Brenda Hiatt Read online

  Though Jack had released her when the foursome approached, Nessa’s shoulder tingled where his arm had so recently lain. She willed her own color not to rise. Love match? Was that what people assumed? But of course, they must. What other explanation would occur to people, after all? Certainly not the true one. She did not dare to meet Jack’s eyes.

  “You are all most kind,” she responded warmly, relieved to detect no quaver in her voice. “I merely put a lifetime of training to good use, and am as delighted as anyone that it has turned out so well.”

  “My wife is too modest.” Jack’s voice was warm with approval, so Nessa dared a glance at him. “She oversaw every detail, both of the redecorating of Foxhaven House and of the preparations for tonight. I doubt a stray leaf from one of the flower arrangements could have escaped her notice.”

  His smile was as warm as his voice, and Nessa relaxed. He seemed unaffected by Mr. Heatherton’s assumption, so she would not allow it to fluster her. Really, she was being unforgivably silly.

  “Will you not come join your guests now, both of you?” Prudence suggested. “You’ve more than done your duty, standing here an hour and more. Come and sample some of the excellent refreshments you have provided.”

  Nessa thought her sister seemed a shade less constrained in Jack’s presence than previously, and she was glad of it. She wished for no friction between her two favorite people. “Yes, I believe we shall. My lord?”

  Jack was more than willing to abandon his post, so they moved slowly toward the laden tables at the far end of the ballroom, exchanging pleasantries and fielding compliments from innumerable guests as they went. “Charming,” “Such a pleasant couple,” and similar comments followed in their wake.

  While Nessa could not claim to thoroughly enjoy the balance of the evening, so vigilant was she in supervising the servants and caterers, she felt no small measure of satisfaction. Bringing this off had been work, hard work, but it had been well repaid. She had kept her promise, both to Jack and to herself.

  The royal duke had departed, and several other guests were queuing up to take leave of their hosts as well, when a flash of color by the door drew Nessa’s attention. Dressed in a clinging gown of red even more vivid than her hair, Miranda Dempsey wafted into the room. Nessa sensed Jack’s sudden tenseness, though he made no other sign that he had seen the late arrival.

  Whatever the woman had been to her husband in the past, Nessa would no more risk a scandal tonight than Lady Mountheath had on one previous occasion. Graciously, she greeted the uninvited guest. “My dear Mrs. Dempsey, how kind of you to come.”

  Though the woman seemed rather startled by her reception, she managed a curtsy—a shade less deep than Nessa’s rank required, but not so perfunctory as to be an insult. “Thank you, Lady Foxhaven, Lord Foxhaven.” She gazed lingeringly at him. “I apologize for my lateness.”

  Jack bowed stiffly but said nothing, so Nessa smiled brightly to make up for her husband’s reticence and assured her that she need think nothing of it. Returning Nessa’s smile rather uncertainly, Mrs. Dempsey moved off into the crowd to make way for the next couple taking their leave.

  Less than half an hour later, Mrs. Dempsey departed as well, looking, Nessa thought with secret satisfaction, rather nettled. Jack had not left her own side since the woman’s arrival, nor spoken a word to her. The crowd had thinned considerably by now—only a dozen or so couples remained.

  “I must make certain the caterer understands what he is to do with the uneaten food,” she murmured to Jack when they found themselves briefly alone near the door. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  Just as she reached the tables, Prudence joined her. “You were splendid, Nessa,” she whispered in a surprisingly conspiratorial tone. “You kept your composure admirably. But the nerve of that woman! How could she be so bold?”

  “Mrs. Dempsey, you mean?” Nessa spoke lightly, though it unnerved her to think Prudence should have such precise knowledge of Jack’s past indiscretions. “No doubt ’twas a rather desperate bid for Jack’s attention. I could almost feel sorry for her.”

  Prudence stared. “Sorry! For a woman who has enjoyed more of your husband’s time than you have these past weeks? That is carrying charity to unprecedented lengths, I must say.”

