Mistress

  He had never thought to wed again.

  He was about to break another of his own rules. Tonight, with the scent and the feel of Iphiginia still so fresh in his mind, he could not seem to think rationally on the subject of marriage.

  The only thing that was transparently clear in his mind was the memory of Iphiginia bending over him, terrified that she had somehow murdered him with her virginity. Her words still rang in his head.

  I love you, Marcus.

  She had been hysterical, of course, frantic at the thought that she’d accidentally killed him. That was the only reason she had said such a thing.

  The next morning after breakfast, Lady Pettigrew regarded her departing guests with sincere regret. “I do wish the two of you could stay another day or so. We so enjoyed your visit, didn’t we, George?”

  “Visit was fine,” Pettigrew muttered. He was having a hard time disguising his relief that at least two of the unwelcome guests were about to leave.

  Lady Pettigrew turned to Iphiginia, who waited on the front steps as Marcus’s black phaeton was readied. “Mrs. Bright, I cannot tell you how thrilled I am to learn that my Temple of Vesta is indeed a proper sort of ruin.Thank you so much for taking the time to study and measure it for me.”

  “You’re quite welcome.” Iphiginia was terribly conscious of Marcus standing next to her. His impatience was palpable.

  “You do feel that our ruin is quite accurate?” Lady Pettigrew pressed.

  “Yes, indeed,” Iphiginia murmured. She could feel Marcus’s laconic gaze resting on her.

  “It is amazingly accurate in every detail,” Marcus said. “I toured it myself last night. I vow, with very little imagination, one could imagine the presence of a genuine temple virgin.”

  Lady Pettigrew glowed with pride. “Really?”

  “Not bloody likely,” Pettigrew muttered. “And you cannot tell me you’d have wanted one to actually put in an appearance, Masters. Whole world knows that you have a rule against getting involved with virgins.”

  Iphiginia was annoyed. “Some rules are made to be broken, so far as I am concerned.”

  ELEVEN

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING BARCLAY WAS USHERED INTO THE library of Marcus’s town house. He sat down with a weary sigh, fumbled his spectacles into place, and withdrew several sheets of paper from a leather case.

  Marcus leaned back in his chair and tried to restrain his seething curiosity while Barclay consulted a page of notes.

  “Well?” Marcus said after what seemed an interminable length of time but which, in reality, was scarcely two minutes.

  Barclay cleared his throat portentously and peered at Marcus over the gold wire frames of his spectacles. “To begin with, my lord, it appears that there never was a Mr. Bright. At least not one who was ever married to the current Mrs. Bright.”

  “I’ve already learned that much.” The searing memory of the midnight tryst in the Temple of Vesta flashed through Marcus once again.

  For the thousandth time he relived the glorious sensation of sinking himself into Iphiginia’s hot, snug body. And for what must have been the thousandth time, he felt himself grow heavy with arousal.

  He could almost feel the silken lushness of her inner thighs. The recollection of her exquisitely shaped breasts shimmered tantalizingly in his mind. Her nipples had been so fresh and ripe. They tasted like nothing he had ever known. Her beautifully rounded derriere reminded him of some exquisite, exotic fruit he had once grown in his conservatory. And the scent of her would linger in his mind forever.

  Barclay’s wiry brows connected in a solid line above his nose. “Begging your pardon, sir, but if you already knew that Mrs. Bright—I mean, Miss Bright—is no widow, d’you mind telling me why you sent me haring off to Devon?”

  “I did not learn that particular fact until after you had left. Town.”

  “How the devil did you discover it? I vow, no one here in Town knows.”

  Marcus worked to keep his answer vague. “I learned the truth about the nonexistent Mr. Bright by using the same scientific methods I employ to discover other sorts of facts.”

  Barclay looked confused. “You used a telescope or a microscope?”

  “I used observation and deductive reasoning.” Marcus sat forward and rested his elbows on his desk. He clasped his hands together and regarded Barclay with a combination of foreboding and anticipation. “What else did you learn?”

