Mistress

  “I am told that being a wife is even more difficult,” Amelia said.

  “Yes, I suppose that is quite true.”

  But if Marcus loved her, Iphiginia thought wistfully, she would take the chance.

  The note was waiting for Iphiginia on the white velvet seat of her carriage that afternoon when she returned from a shopping expedition. She was seized with a sense of foreboding when she saw the folded sheet of foolscap.

  She waited until the coachman had closed the door before she reached out to pick up the note. She saw with relief that there was no sign of black wax or a phoenix seal.

  Slowly she unfolded the note and read the contents.

  My Dearest Pandora.

  If you wish to open the box and discover the truth about the past, present, and future you must come to Number Nineteen Lamb Lane off Pall Mall tonight on the stroke of midnight.

  Come alone. Tell no one and all will be made clear.

  If you do not come, or if you fail to come alone, someone you care about will suffer the consequences. Your sister, perhaps? Or will it be

  Lady Guthrie, your aunt?

  Yrs.

  A Friend

  Iphiginia’s fingers trembled as she carefully refolded the note.

  Your sister.

  Your aunt.

  The words seemed to burn straight through the paper. The threat was not the least bit subtle. Whoever knew that she possessed a sister and that Zoe was her aunt, knew everything, Iphiginia realized.

  My Dearest Pandora…

  Iphiginia quickly reopened the note and studied the salutation. Pandora was a clear reference to the Greek tale of the lady who had given in to temptation to open the magic box and in so doing had unleashed chaos and woe.

  Iphiginia felt a kinship with Pandora at that moment.

  Whoever had sent the note had apparently noted the similarity.

  Iphiginia had given in to the temptation of an affair with Marcus and trouble was now abroad in her world.

  SEVENTEEN

  GAS LIGHTS HAD NOT YET BEEN INSTALLED IN LAMB LANE. The narrow street, lined with small shops, huddled in the shadows. The pale glow of a fitful moon provided just enough illumination to reveal that the hackney which carried Iphiginia was the only vehicle in the vicinity.

  The coach came to a halt with a clatter of wheels and harness. Iphiginia started when the coachman rapped on the roof to announce their destination.

  “Number Nineteen Lamb Lane,” the man called loudly.

  Iphiginia gathered her dark cloak around her and pulled the hood over her head. She opened the carriage door and cautiously descended to the pavement.

  “Do not forget,” she said to the man on the box. “I have paid you to wait for me.”

  “I’ll be waitin’,” the coachman muttered in a surly voice. “But there’ll be an extra fee if ye bring any of yer clients back ‘ere.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Ye heard me. If yer thinkin’ o’ usin’ me coach fer a bedchamber tonight, ye’ll ‘ave to pay me a fair rent. I’ll give ye the usual hourly rate I give the other girls.”

  Iphiginia felt herself turn hot with embarrassment and anger. “What on earth do you think I am about, my good man?”

  “Same as what most of the other wenches are about at this time o’ night in this part o’ Town. Business. Go on, now. Just keep in mind that I’ll be wantin’ me fair share if ye use me coach.”

  She did not have the time to deliver a scathing lecture to a drunken coachman. Iphiginia turned away, disgusted, and studied the darkened entrance to Number Nineteen. There was just enough moonlight to make out the sign over the door.

  DR. HARDSTAFF’S MUSEUM

  OF THE GODDESSES OF MANLY VIGOR

  LEARN THE SECRET AND AUTHENTICINVIGORATING POWERS

  OF THE GODDESSES OF ANTIQUITY

  It appeared that her curiosity about Dr. Hardstaff’s museum was about to be satisfied, Iphiginia thought.

  A glance over her shoulder assured her that the coachman was still waiting in the street. She saw that the carriage lamps burned with a reassuring glow.

  Iphiginia went toward the darkened premises of Number Nineteen. She wished Marcus were with her. Or even Amelia or Zoe. Anyone at all, for that matter.

  She was far more anxious this evening than she had been the night she paid the visit to Reeding Cemetery. The threats contained in the note that she had found in her carriage had jarred her nerves as nothing else could have done.

