Temporary Mistress

  “Then she’s the exception, unless you want to be second.”

  He shook his head very gently. “Not a chance.” His mouth twitched into a grin. “It almost makes one believe in—”

  “Bewitchment?”

  He laughed. “I was going to say avarice.”

  “Greed in conjunction with a woman isn’t unusual.”

  “It is for me.” He abruptly pushed his chair away from the table as though the thought were objectionable. “I’ll be downstairs until Tattersall’s opens,” he crisply said, standing. “My man will be available for your errands.” And turning, he walked away.

  Molly watched him leave the room and wondered what had come over the most profligate rake in London. Too little sleep, she pragmatically thought, or simply the male fear of emotion. Bathurst was particularly insensitive to finer feeling since his return from India. He lived on the edge, betting on anything, needing to win, always outbidding the competition for objects he desired. No need to look for philanthropic sentiments concerning his interest in Miss Leslie. Shaking the crumbs from her skirt, she rose from her chair and went to see if Isabella was finished with her letter.

  “I’m ready,” Isabella said, sealing the letter with a bit of wax as Mrs. Crocker entered the room. “There wasn’t much to say. Lampert has had instructions for Grandpapa’s funeral for years now. Grandpapa was like that. He preferred making his own arrangements. I simply told Lampert I’d be out of town for some time and should he need to get in touch with me, he could send a note to the bookseller on Albemarle Street. Mr. Martin won’t mind. He’s known me all my life.” Standing, she turned and moved toward Mrs. Crocker with the letter.

  “Very sensible, my dear. We’ll see that your Mr. Martin is contacted should any messages be sent there. Let me take this to a servant, and if you wish, when I return we can find something to amuse you, to divert you from the awfulness of events. Certainly, you’re in need of some gowns.”

  “Perhaps mine could just be cleaned.”

  “Of course. In the meantime, make yourself comfortable while I see that your letter is on its way. Did you notice the novels on the shelf near the window?”

  She hadn’t, and after Mrs. Crocker left the room, Isabella examined the selection of books. Astonished, she surveyed not only the latest novels but an array of works in Latin, Greek, and French. One would hardly expect to see such erudition in a brothel, however elegant. Who read these? she wondered. Taking out a copy of Christine de Pisan’s The Book of the City of the Ladies, she thought it strange reading for the ladies—or men, for that matter—who inhabited this house. Taking note of Madame de Sévigné’s letters next—one of her favorites—she slipped out the small morocco-bound volume. Her gaze swept the shelves in fascination—one after another of books she loved was available in this cozy, sun-filled room. The sensation of fantasy returned to her, as though she’d stepped into a magical refuge filled with comforts, safety, and simple pleasures.

  But the door opening to admit her hostess reminded her that in addition to the pleasures that seemed fantastical were other improprieties she need consider.

  “Ah, you’ve found some you like.” Mrs. Crocker carried in a breakfast tray.

  “They’re all quite wonderful. Are they yours?”

  “Reading is my greatest pleasure. Come, sit and have something to eat.” Placing the tray on a bureau top, Molly lifted off several dishes, a teapot, and cups and arranged them on a small table. “Guillaume sent up some warm pastries with an omelet. I hope you like marzipan tarts and strawberries.”

  “Have you somehow tapped into my mind, Mrs. Crocker?” Isabella queried with a smile. “Not only are the books superb, along with the room, but marzipan has been my favorite since childhood.”

  “Perfect. Along with chantilly cream, I hope.” Sitting, she waved Isabella over and began pouring tea for them. “Your note is on its way. The lawyer should have it in his hands within the half hour.”

  “Thank you again.” Isabella set the two books she held on the table and pulled up a green faux bamboo chair of the latest fashion. “Since I’m not able to attend the funeral, I hope I may soon visit Grandpapa’s burial site. He wished to be placed in a vault he had constructed at our country home.”

  “I’m sure your troubles with your relatives will be brief.”

  “Particularly if I go through with our arrangement.” Her gaze slid away from Mrs. Crocker.

