has nothing to do with her, although she was very sweet to return your watch. She wouldn’t have had to.” The little milliner had blushed as she handed over Etienne’s watch to Aurore. She didn’t want Etienne to think she was a thief, she’d said. “I think the young lady was hoping to see you,” Aurore added, in a softly teasing tone, recalling the pretty girl’s obvious disappointment at not finding Etienne home.

  “I brought her a reward for her kindness yesterday,” Etienne muttered, not quite meeting his sister’s gaze.

  “That was very nice of you. I’m sure she appreciated it.” And Aurore was struck afresh with the vagaries and vicissitudes of love. Who loved whom, when, how much, how long? It seemed the perfect amalgam of time, place and emotional receptivity was as elusive as the Holy Grail. “Would you like a drink?”

  Etienne looked wary. “Do I need one?”

  “No, no. Sit, please. This won’t take long.” And she sat so he would. She also sat in the event she might faint from the fluttering apprehension racing through her senses. Once Etienne sat down—although gingerly—on the edge of the chair, she said as calmly as she could, “What I am about to say may strike you as shocking, but I assure you, it isn’t, nor need it be. The thing is”—she drew in a sustaining breath and then quickly before she lost her nerve said—“I am with child. It’s Darley’s. He does not know, nor do I wish him to know.” She put up her hand to quell her brother’s utterance. As he shut his mouth, she went on to explain. “Darley and I entered into a liaison we both knew would be transient. Surely, you understand the concept,” she added, holding her brother’s gaze for a moment. “In any event, I wasn’t absolutely sure about the child until he had left. Not that I would have necessarily told if I had known. I intend to play the widow—not an uncommon pose in the ton—and raise the child myself. And please, don’t talk to me of honor or principles. I don’t wish to marry, nor does Darley. There, I’m finished.”

  “You can’t possibly mean what you say—about raising the child yourself!” Etienne had jumped to his feet and was pacing. “It’s not fair to you or to Darley. Have you considered he might want to know of this?”

  “He doesn’t. Trust me.”

  Etienne spun around and stopped. “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because he made it clear that he is purposely not married. Which means that he does not wish to marry. You of all people can grasp the concept of bachelorhood.”

  Her brother expelled a large breath and dropped back into his chair. “Very well. I appreciate the parallels.” Sliding down on his spine, he surveyed his sister from under half-lowered lids. “You’re sure you can manage this subterfuge? People are bound to talk.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t really care what people say. I will have to speak to Philip and Bertrand since they met Darley the night he was here. It was rather clear that we were more than friends. But Philip and Bertrand will be obliging. I’m not worried about them. You and I can discuss the particulars of the necessary fiction relating to my role as a widow some other time. It’s early yet.”

  “When—that is”—Etienne was still young enough to be embarrassed by issues of birthing—“when will the child be born?”

  “In November. Before winter sets in, I’m happy to say. And Darley must not know of this,” she emphasized. “He might lay claim to the child, and the courts would rule in his favor. You understand?”

  Etienne nodded.

  “Please,”—she waved her hands—“go now. I didn’t mean to spoil your evening. And, darling, this really has nothing to do with you. As for myself, I’m quite delighted about this child.”

  “Good. It’s wonderful…really,” Etienne said with polite exuberance as he rose from the chair. Gazing down at her, he hesitated for a second, then said very gently, “Whatever makes you happy is always fine with me, Rory. You know that.”

  “I know, darling,” she said, swallowing hard to hold back her tears, her brother’s unconditional love heartwarming. “I just hope you don’t mind becoming an uncle.”

  “God, no!” Etienne grinned. “We could use a larger family now that there’s just the two of us.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.” Grateful, happy, hugely content, Aurore smiled at her brother. “Now, go and enjoy yourself tonight. And if you see your little milliner, say hello from me.”

  “She thought you were very beautiful.”

  “She’s quite lovely herself. Make sure you’re kind to her.”

  “Of course I will be!”

  Aurore fluttered her fingertips. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “You don’t need me tonight, do you?” he politely inquired. “I’ll cancel my plans if you wish.”

  “Heaven’s no! Have a wonderful time.”

  Etienne did.

  First with his little milliner to whom he was especially kind so often and so intensely, she nearly fainted in ecstasy.

  And then much, much later that night, when only the diehard gamblers and drinkers were still at his club, Etienne walked in, woke up the porter who was dozing in a chair in the entrance hall and said, “I need a telegram sent. Right away.”

  His message to Darley was brief.

  Aurore is with child. She says not to bother you, but I think you should do something about this.

  He signed his full name, Etienne Andre Lepinay Clement

  At the same time in another club across the channel, Darley glanced at the clock on the wall of the gaming room at Brooks.

  “Adelaide’s going to be pissed,” Freddy Richmond murmured, smiling at Darley over his hand of cards. “You told her eleven. I heard you clear as a bell even with that fat soprano bellowing in the background.”

  Darley shrugged faintly. “Old Palmer is up in Scotland anyway. Time isn’t an issue, and”—he added softly, debating whether to draw another card—“I’m having a damned good run of luck.”