  Barclay consulted his notes. “Miss Bright was born and reared in the village of Deepford. Very small place. Finding it gave me no end of trouble, I assure you.”

  “Nevertheless,” Marcus said, “you did find it.”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  And if Barclay had discovered Deepford and the lack of a late Mr. Bright, others could do the same, Marcus thought. If someone else—a blackmailer, perhaps—grew curious enough to investigate her past, he would quickly learn that Iphiginia was no widow and therefore not immune to the rules Society imposed upon spinsters and innocents.

  Marcus did not know which annoyed him the most, the fact that Iphiginia was so very vulnerable or her refusal to acknowledge her vulnerability.

  “Continue, Barclay.”

  “Her parents, both of whom appear to have been endowed with somewhat unconventional temperaments, were lost at sea when she was barely eighteen years of age. She undertook the raising of her younger sister, Corina.”

  Just as I undertook the rearing of Bennet, Marcus thought. “How did she support herself and her sister? Was there a decent income from some inheritance?”

  “No. Merely a bit from the sale of her mother’s paintings and one or two pattern books that her father had produced.”

  Marcus picked up his wax seal and turned it in his fingers. “Not a great deal of money, then.”

  “No, m’lord, but Miss Bright appears to be rather enterprising in matters of finances.”

  Marcus got a chill in his gut. “What do you mean by that?”

  “The first thing Miss Bright did after recovering from the shock of finding herself alone in the world with a young sister to support was to sell off the last of her mother’s paintings and her father’s pattern books. She used the money to open an academy for young ladies.”

  Marcus nearly dropped the seal on the desk. He stared at Barclay. “Miss Bright gave instruction to young ladies?”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  “Deportment, manners, proper behavior? That sort of instruction?”

  “Among other things. Apparently Miss Bright’s academy had an excellent reputation. A number of respectable gentry families in the vicinity sent their young girls to her.”

  “Good God.” Marcus was nearly overcome by a crazed desire to laugh out loud. The thought of Iphiginia —notorious, free-spirited, daring Iphiginia—making a living teaching Society’s grim, straitlaced rules to young ladies was dazzling.

  “Her cousin, Miss Farley, came to live with her a year after Miss Bright lost her parents. Miss Farley taught mathematics and natural history, I believe.”

  “You say the school’s reputation was excellent?”

  “Yes, m’lord. As was the reputation of Miss Bright herself. You may well believe that in a town the size of Deepford, any faults, transgressions, or lapses of propriety would have been duly noted and punished.”

  “A single lapse would have been enough to destroy her livelihood.”

  “More than enough. A teacher of young ladies must maintain the highest standards. She cannot afford even the appearance of improper conduct.”

  “Poor Iphiginia.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “Never mind. Carry on. What else did you learn?”

  “Let me see.” Barclay shuffled some sheets of foolscap. “About three years ago, Miss Bright made another financial move which paid off rather handsomely.”

  “What sort of move?”

  “It appears that she and her cousin formed a pool of investors. The pool was made up entirely of widows and spinst
ers, women who were in much the same position as themselves. They each contributed small amounts to a fund. The money was then loaned to a builder.”

  “A property speculation project?”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  “Which property?”

  “Morning Rose Square.”

  “Bloody hell.” Marcus grinned appreciatively. “She must have made a packet.”

  “She did,” Barclay said dryly. “She used some of her profits to provide her sister with a suitable portion.”

  “What about the sister? Where is she?”

  “Still in Deepford. Last year she married one Richard Hampton, the only son of an established gentry family.”

  “I see. Presumably the Hamptons are blissfully unaware that Iphiginia is masquerading as a widow here in Town?”

  “Quite unaware. One can only imagine that the entire village would be horrified if the truth came out. Everyone back in Deepford, including the sister, believes that Miss Bright is still traipsing about Italy in the company of her cousin.”