  When Iphiginia got close to the sign for Dr. Hardstaff’s Museum, she noticed a painted hand at the bottom. The pointing finger urged visitors to go down the narrow walkway between two buildings.

  Iphiginia peered hesitantly into the thick shadows of the tiny alley. She could just make out a flight of steps that led to the upper story of the building.

  With one last glance at the hackney, Iphiginia started down the alley.

  She climbed the stairs as quietly as possible, her pulse beating more rapidly with each step. Every squeak, every groan of the treads sent a shiver through her. The darkness seemed to grow more and more dense around her.

  She should not have come here alone.

  But there had been no choice.

  At the top of the stairs she paused and studied the closed door in front of her. Another sign, this one barely discernible in the shadows, indicated that this was the entrance to Dr. Hardstaff’s Museum.

  The rumble of carriage wheels in the street jolted Iphiginia just as she put her hand on the knob. The hackney was abandoning her.

  “No,” she gasped, and turned to rush back down the steps.

  The lights of a second carriage appeared. Iphiginia halted, one foot on the landing, one on the first step. Her hackney had not left, she realized. Another one had arrived.

  It rolled to a halt near her own. Horses stomped their hooves. Voices echoed through the shadows.

  “Wait for me,” a man ordered crisply.

  “Aye, m’lord. Take yer time. Brung a gennelman here last week what spent most of the night.” The new coachman chuckled heartily. “Dr. Hardstaff’s goddesses give quite a cure, they tell me. Wonder if it works.”

  “I shall not be long,” the newcomer said.

  Footsteps sounded on the paving stones. They paused briefly. And then, to Iphiginia’s horror, they started toward the narrow alley where she hovered at the top of the stairs.

  Fear ripped through her. In a matter of seconds the man who had gotten out of the second hackney would come down the alley. It was obvious he was en route to Dr. Hardstaff’s Museum. He would surely see her as soon as he mounted the stairs.

  She could not go back down the staircase without running straight into the stranger, so Iphiginia did the only thing she could do. She turned the knob that was pressing into her lower back.

  The door opened with only a small squeak of its hinges. Intent on watching the staircase, Iphiginia backed into a darkened hall. She closed the door very carefully.

  A man’s arm came out of the intense shadows of the hall. It wrapped around Iphiginia’s throat.

  She was dragged against a broad chest as a rough palm clamped over her mouth. Her incipient scream was cut off before it could escape.

  “Bloody hell,” Marcus muttered. “Iphiginia?”

  She nodded wildly. Relief rushed through her, draining her.

  “What in the name of the devil—” Marcus took his hand away from her mouth.

  “Someone’s coming up the stairs, Marcus,” she whispered frantically. “He’ll be here any second.”

  “Damn.” Marcus released her and grabbed her hand. “This way. Hurry. Don’t make a sound.”

  She needed no second urging. The newcomer’s footsteps thudded on the stairs outside.

  Marcus yanked Iphiginia down a dark hall, opened a door, and tugged her into a large room that was dimly lit by a single wall sconce.

  “What in the world?” Iphiginia gazed about in astonishment. “What is this place?”

/>   The lamplight revealed the most oddly furnished chamber Iphiginia had ever seen. Exotic drapery hung from the ceiling in the style of a Turkish tent. A large bed dominated the center of the room. It was decorated with gauzy hangings and an extraordinary number of pillows. It was surrounded by erotic statuary of the sort Lord Lartmore favored.

  The walls were decorated with huge murals depicting classical gods and goddesses from various mythological tales. The deities appeared to be nude. The men were all in a state of extreme sexual arousal. The female figures were voluptuous to the point of being ludicrous.

  “Welcome to Dr. Hardstaff’s Museum,” Marcus said as he pulled her across the chamber. “One night in the therapeutic bed is guaranteed to cure impotence.”

  “Marcus, what are you doing here?”

  “An excellent question. I intend to put the same one to you as soon as we have an opportunity. In the meantime, we must get you out of sight.”

  “Good heavens.” Iphiginia stared at a painting that featured several woodland nymphs cavorting with three overly endowed satyrs. “These are the most perfectly dreadful copies of classical antiquities that I have ever seen.”