  Nessa felt a cold fist squeeze her heart. Though her breath came fast, she ruthlessly schooled her expression into one of only polite interest. “I’m sure you exaggerate, Prudence. Jack has been spending the bulk of his time in Parliament.” Hasn’t he? She prayed her sister would not contradict her.

  Nor did she. “Yes, that was an exaggeration. I’m sorry, Nessa.” Her words were as much sympathy as apology, though, and did little to soothe Nessa’s sudden pain.

  Mechanically, she gave the caterer his final instructions, then returned to where the last guests were taking their leave. She said all that was proper, but her mind was in chaos.

  Sensitized now by Prudence’s words, she thought she detected pity in many of the departing guests’ faces. Did all London know more about her husband’s doings than she did herself? Always she had despised the willful blindness of libertines’ wives, and here she was, as blind as any of them!

  “That’s the last of them!” exclaimed Jack gleefully as the front door closed behind the final guests. “The house is ours again, and I intend to take full advantage of it. To quote Mrs. Heatherton, ‘A triumph, Lady Foxhaven. No doubt about it.’” He swept her an exaggerated bow.

  “So everyone has said.” She felt not the least bit triumphant, however.

  Jack, however, was clearly in high spirits. “Because it is true. Will you join me in a waltz?” Playfully, he held out his arms, though the only music was the tinkle of plates and glasses as they were collected by the servants.

  Nessa felt a tightening in her throat. Could he truly act so if what Prudence had implied were true? “I’m sorry, Jack, but I have the most abominable headache. Perhaps another time.”

  Immediately he was all concern. “Oh, my darling, why did you not say so? I feared you were taking too much upon yourself. I’ll take you right up to bed, then come back to supervise the cleanup myself.”

  The tightening in her throat became a lump. Afraid to speak for fear of loosing the tears that threatened, she merely nodded and allowed him to lead her up the stairs. She maintained a stoic silence while Simmons undressed her, unwilling to betray her emotions and perhaps provoke unwanted confidences from the abigail. Clucking over how tired her mistress must be, Simmons helped her to complete her toilette in short order, then tucked her into bed.

  Alone in the darkened room, Nessa finally allowed her tears to flow. Exhaustion soon provided relief, however, and despite her turmoil she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  Thin sunlight awakened her, filtering through the partially drawn peach curtains. Stirring, Nessa realized that Jack lay beside her, still soundly asleep. The events of last night came flooding back—both the triumph and the heartache. In the light of morning, however, with a good night’s sleep behind her, Nessa felt far less ready to believe the worst—or to let it devastate her even if it proved to be true.

  For a moment she smiled down at her husband’s slumbering form, marveling at how boyish and innocent he appeared, when she knew he was neither. Moving gingerly so as not to wake him, she slipped out of bed and dressed in a simple gown that did not require Simmons’ assistance. Pulling her hair back with a matching ribbon, she softly opened the door and went downstairs for breakfast and uninterrupted thought.

  By the time Jack joined her, nearly an hour later, she had come to a decision.

  “Prudence tells me you have been spending considerable time with Mrs. Dempsey of late,” she informed him before she could change her mind.

  Jack paused in the act of taking his seat and glanced about, as though to assure himself that they were alone in the room. “She has been to call already this morning?”

  Nessa narrowed her eyes slightly. Was he stalling? “No, she menti
oned it last night. Apparently ’tis common knowledge.” Prudence had not actually said that, but she did not think she had imagined the pitying glances from their guests as they left.

  “Hardly that, I should think!” exclaimed Jack. Then, apparently realizing what he’d said, he muttered an oath. “Nessa, it’s not what you think, I promise you.”

  “How do you know what I think?” she demanded, stung by his near admission. “Until last night, I thought you were spending all of those hours on government business.”

  “I—I was, in a way.” He leaned forward to take her hand where it lay on the table, but she snatched it away. “Honestly, Nessa, my time with Miranda—I did not enjoy it, I assure you—was for the purpose of discovering certain information for the Home Office.”