  “I wonder what the good people of Deepford thought of Miss Bright’s decision to tour the Continent?”

  “You may be certain that the journey was viewed with considerable disapproval.”

  “But it was not considered scandalous?”

  “No, although there were any number of villagers who predicted that Miss Bright would come to a bad end when she closed her academy for young ladies and took off for the Continent.”

  “I’ll wager there were.” He got to his feet and went to stand at the window. “You have done an excellent job, Barclay.”

  “Thank you, sir, I do try.”

  “I know that I can rely upon your continued absolute discretion.”

  “Of course.” Barclay sounded deeply grieved that Marcus even bothered to mention discretion. “Not a word will pass my lips.”

  “Thank you, Barclay.”

  Barclay hesitated. “There is one other small fact which may or may not be of interest to you, sir.”

  “What is that?”

  “I mentioned that Miss Bright’s sister, Corina, is married to Richard Hampton.”

  “What of it?”

  “It seems that a couple of years ago there was talk of Mr. Hampton marrying the elder Miss Bright rather than Corina.”

  Marcus stilled. “Indeed?”

  “There appears to have been some confusion on the matter.” Barclay paused. “Even the elder Miss Bright is said to have been, shall we say, surprised when Hampton made his interest in Corina known.”

  “Is that so?”

  “The villagers concluded that the elder Miss Bright’s heart was broken when Mr. Hampton made it plain that he preferred Miss Corina.”

  The news that Iphiginia had loved another man, might still be in love with him, went through Marcus like a knife.

  Did he break your heart, Iphiginia? Was that why you cast off the shackles of propriety and chose to ignore the rules? Do you still love him? Was Richard Hampton the man you were thinking of last night when you held me in your arms and whispered that you loved me?

  Marcus gazed out into the garden for a few minutes. A gentle rain was falling, muting the bright hues of the flowers and dampening the verdant green of the foliage. The day had turned unexpectedly bleak.

  He turned back to face Barclay. “Is there anything else I should know?”

  “No, m’lord, I believe that about sums up the results of my inquiries.”

  “Thank you for your hard work.”

  “Of course, sir.” Barclay heaved himself to his feet. “It was a rather hectic journey. I look forward to going home and putting my feet up in front of my own hearth.”

  “There is one more thing.”

  “Sir?”

  “Tomorrow I would like you to make other inquiries for me.”

  “Concerning?”

  “I would like you to find out who recently built an elaborate sepulchral monument to a Mrs. Elizabeth Eaton in Reeding Cemetery.”

  Barclay eyed him askance. “A sepulchral monument?”

  “Yes, Barclay. A sort of grotto arrangement.”

  Barclay looked resigned. “Very well, m’lord. I shall see what I can discover. Will there be anything else?”

  “No, Barclay, you may go.”

  Marcus waited until he was alone in the library. Then he walked slowly back to his desk and picked up the message he had received from Hannah an hour ago.

  M:

  Must see you. Urgent. Entrance to Dollanger

  Gardens. Two o’clock.

  Yrs.

  H.

  Marcus crumpled the small sheet of paper in one hand. He was afraid he could guess why Hannah was so anxious to risk seeing him again.

  At two o’clock that afternoon, Marcus got into the nondescript hackney coach that halted on the street outside Dollanger Gardens.

  Hannah, heavily veiled and dressed in an unremarkable brown carriage gown, waited inside. She had closed the curtains on the windows. The interior of the coach was drenched in shadows.

  She confirmed his unpleasant hypothesis immediately.

  “I received another blackmail demand while you were out of town, Marcus. Another five thousand pounds.” Hannah’s normally soft voice was harsh with anxiety. “I was forced to pawn a lovely bracelet that Sands gave to me on my last birthday. I fear that I shall never be able to buy it back. I live in dread of the day he asks me why I never wear it.”

  “Where were you instructed to leave the money?” Marcus asked.