  “Would you like me to try to find you a barrister willing to offer a stronger challenge to your uncle et al? I know how difficult a choice this is.”

  Sighing, Isabella traced the pattern on the silver teaspoon with the pad of her finger. “I’m afraid any warning would only postpone my relatives’ dastardly plans. And unless, as you pointed out last night, they are publicly shamed out of the idea of marrying me into their family, they will continue to harass me.”

  “You might move to the country.”

  “I think I’d be even more afraid. The solitude—” She made a small moue. “I’ve probably read too many popular novels, but I can imagine them locking me into the attic and leaving me there once they have my money. Who would even know?”

  Who, indeed, Molly thought, when the young lady was without friends. “I’ll be perfectly frank. When I spoke with you last night, I planned, as you know, to make a profit on our bargain. But I find myself increasingly uncomfortable doing so.”

  “It was a bargain I well understood, Mrs. Crocker. I’m not a child, nor do I delude myself on the need for this extremity.”

  “I understand—and I agree with the need. But I shan’t take any money. I was once in a similar predicament—albeit not one that involved wealth such as yours. But I was a young woman without friends, subjected, no, forced into a grossly obscene relationship. It took me many years to rise above the shame. There are those who would say I have not yet done so, but I did what I had to for survival. Which explains my requirement that the ladies who live here do so willingly. Forgive me.” She smiled faintly. “I didn’t intend to digress into circumstances of no concern to you.”

  “On the contrary, your story is very pertinent to mine. How old were you when—”

  “Sixteen,” Molly quietly replied, the cruel memories never completely suppressed.

  “How awful for you.” Isabella took a deep breath and sat up a little straighter. “Certainly at twenty-two I can be as resolute.” She smiled faintly. “It’s not as though my virginity is of any use to me. In fact, it’s a liability, is it not? As to my reputation in society, I have never set foot in society. So any reputation is my relatives’ concern, not mine.” Her smile broadened at the thought of their discomfort and her voice took on a measure of composure. “When one considers this in practical terms, the situation becomes much less emotional.”

  “One can’t disregard emotion completely,” Molly cautioned. “I speak from experience.”

  “Nevertheless, I feel much better now.” Isabella fluttered her hands over the tabletop. “As though a huge burden of indecision has vanished. I think I shall have a marzipan tart with a large dollop of chantilly cream to start, and consider myself fortunate not to be married to Harold this morning.”

  Molly couldn’t help but smile at her good cheer. “Perhaps it’s all a matter of perspective after all.”

  “Indeed it is. Consider I have escaped a dreadful fate and am now quite comfortable in this pleasant room with lovely books and marzipan tarts. And if Grandpapa were alive instead of dead, I would have the best of all possible worlds.”

  Her expression had sobered, as it always did when she spoke of her grandfather. “You said he had been ill for some time,” Molly kindly noted. “Perhaps he was ready to leave the world.”

  “Except for saying good-bye to me, he was. From the very beginning when his heart began to fail, he’d never feared death. He’d had a good life, he always said, and was long overdue. But I miss him dreadfully.”

  “Of course you do. Were you with him long?”


  “Since I was four. Mama died at sea, and when Papa and I came home to England, he missed her so dreadfully, Grandpapa said he felt as though Papa was just waiting to die. That first winter, when he fell ill with a fever, he didn’t have the will to survive. Grandpapa and I were together ever since. Do you have family?”

  Molly shook her head. “Only my girls here. And Bathurst in a way. He doesn’t have much family—a mother who’s retreated from the world.” Often literally, she thought, but knew better than to breach Dermott’s privacy.

  The beautiful man at breakfast had been Bathurst. “Does he live here with you?”

  Molly chuckled. “On occasion. He’s a great favorite with everyone.”

  “I can see why. He’s astonishingly handsome.”

  “The Ramsay good looks. They’ve been a curse to some generations, although he carries them well. With uncommon modesty actually. I’m not sure he’s aware of his beauty.”