  “How convenient.” Her tone was as biting as she could make it. “And were you successful, or will you require yet more trysts on behalf of the Crown?” She hadn’t known she was capable of such sarcasm.

  “No, no, it is over, I promise you.” He regarded her uncertainly. “You don’t believe me.”

  “Whether I do or not is of little moment, Jack. I have spent all my waking hours for the past three weeks—nay, longer than that, considering our time at Fox Manor—attempting to elevate you to respectability despite your well-deserved reputation. I have done my part in our bargain, Jack, but all the while you have been sabotaging my efforts.”

  He looked uneasy now, as well he should. “What do you intend to do?”

  “What I please,” she snapped. “I no longer consider myself bound by my promise to play the respectable wife for the sake of a reputation for which you clearly care so little.”

  Standing, she made a regal exit, leaving him to ponder just what she meant by that.

  As it happened, she had no earthly idea herself.

  17

  Jack stared after Nessa, stunned to his bones. Not for several seconds did he realize his mouth had dropped open. Belatedly, he closed it, still staring at the doorway she had just vacated.

  This was a hell of a wrinkle.

  Just when he’d finally fulfilled his awkward obligation to the Duke of Wellington, when he could finally devote all of his energies to his marriage, this had to happen. He thought he’d made it clear to Miranda that any further relationship was out of the question—but she was unwilling to take the hint, as evidenced by her uninvited appearance last night.

  Jack dropped his head into his hands and groaned. He’d made a botch of it, just as he had so many other things in his life. This particular mistake mattered more than any of the others, though, because it affected Nessa—and she mattered greatly.

  Raising his head to stare out at the gray February day, he finally admitted to himself what he’d been denying for weeks: He’d fallen in love with his wife. It was a shattering thing to a man who’d built his life on the firm belief that love was a myth, but there it was. Now, what the devil was he to do about it?

  The first thing, clearly, was to determine the true extent of the damage. He would go at once to speak with Lady Creamcroft. He’d not thought her the sort to carry tales, but it seemed he’d misjudged her. Once he knew precisely what he was up against, he would face Nessa again—this very day—and have everything out in the open.

  Leaving his breakfast untouched, he rose and called for his greatcoat, then strode from the house.

  His plans received a setback when he discovered that Lady Creamcroft was not at home. He left his card, with a message that he would return later, and walked back the way he had come, wondering what his next step should be. A vision of Nessa’s face last night, pinched and tired, rose before him. Miranda’s doing. Well, he could make certain nothing of that sort happened again.

  Most mornings, he knew, she could be found shopping on Bond Street, so he directed his steps there. He spotted her carriage almost at once, and headed toward it.

  “Why, Jack, what a lovely surprise!” she exclaimed, emerging from a milliner’s shop just as he reached her waiting carriage. Then she took a good look at his face. “Is something wrong?”

  “You could say so. What possessed you to come to my home last night? I rather doubt my wife invited you.”

  Miranda tittered, though her expression held a hint of alarm. “I assumed it was a mere oversight. Certainly she welcomed me graciously enough.”

  “Nessa is always gracious.” Jack bit out the words. “Your presence there upset her, however, and I’ll not allow that to happen again.”

  Miranda seemed unmoved by his vehemence. Glancing languidly over his shoulder, she said only, “Let’s not stand talking on the street in all of this wind, Jack. Come, we’ll sit in my carriage to discuss it.”

  He glared at her, but she was already moving toward the vehicle, a few yards away. As he hadn’t yet received any assurance from her that she would leave Nessa—and him—alone, he had perforce to follow. Careful to seat himself as far away as the confines of the carriage would allow, he faced her again.

  “Do you understand me, Miranda? I’ll not have you upsetting my wife. What once existed between us is in the past, and will remain there.”

  She pouted at him. “Then you no longer find me attractive, Jack?”

