A Baron for Becky (12 page)

He was early.
She crossed to the sideboard where she kept his favourite brandy,
and had poured him a glass by the time his steps sounded in the
hall. Two sets of steps? Who did Aldridge have with him?

The other man
was as tall as Aldridge, but dark to his fair. He must once have
been stunningly handsome, one side of his face still carved by a
master. Subtle curves and strong planes combined in a harmonious
whole, speaking of strength and, in the lines at the corners of his
eyes, suffering.

On the other
side, dozens of scars pitted and ridged the skin, as if it had been
torn and chewed by an animal—an animal with jaws of flame, by the
tell-tale burn puckers. Thankfully, whatever it was had missed his
eye, now glaring at her.

“Well?” he
demanded. Shaken by his voice, rich and mellow despite the curt
syllable, she realised she had been staring. How rude. But for some
reason, she didn’t apologise as she should, but instead blurted, “I
am glad whatever injured you spared your eye.”

He looked
startled, and suddenly friendlier. “Thank you. I am glad too.”

That voice! He
could read a linen inventory, and she would listen for hours.

“An unusual
approach to an introduction,” Aldridge observed. Becky collected
herself and smiled at her protector. “No one is more important than
the man who keeps you,” a mentor had once told her. “When he is
present, see no one else, except as it reflects well on him.”

Becky’s
attention had been entirely misdirected. She had presented her
cheek to Aldridge for his kiss, given him the expected squeal in
return for his squeeze, and returned the kiss, all without being
aware of anything but Aldridge’s guest.

“A more
traditional introduction would be welcome,” she said.

“My dear, you
have heard me speak of my friend, Hugh, Baron Overton.”

Yes. From the
description in the gossip magazine on the desk in her sitting room,
she had guessed it must be he.
Lord O., who, despite his
gruesome scars, seems set to bag the full haul of heads, or should
we say tails, he and the M.M. need to win their bet
. Another
heartless aristocrat tomcatting his way through life without
thought of the suffering he left behind.

But why was he
here, in her house, bristling at being presented to Aldridge’s
mistress as if she were a lady? She turned to Aldridge, her raised
brow signalling the question.

“Overton is
coming to Astley’s with us,” Aldridge said. She knew that mulish
expression in his eye. He felt he was in the wrong, and expected
her to make a fuss. He wouldn’t back down, and he’d feel better if
they could fight over it.

Instead, she
turned to Overton. “Lord Overton, I must assume Lord Aldridge would
not have brought you here if you were not sober, trustworthy, and
aware that my daughter’s future depends on no one making the
connection between her mother and Lord Aldridge’s mistress. Since
my lord clearly trusts you, I will, too.”

And
, her
tone said,
I will find a way to destroy you if Aldridge is
wrong
.

Aldridge’s kept
woman had the carriage of a queen, and when she lectured him, eyes
flashing, all Overton could do was mutter, “Yes, ma’am.” Satisfied
with his answer, she poured him a brandy, having already handed one
to Aldridge.

He’d heard
Aldridge’s mistress was beautiful, though few had met her. But
beautiful didn’t come close. What on earth was the man doing with
other women when he had this one in his keeping?

What was her
name, anyway? He hadn’t really been listening, had half-thought
Aldridge was playing one of his japes. A mistress who couldn’t be
called Rose, which all the men in town knew to be her name, but had
to be called some other name, and treated like a lady in front of
her daughter? Surely, it must be a joke?

Apparently, it
was true.

While Overton
was wool-gathering, Aldridge teased Rose about the present he had
in the carriage for the little girl.

He’d dragged
Hugh to the shop to pick it up: a doll as beautiful as a princess,
and a wardrobe to match. Inspired, Hugh had ordered two. Dark hair
for Sophrania, fair hair for Emmaline. They would be ready in a few
days, the woman assured him. Good enough. His annual month of
freedom would be over in a week. A few days would leave him just
enough time to ride home.

Aldridge,
though, was assuring Rose he had a basket full of kittens, or a
pair of puppies, or a pet bear cub. She just laughed at him,
telling him that the care and feeding of such a menagerie would be
to his cost, and not hers.

Hugh couldn’t
reconcile Rose’s speech, the cut of her garments, her grace, her
manners, with the way she earned her keep. She was unlike any
light-skirt he’d ever known.

She threw him
off balance, and Aldridge did too, presenting him as if she were
not a harlot and he not a peer of the realm.

She acted as if
she were a lady, but she was a whore as much as any brassy painted
strumpet who offered her wares to all comers in a bawdy house or
the street. However much she might ape her betters in this tasteful
parlour, whatever Aldridge said.

“What am I
supposed to call you?” he asked, and could have bitten his tongue.
He was never this graceless.

“Mrs
Winstanley,” Aldridge said, looking over his shoulder, “and if you
choose not to behave, Overton, you can leave right now.”

“Mrs
Winstanley,” Hugh said.