  “I regret that your scholarly sensibilities have been affronted.” Marcus took hold of the edge of a heavy red curtain that stretched the length of the chamber. “You can take it up with Dr. Hardstaff later.”

  “What are we going to do now?”

  “You are going to get out of sight and stay out of sight.” Marcus jerked aside the floor-to-ceiling curtain and pushed Iphiginia through the opening onto a small stage. Several Greek urns and a scrolled pedestal occupied the platform. There was a narrow door in the side wall behind the curtain.

  “But Marcus—”

  “Go through that door and hide in the hallway behind it.” Marcus caught her chin on the edge of his hand. His eyes were grim. “Do not come out until I tell you. And whatever you do, don’t make a single sound. Do you comprehend me?”

  “Yes, but—” She broke off as she heard the outside door on the landing open. Her mouth went dry. “Oh, Lord.”

  “Hush.” Marcus yanked the curtain back into position, concealing Iphiginia from the view of anyone who might enter the chamber.

  The heavy curtain cut off the glow of the wall sconce. Iphiginia found herself in near darkness. She started to grope her way toward the small door and struck her toe against the pedestal. She swallowed a grunt of pain.

  The door of the outer chamber slammed open. Iphiginia went still, not daring to move for fear she would crash into another object.

  “Damnation, Masters.” The stranger’s voice was raw with fury. “It’s you. I didn’t believe it when I got the note. I told myself that it was all a terrible joke. But it seems I’ve been both a fool and a cuckold.”

  “Good evening, Sands.” Marcus’s tone was cool to the point of indifference. “I didn’t realize that someone else also had an appointment with Dr. Hardstaff this evening. I specifically requested a private treatment.”

  Iphiginia realized that the man who had entered the chamber was the husband of the mysterious Lady Sands.

  “Where is my wife, you bloody bastard?”

  “I have no notion,” Marcus said quietly. “As you can see, I’m quite alone. I confess I’m disappointed by that fact. I had hoped there would be a bit more to Dr. Hardstaff’s famous therapy than a few bad paintings and some equally poor statuary.”

  “You arranged to meet Hannah here, didn’t you?” Sands asked in a seething voice. “That’s what the note said.”

  “The note?”

  “Someone knows what you’re about, Masters. A note was left in my carriage this evening telling me that if I wished to discover the place where you and my wife carried on your assignations, I should come to Number Nineteen Lamb Lane.”

  “Someone has played an unpleasant practical joke on you, Sands. Whoever it was undoubtedly knew that I had an appointment here tonight.”

  “An appointment with my wife, damn you.”

  “No.”

  Iphiginia started when she heard the side door open. She peered anxiously into the shadows and saw a figure emerge from a dark hall. The woman carried a candle in her hand. The flame illuminated her pretty features, blond hair, and extremely low-cut, diaphanous gown.

  She halted abruptly when she spotted Iphiginia. Then she put her hands on her hips and glared.

  “ ’Ere, now, what do ye think yer doin’?” she demanded in a loud tone. “This is my night to be the Classical Goddess o’ Manly Vigor.”

  There was a sudden silence from the other side of the curtain.

  Iphiginia stared at the woman and desperately tried to think of what to do next. “I’m sorry,” she managed in a thin whisper. “There’s been a mistake.”

  “What’s going on back there?” Sands demanded. Footsteps echoed on the floor as he strode toward the heavy scarlet curtain.

  “I believe the performance is about to begin,” Marcus said dryly.

  The blond woman gave a small, disgruntled screech and turned toward the curtain. “What’s this? There be two of ’em out there?”

  “Uh, yes,” Iphiginia murmured.

  “Don’t ye dare touch that curtain,” the blonde yelled. She turned to Iphiginia. “Hardstaff didn’t say nothin’ about there bein’ two gennelmen gettin’ the classical treatment tonight. What’s ’e think I am? A genuine goddess?”

  Marcus spoke up quietly. “If I were you, Sands, I would not interfere.”

  “What the devil is happening here?” Sands sounded confused.

  “I said, don’t ye dare touch that curtain,” the blonde roared. She peered at Iphiginia. “ ’Old on. Is that why yer ’ere? To handle the second gennelman?”