  “As always,” Brummel muttered, scowling at his cards. “Give someone else a chance to win, dammit.”

  “Is Countess Palmer as good as they say?” a young viscount fresh in from the country asked. “She is the most stunning filly with her shapely form and glorious tits.”

  Darley turned a cool gaze on the fresh-faced youth.

  “Pardon, sir, that—is…everyone says…” The young man’s voice trailed off, his pink cheeks turned pinker; he shifted nervously under Darley’s intimidating stare.

  “Don’t frighten the young buck, Darley,” Freddy interposed. “He’s just down from some hidden valley in Yorkshire—ain’t that so, Ramsey? Somewhere just across from the Scottish border, I hear.”

  “Yes, sir. Just recently came into my title and come to town.” He nervously bit his lower lip, the marquis’s reputation for dueling formidable. It was said he had scars on top of scars.

  “Stop glaring, Darley,” Freddy drawled. A friend from childhood, he could speak bluntly to the marquis. “You’re scaring the piss out of the boy. And admit, Adelaide figures rather widely in the broad sheets, big tits and all. It ain’t as though she’s come out of the convent
last week.”

  Darley’s brows rose, a small smile of forbearance graced his fine mouth. “Thank you, Freddy, for reminding me so eloquently of what passes for amusement in the fashionable world.” A note of ennui had crept into Darley’s voice. “My apologies, Ramsey. It’s all pointless anyway—who fucks whom, when, where, how often.” Especially pointless after having lived through a war.

  “Easy for you to say,” Georgie Brummel grumbled. “Women beg you to warm their beds.”

  “Give up gambling, Georgie, and you might have time for fucking,” Freddy noted. “You practically live in the gaming rooms.”

  “Maybe I will.” Unlikely that though. Georgie Brummel was addicted to gambling. Fortunately he had the fortune to sustain his passion.

  A small silence fell as the men studied their cards, the large pile of markers in the center of the table a compelling reason for deliberation.

  It really was all a pointless repetition from morning to night, Darley reflected. The races, a rout or dinner somewhere that required an appearance, Brooks for some gambling before the inevitable night of fucking. And so it went unceasingly. Christ, he’d been here way too long. After Emma’s party tomorrow, he’d say his good-byes. Where he’d go, he didn’t quite know. Someplace where he could breathe fresh air and flirtatious females were in short supply.

  Freddy looked up. “Pon’ my word, I finally have a winning hand.”

  “Not so fast,” Brummel said, tapping his finger on the green baize for another card.

  The young man from Yorkshire suddenly looked pained, his pink cheeks pale, a look of apprehension in his eyes.

  “Stop while you’re ahead,” Darley said kindly, nodding at the boy in commiseration. “There’s no harm in caution.” His maman would appreciate him not losing the family fortune his first time in the city. “If you like I could introduce you at Joselle’s instead. You might enjoy yourself more.”

  Freddy shot his friend a surprised look. Neither money nor title was sufficient to get past the doorman at Joselle’s without her approval. Darley was offering this young bumpkin entree he never could have achieved on his own.

  “I would be honored, sir! Most humbly honored!” Wide eyed, the viscount sat transfixed.

  “Well, then—no time like the present.” Darley smiled, set his cards on the table and came to his feet. “I’ll introduce you to all of Joselle’s ladies, but since I have other commitments, I’ll have to leave you on your own. Is that all right with you?”

  The viscount jumped to his feet. “Yes, sir. I shall be quite content, I assure you! Vastly content, sir!”

  I can’t keep Adelaide waiting too long, Darley thought. But Joselle’s wasn’t far from Mayfair. An hour at the most to see that the young boy was settled in and then the necessary apologies to Adelaide would be required. But, with Adelaide, as long as the sex was swiftly forthcoming, she never bore a grudge for long.

  As the men walked from the room, Freddy turned over Darley’s cards he’d left on the table and blanched. Four aces. He would have lost miserably with his pairs.

  Chapter 30

  The knock on the door was insistent as was the voice of his valet.

  How did he find me, was Darley’s first thought.

  His second caused him to glance at the lady sleeping beside him.

  A faint smile curved her mouth, as if she were having a pleasant dream, her breathing soft and regular.

  Grateful she hadn’t wakened, he slipped from the bed, quickly strode to the door and, opening it a crack, put a finger to his lips.

  “Sorry, sir,” his valet whispered. “I was told this was urgent.” He held out a folded telegram.

  Darley nodded, held up one finger as a signal to wait, took the telegram and, unfolding it, scanned the contents. Crumpling the telegram in his fist when he was finished, he dipped his head. “I’ll be right out.” Without shutting the door for fear the sound might wake his bed partner, he swiftly gathered up his clothes, shoving the telegram into his jacket pocket. The gossip sheets would run riot if word of this got out. Frowning, he scanned the bedchamber, looking for his shoes. Ah—there. By the door, where he’d kicked them off when Adelaide had pleaded, panting and flushed with desire, “Hurry, hurry, I can’t wait.” After walking over to his shoes, he picked them up and quietly eased through the half-open door out into the hallway. Handing all but his trousers to his valet, he stepped into them, buttoned the fly and put out his hand for his shirt. “How the hell early is it?” he asked, sliding his arms into his shirt sleeves.