Aldridge
nodded, satisfied, and turned back to the woman. “Do you not think
Sarah would like a pony?” he asked, clearly wanting to continue his
game.

From behind his
back, Hugh glared at this female who did not know her place.

Hugh enjoyed
the visit to Astley’s. Not so much the performance as the reactions
of the little girls. Their excitement was contagious, cheering the
riders, gasping at the trick riders, and laughing at the
clowns.

One of the
riders could be a twin of Mrs Winstanley, with the same cornflower
blue eyes, the same even features and porcelain skin. Red hair,
rather than dark, but otherwise, uncanny. She showed a lot more
skin than Aldridge’s mistress, and her legs set Hugh fantasising
about what he could do with the woman’s acrobatic skills.

Mrs Winstanley,
whom he treated with punctilious courtesy, in imitation of
Aldridge, looked like a virtuous woman. He wondered if her legs
were as long and shapely as the rider’s. He would bet ten guineas
that Aldridge had taught her some acrobatic tricks.

He caught
himself, embarrassed to be thinking such things in the presence of
innocent children.

Damn Mrs
Winstanley. He would not feel guilty about his lust. True, she’d
successfully played the lady all evening, giving him no excuse for
his inflamed longings. But why should he not imagine bedding a
woman who sold her body?

He definitely
needed another brandy. Two. No, three.

After the show,
they went for a birthday supper at Merrick’s—the highlight, a tower
of iced cupcakes decorated with pink sugar flowers—and then home,
dropping the guests one at a time, shedding carriages from the
convoy, until the coach with Hugh, Aldridge, Mrs Winstanley, and
little Sarah was the only one left.

It dropped them
at the little girl’s apartment, and the grooms then took it home to
Haverford House, a few streets away.

Aldridge, eyes
bright and grinning like a fool, instructed Sarah to shut her eyes
and guided her into the parlour where he had left his present.

“Keep them
closed, keep them closed,” he said, as he retrieved two wrapped
parcels, and propped them on the sofa in front of her.

“Now, Sarah,”
he said, kneeling at her side, and the little girl opened her
eyes.

Beautifully
mannered, as she had been all evening, Sarah curtseyed her
appreciation, then hugged him and kissed his cheek. “Thank you,
Uncle Lord Aldridge.”

“Open them,
Princess,” he urged. “They’re yours. I chose them myself, but the
lady in the shop wrapped them. Do you like the ribbon? She said you
would keep it for your hair, so I chose two different colours.”

Anyone would
think the child was Aldridge’s own. Just look at him, watching
anxiously as Sarah carefully untied the ribbon and unfolded the
fabric Aldridge had chosen for the wrapping.

The child’s
calm self-possession fractured in the face of the doll and her
wardrobe.

“Oh, I love
her! Look, Mama! Look how beautiful she is. Look at all her
clothes!”

Hugh looked.
The mother, bending over her daughter, exclaiming over the doll’s
articulated arms and legs, and its wardrobe. And the child, her
mother in miniature. Identical heart-shaped faces; identical dark
hair, tied back but with tiny curls left loose around their
foreheads; identical porcelain skin and cornflower blue eyes
fringed with dark lashes.

So
beautiful.

So intent, eyes
full of love for her daughter, like statues of the Madonna he had
seen in Catholic Italy, before he sold out.

God, he needed
a drink.

“Aldridge?”
Aldridge was smiling fondly at his mistress and her child.
“Aldridge, is there any brandy in the house?”

“Not here,
Overton,” Aldridge snapped. “Just wait a bit, can’t you?”

Of course he
could. It didn’t bother him at all to see this kept woman, this
harlot, bent lovingly over her daughter. It didn’t bother him that
she stood up to him—a head taller, a man, and an aristocrat—to
protect her daughter. When his wife, damn her, had ignored her
daughters, regarded them as disposable pawns in her campaign to be
the mother of a peer. It didn’t bother him at all. It didn’t.

“I’ll meet you
back at Haverford House,” he said. “Miss Winstanley, my
felicitations on your birth anniversary. Mrs Winstanley, my thanks
for a pleasant evening. Aldridge.”

“Overton?”
Aldridge stopped him in the hall.

“I have to go,
Aldridge. I can’t stay here and watch you playing at happy families
with your whore. I just can’t.”

Aldridge
bristled. “Keep a civil tongue, Overton.”

“Your friend,
then. Your dear, intimate friend.” He didn’t try to keep the sneer
from his voice.

“Prig,”
Aldridge said, but without much heat. “Go, then.”

Overton took
his hat and coat from the waiting maid, and let himself out the
door. He carried with him the wounded look in Mrs Winstanley’s
eyes. Would he have spoken so, had he realised she’d followed her
lover—her keeper—to the hall? He tried to shrug off his sudden pang
of shame. He’d only said what was true. How dare she be hurt!

Hadn’t they
passed a tavern two streets back? Surely they had.

Whatever they
sold, he was drinking it.