  “Of course you’re attractive, but I am no longer attracted to you. I love my wife.” There. He’d actually said it aloud. Ironic that Miranda should be the first to hear it.

  “Now isn’t that sweet!” A sneer abruptly robbed her face of much of its prettiness. “I wonder, however, whether you’ll ever get her to believe it? She knows all about us, you know.”

  “I told her before we married,” he snapped. “Nothing of substance has occurred since, despite whatever gossip her sister has heard.”

  Miranda now displayed genuine amusement. “Oh, her sister has heard quite an earful, I assure you, Jack. I made certain of that.”

  A sense of foreboding gripped him. “Do you mean to say you’ve spoken to Lady Creamcroft yourself? What lies have you told her?”

  “Lies? Such an ugly word. Perhaps I might have exaggerated a bit—merely wishful thinking on my part, of course. But combined with the evidence of her own eyes, I likely created a powerful impression—one she no doubt felt compelled to share with her sister, your beloved Lady Foxhaven.” Her words now dripped venom.

  Jack realized he had underestimated the potential fury of a woman scorned. In the past, he’d generally managed to break things off cordially with one paramour before moving on to the next, with one or two notable exceptions. Of course he hadn’t had a marriage at stake then.

  Or love.

  “Do not doubt for a moment that I’ll see you ruined—or worse—if my wife suffers due to your machinations,” he said icily. “Certain information dropped into certain ears and you could find yourself facing a charge of treason.”

  She blanched visibly, her eyes wide. “Jack, you wouldn’t—that is, I’m sure you’ll manage to patch it up. I—I leave for a house party in Surrey in two days’ time, in any event.” She managed a placating smile. “So there’ll be no more machinations from me. I’m sure I’ve done enough.”

  Fearing he’d be tempted to do her an injury if he remained a moment longer, Jack slammed out of the carriage. Striding away, he glanced at his watch. Damn! He was due to speak on the Corn Bill under discussion in Parliament in less than an hour. He’d have to call on Lady Creamcroft this afternoon.

  Nessa rang the bell of the Creamcroft Townhouse, then bit her lip while she waited for an answer. After what seemed like minutes but were probably only seconds, Clarendon opened the door.

  “Pray tell Lady Creamcroft that her sister is here to see her.” Nessa spoke more haughtily than she intended, so strictly was she schooling her voice to suppress all emotion.

  “Lady Creamcroft has gone shopping,” replied the butler just as stiffly, “but is expected back momentarily.”

  “I’ll wait then, if I may.” Returning to Foxhaven House would be to risk seeing Jack again—something she wished to av
oid until she’d had a chance to talk with Prudence.

  She was shown into the drawing room, where she took a seat, picking up a book that lay on a nearby table in an attempt to divert her thoughts. As it was a treatise on morality by Hannah More—one of her father’s favorites—the attempt was not entirely successful. Fortunately, Prudence returned home before too many minutes had passed.

  Setting aside the book with relief, Nessa rose to greet her. “Thank goodness you are back! I really must speak with you. I hope you don’t mind my waiting for you here?”

  “Not at all,” replied Prudence, removing her bonnet and cloak. Once Clarendon had departed with the garments, she closed the door. Despite her assurance, Nessa thought her sister looked decidedly ill at ease.

  As she was herself.

  Still, she had to know what she was up against. “You said last night that Jack had been spending time—recently—with Mrs. Dempsey,” Nessa said without further preamble. “How did you discover this?”

  Prudence sat down opposite her and took Nessa’s hands in hers. “Believe me, Nessa, I wish I had not said anything. Lord Foxhaven cares for you, I am certain of it. Perhaps—”

  “How did you find out?” Nessa demanded, disengaging her hands.

  Fluttering her own hands helplessly, Prudence sat back in her chair. “I saw them together myself once—no, twice. And Lady Mountheath made a point of telling me that they were seen at Bellamy’s coffeehouse a few days since.”

  Nessa breathed a little easier. Three public meetings scarcely constituted a torrid affair.