  “Six, sir.”

  His brows shot up. “Jesus.” Then striding away in the direction of the staircase, fastening his shirt studs as he went, he tried to get his sluggish brain around the devil of a mess facing him.

  Standing barefoot on the porch a few moments later, squinting against the morning sun, he shoved his arms into his coat held out by his valet. “When was the telegram delivered?”

  “A half hour ago.”

  “How in blazes did you find me?” More to the point, how did he manage to talk the Countess Palmer’s servants into letting him in?

  Georgie raised his brows as if to say, What is a good valet for?

  “Well, thank you. This is urgent.” His pulse rate concurred.

  “His Grace thought it might be.”

  Darley shot a sharp look at Georgie. “He knows then.”

  “He sent me.”

  “Does my mother know?”

  His valet shrugged. “The duchess knows most everything, sir.”

  “Merde.”

  “The carriage, sir.” Georgie nodded at the waiting vehicle. “His Grace thought you might prefer it.” What the duke had actually said was, Even if the marquis is dead drunk, carry him out from wherever he is, throw him in the carriage and bring him home. This looks important.

  His father was waiting for him in his study as Darley knew he would be, although it appeared his mother was not yet up. A small blessing, Darley decided, as he entered the room.

  “Good news?” Duff murmured, leaning back against his desk chair, a faint smile on his face.

  His father was dressed for riding, although his shirt collar and jacket were open, so he had already returned from his morning constitutional. “Very amusing,” Darley muttered, moving toward the desk. “Does mother know?”

  “No. Nor do I. I have no idea what was in your telegram, but with the Paris address, I thought you might like to see it with dispatch.”

  “Very perceptive of you.”

  “You have been more or less screwing yourself to death. I thought you might be compensating for something…or someone,” the duke drawled.

  “She’s pregnant.” Darley took the telegram out of his jacket pocket, smoothed it out on his jacket lapel, tossed it on the desk and sat down.

  Picking it up, Duff read the few lines on the wrinkled paper, then read them again in the event there was some underlying message. “Her father—brother—which?” he asked, looking up.

  “Brother.” Darley shoved the chair back so he could stretch out his legs and sighed—in exasperation, perhaps futility.

  “You can’t expect him not to take offense.”

  “No.”

  “She chose not to tell you. Why is that?”

  “Fuck if I know,” Darley muttered.

  “I thought I heard you two downstairs,” Annabelle cheerfully proclaimed, gliding into the room in her dressing gown and a cloud of jasmine scent. “Don’t get up, for heaven’s sake,” she added, waving the men back in their chairs.

  How could she have heard them when her suite was across the house in the west wing, Darley wondered.

  The duke didn’t question his wife’s statement. Annabelle had a sixth sense about their children.

  “So tell me, why are you two down here so early in the morning?” The duchess glanced at her son’s unshaven face and rumpled evening clothes as she took the chair beside him. Taking note of Darley’s stockingless feet in his evening shoes, she added, “Wh
atever brought you home must have been urgent.”

  No one spoke for a moment.

  The duke looked at his son. “These things happen,” he said, good-natured and benevolent, leaning forward slightly as though in empathy. “Would you like me to tell your mother?”

  Annabelle’s apprehension largely diminished at her husband’s words. “Darling, whatever it is, your father and I have lived through worse.” She smiled. “At least no one in London has tried to kill you.”

  “Not yet,” Darley replied, smiling gratefully. His mother’s reminder of the various hindrances in his parents’ courtship helped put everything into perspective. Reaching out, he plucked the telegram from the desk and handed it to her. “A lady I met in the Crimea is pregnant with my child. Or so her brother says.”

  Her mother’s brows rose. “There’s a question then?”

  “There could be. I don’t know her very well.”

  “Is this about money?” Having read the few sentences, the duchess placed the telegram back on the desktop.

  “I don’t think so. She has resources.”

  “Well, you must find out whether it’s true.” The duchess’s expression and tone were dispassionate. Annabelle understood the machinations of society better than most.

  “You are under no obligation,” his father quietly said. “I know it sounds callous, but this woman—Miss Clement—may have ulterior motives. Or her brother may. Does he have gambling debts for instance, or—”

  “No,” Darley quickly interjected. “Etienne is a fine young man. And Miss Clement—as the telegram notes—did not wish me to know.”

  “Or so he says,” the duchess murmured. Having been embroiled in the foibles of the aristocratic world at one time, she had come to believe less in what people said and more in what they did. And this telegram was asking something of her son. Something substantial.

  “Would you like me to go to Paris with you?” the duke asked. “Or we could send Hamley from Plunkett’s firm in our stead? To offer some—er—settlement perhaps. He knows well how to deal with sensitive situations like this.”