  “The instructions were the same as last time. I left the money in a hackney coach in Pall Mall. Marcus, this cannot go on. I cannot continue to pawn my jewelry. Sooner or later Sands will notice.”

  “I suppose that it would be useless for me to try once more to convince you to tell Sands the truth.”

  “You know that I cannot do such a thing.” Hannah raised her veil, revealing her desperate expression. “He will turn from me in disgust, I know he will.”

  “He is a reasonable man. Give him a chance, Hannah.”

  “I love him too much to take the risk. I do not expect you to comprehend my fear, Marcus. You have never been afraid of anything or anyone in your life. And it’s obvious that you have never loved a woman the way I love my husband. If you had ever experienced such great depth of feeling, you would understand.”

  Marcus wondered if Iphiginia had loved her Richard Hampton with as much intensity and fervor as Hannah loved Sands. He pushed the notion aside. “I shall give you the five thousand pounds, Hannah. Fetch the bracelet from the jeweler’s before he resells it.”

  She sagged back against the seat in relief. “Thank you, Marcus. You are a good friend. I shall pay you back, I swear it.”

  “There is no need. We both know that I shall not miss the money.”

  She smiled wistfully. “No, but that is hardly the point, is it? There are many people as wealthy as yourself who would not advance a friend so much as a penny.”

  Marcus paid no attention. “This bloody blackmailer is getting bolder. He must be stopped.”

  “Have you made any progress toward discovering his identity?”

  “Some, not much.” Marcus regarded her through narrowed eyes. “I have a question to ask you.”

  “What is it?”

  “I seem to recall that at the time of Spalding’s death you had a young woman in your employ. I met her only once or twice, but I believe she had red hair.”

  “Caroline Baylor.” Hannah grimaced in disgust.

  “What do you know of her?”

  “Very little. Spalding would not allow me to go anywhere alone, not even to see my family in Hampshire. He claimed he was protecting me, but the truth was, he suspected that I would run away from him. He feared the scandal.”

  “Bastard.”

  “When I complained of being confined to the house, he hired Caroline Baylor as a companion for me. I never did care for her. She was very sly. She came from a very respectable agency
and had all sorts of references, but to this day, I believe she was actually Spalding’s mistress.”

  It would have been typical of Spalding to install his mistress in his wife’s household, Marcus reflected. “Do you know what became of her?”

  “She disappeared the morning after I—” Hannah’s hands tightened on her reticule. “The morning after I killed Spalding. But she was not in the house that night, Marcus. She had gone out. You know that. You walked in right after I had pulled the trigger. I was alone with Spalding”

  “You said that she came from a respectable agency. Do you recall which one?”

  “The Wycherley Agency. It’s considered the finest in London.”

  “Perhaps the owner of the agency will know what became of her.”

  Hannah’s eyes widened. “Surely you do not believe that Caroline Baylor is the blackmailer?”

  “Where do you think she went that night?”

  “I have no notion.” Hannah’s mouth twisted. “Caroline Baylor was not the usual sort of companion. She came and went as she pleased. Why are you suddenly concerned with finding her?”

  It was not easy to juggle so many secrets. Marcus chose his words carefully. “I have formed a theory that the blackmailer may be a paid companion. Someone who would have once been in a position to know the secrets of both your household and that of the other victim.”

  “And who is now blackmailing her former employers? Good Lord, I never thought of that.” Hannah frowned. “I can certainly envision Caroline resorting to blackmail. But why would she wait so long to do it?”

  “We do not even know if she is the one behind this. But it’s a place to start.” Marcus pulled his watch out of his pocket and glanced at the time. It was two-thirty. He had a three o’clock appointment with Iphiginia. “I must be on my way, Hannah. I shall see that you get the five thousand pounds as soon as possible. My man of affairs can arrange to deliver it.”

  “It is very kind of you to help me again after all these years,” Hannah whispered. “I do not know what I would do without you.”

  “We are friends. There is no need to thank me.” Marcus reached out to open the carriage door.