  “Surely he must be. He fairly takes one’s breath away.” Isabella suddenly blushed. “I can’t imagine what you must think of me. I didn’t intend to be so forward, but he’s quite stunning.”

  “He strikes every woman that way. You’re not the first,” Molly noted. “And I don’t know if that’s consolation or cause for envy. Would you like him?”

  Isabella’s color heightened, and a fleeting shock crossed her features. “You mean—”

  “Would you like Bathurst to relieve you of your virginity?” Molly spoke bluntly because she didn’t want any ambiguity about what was in store.

  “When you put it like that, I don’t know—I mean … I didn’t actually think of choosing someone for—” Isabella broke off, clearly embarrassed.

  “He’s more than willing. You kept him awake last night, he said.”

  “I did?” Her pulse rate spiked, and she wondered what had come over her that mention of his interest could excite her so.

  “He saw you on the stairs and was struck by your beauty.”

  “Surely not.”

  Was she so truly innocent that she didn’t realize the dazzling extent of her beauty? Had she been so sheltered from the world? “Absolutely, in truth. And he’s willing to pay handsomely for the privilege of your company.”

  “For my virginity, you mean.” Talk of money suddenly chilled her.

  “Actually no. He has no truck with virgins.”

  Isabella glanced at Mrs. Crocker quizzically. “Am I missing something?”

  Recalling Dermott’s uncertainties at breakfast, a half-smile curved Molly’s mouth. “Coincidently, he said as much. He desires you despite your virginity.”

  “What is normally perceived an asset is not an asset at all, it seems.”

  “He would agree.”

  “Is it a problem?”

  “Probably not. If you want him.”

  The directness of her reply gave Isabella pause. “I’ve never thought of a man … that way, I mean … in terms of actually …” Her voice trailed away, the sheer magnitude of what she was about to do so audacious, she had no measure for such rashness in her life.

  Molly’s tone was mild, although she was astonished at such chasteness in a woman of twenty-two. “Had you no contact with other young people?”

  Isabella shook her head.

  “At your age?” She couldn’t quite conceal her surprise. “What did you do with your time?”

  “I mostly helped Grandpapa with his business. He was in merchant shipping. That’s how my father originally met my mother. At our transport depot in New Guinea. And then in our leisure time Grandpapa and I were involved in a cartographers’ society.” Her even white teeth flashed in a grin. “Servants to business, some would say. But I enjoyed it immensely.”

  “There were no young men in the society or shipping company?”

  “Not really. Everyone had been with the company for years. As for the society, they were all friends of Grandpapa’s. It was his undertaking in all respects. He financed it. We have a superb library open by appointment in Grosvenor Square. Once I’m free to move about again, I’d be happy to show it to you. The displays are quite beautiful and the collection of rare maps is probably the best in England.”

  “Bathurst will be intrigued.”

  “By the maps?”

  In her discussion of the cartographers’ society, she’d become animated. It was clear to see she was a great devotee. “By you and the maps. He lived in India for five years, traveling widely in Asia and the Pacific as well. He’s not the usual idle young nobleman.”

  “I doubt anyone would describe him as ‘usual,’ who had once seen him.”

  Molly found the young woman who had appeared on her doorstep last night more and more engaging as they talked, and the smallest germ of an idea began to form in her mind. Bathurst was interested. Miss Leslie was interested even if she didn’t realize it completely. And both were essentially alone in the world.

  Perhaps … Molly mused, and although a goodly amount of cynicism accompanied her romantical conjecture, she might indulge in a bit of matchmaking. It would be amusing if nothing else, and what had she to do with her life if not amuse herself? She had all the money she needed. She even had considerable influence should she choose to wield it. Her clients came from the highest reaches of society and government, and she knew all their secrets.

  But occasionally the sameness of life beset her. For purely selfish reasons, she’d been pleased when Bathurst had returned to England. He amused her mightily. So why not do them both a favor and amuse herself in the bargain? “I have an idea,” she said.