  “Uh, yes,” Iphiginia whispered. “Yes, I believe so.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s all right, then. Get yer cloak off and we’ll give these gentry coves their money’s worth. I’m Polly. What’s yer name?”

  “Uh, Ginny.” Iphiginia slowly removed her cloak. She put it on top of the pedestal.

  “Ye new at this?” Polly surveyed Iphiginia’s delicate white evening gown with a critical gaze. “Yer overdressed.”

  “I’m sure I’ll get the hang of this quickly,” Iphiginia said. “I am an excellent student.”

  “Enough of this nonsense.” Sands started toward the curtain. “Come on out here, you two. I have some questions to ask.”

  “Stop,” Polly yelled. “Got rules against anyone comin’ back ‘ere before the performance, y’know.”

  “Now see here,” Sands growled, “I do not intend to be ordered about by a cheap whore.”

  “This is a theater, damn yer eyes,” Polly snarled back through the curtain. “And we’re bloody actresses, we are, not whores. And we ain’t cheap. Ye’ll do us the favor o’ treatin’ us with some respect or ye can just plain forget about gettin’ any o’ Dr. Hardstaff’s special treatment tonight.”

  “I am not here to see your damned show,” Sands snapped. “I’m here to find someone.”

  “Ain’t no one backstage ’ere except us professional actresses. Now either sit down to enjoy the performance or get out o’ ’ere.”

  “The lady has a point,” Marcus said. “I would very much appreciate it if you would remove yourself, Sands. I paid good money to be entertained this evening.”

  “Entertained?” Sands sounded disgusted. “You call this entertainment?”

  “I was told it was somewhat amusing,” Marcus replied. “Inspirational, even.”

  “We’re about to start the bloody show,” Polly announced through the curtain. “If ye two fine gennelmen want to get the treatment together, that’s yer affair. But I warn ye, it’ll be double the price.”

  “Unless you’re willing to pay your share, Sands,” Marcus said, “it’s time to leave.”

  “I am not leaving,” Sands said furiously. “Not until I can deduce what in blazes is going on here.”

  “If yer stayin’, ye can make yerself use
ful,” Polly snapped. “Put out the lamp near the door.”

  “I believe I will do that,” Sands said coldly. “Let us see just what is going on behind that curtain.” His footsteps rang out once more as he turned and strode back toward the door.

  “About time. No respect fer professional work anymore.” Polly bent down to light a row of lamps on the stage. They flared to life.

  Then she reached out and hauled mightily on a long, heavy cord.

  The heavy red curtain moved to the side, leaving a very thin muslin drape in its place.

  “Bloody hell,” Marcus muttered.

  Iphiginia realized that the lamps on the stage were producing strong silhouettes of both herself and Polly against the gauzy curtain. She stilled.

  “Interesting,” Sands said laconically. “How much did you say you paid for this, Masters?”

  “Too much,” Marcus said. “I fear I may have been fleeced.”

  “They’re all critics at first, y’know,” Polly said. “The whole lot of ‘em. But they change their minds soon enough.” She straightened and frowned at Iphiginia. “Get yer urn. ’Urry up, now.”

  Iphiginia took a deep breath and forced herself to move. She picked up one of the large urns that had been positioned on the stage. It was surprisingly light. “Now what?”

  “Strike yer pose. Don’t ye know anythin’ about this business? Dr. Hardstaff gets right cranky if the patients don’t get their money’s worth.” Polly picked up her urn and struck what she undoubtedly believed to be a classical pose.

  It finally dawned on Iphiginia that she and Polly were performers in a transparency show.

  The transparency curtain acted as a veil, concealing the details of her features while it revealed the clear outline of her figure.

  The lamps, strategically situated behind the two women, produced a ghostly scene.

  Iphiginia had seen a handful of such productions, but they had all been of an educational nature. The last one, which she had attended with Amelia, had featured an extremely edifying tableau illustrating the classical ruins of Herculaneum.

  But the scene staged by herself and Polly tonight was clearly designed to be of a much less elevating nature. Iphiginia had a horrible suspicion that her gossamer white silk skirts afforded little or no modesty. The flaring lamps were placed so as to render Polly’s attire virtually transparent.