  “Like your last night’s idea?” Isabella offered her a playful glance, thoughts of the handsome Bathurst in conjunction with their plan curiously pleasurable.

  “A variation on the theme. And if you don’t like it, I guarantee, Bathurst will.”

  Having finished her tart while they’d talked, Isabella reached for the plate holding her omelet. “While you tell me, as you surely will from the pleased look on your face, I’ll eat my omelet and wish all my relatives to the devil.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  “I intend to stay focused,” Isabella sportively declared, slicing into the herbed eggs. “And I don’t mean on my breakfast.”

  “Revenge is sweet, I assure you.”

  Her fork poised near her mouth, Isabella asked, “Did you have your revenge?”

  “With interest,” Molly replied.

  “Tell me.” Isabella ate the bite of egg.

  “Some other time.” Miss Leslie was still too wholesome and naive to hear the details of her vengeance on the father who had sold her for a pittance to a brutal man. “Right now I’m thinking of an enchanting way for you to indulge yourself and bewitch Dermott at the same time.”

  “His name’s Dermott? Not the Dermott—the Prince of Wales’s close friend?” Suddenly all the names came together—Bathurst, Ramsay, and the infamous Dermott, who accompanied the Prince in all his revels.

  Molly nodded. “The same.”

  “Even in my sheltered world I’ve heard of the profligate Dermott. His excesses are the stuff of legends in the scandal sheets.”

  “The scandal sheets fail to take notice of the other facets of his life. Dermott was left to salvage the estate and care for his mother when his father died drunk in the bed of one of his light o’loves.”

  “I do remember that,” Isabella softly murmured. “Grandpapa’s bank held some of the mortgages on the property. He is the same Bathurst who came back a nabob—”

  “Three years ago.”

  “And paid off all his creditors. Grandpapa was impressed with him. He said it wasn’t easy to make a fortune in India like it might have been a generation ago. He admired the earl’s acumen.”

  “Courage, more like. Dermott was fighting on the northern frontiers and in the process saved the life of a Sikh prince. For which he was well rewarded. They mine rubies in the prince’s domains.” Molly didn’t mention that Dermott was rewarded as well with the prince’s siste
r’s hand in marriage, nor that it was a love match. Or that he’d barely maintained his sanity when his wife and their baby son had been killed in one of the internecine border raids.

  “And now he spends his time and money in debauch. I doubt I could bewitch so licentious a man—nor, perhaps, would I care to….” The equivocation in her tone mirrored her uncertainties, for beneath her disdain for his salacious pursuits she found herself strangely drawn to him.

  “The scandal sheets reveal only that which appeals to their readers. Dermott’s more than a member of the Prince’s fast set. But good deeds don’t sell with the same relish as delicious gossip. He takes care of his mother and estates with benevolence, and while he wouldn’t wish me to reveal his personal affairs, let me only say he is living under a great burden of sadness.”

  “And excess is a means of forgetting.”

  “Not unique certainly, but understandable.”

  “And I would be another transient moment of forget-fulness.”

  “Surely, your need is as transient.”

  “Touché,” Isabella quietly replied. “I have no reason to take offense, when I would be using him as much as he me.”

  “A mutual need, pleasurably accomplished. Without encumbrances.”

  “How reasonable it all seems.” Isabella leaned back in her chair. “Tell me of this enchantment you offer me.”

  “You have agreed to be a courtesan—for some limited time frame.”

  Isabella nodded.

  “If you would care to be schooled in that role, not only would you be more comfortable, but Dermott would be exceeding grateful, I assure you.”

  “Particularly since he dislikes virgins.”

  “That’s not to say he wouldn’t be capable of giving you pleasure. His reputation for pleasing women is well known. But in the interests of offering as well as receiving pleasure, you may wish to be less of a novice.”

  “I think I would.”

  Molly was surprised at her ready acquiescence. “No need for convincing arguments?”

  “I dislike a passive role on principle. If I intend to go through with this—agreement, I should like a modicum of control.”