All Afternoon with a Scandalous Marquess (16 page)

“Married, most likely,” Dare said, his arm stretched across the chaise longue he was reclining on. He glanced over his shoulder to admire the women. “More to the point,
not
to Lord Greenshield.”

“He’s taking a risk,” Sin murmured. He smiled as his wife rejoined the ladies, her arms burdened with what appeared to be several dresses and accessories.

Regan stood to assist, her right hand splayed protectively over the gentle swell of her belly. Saint watched as Dare’s gaze softened with open pleasure and boundless love for his wife and unborn child. They were his friend’s future.

He was not the only one watching Regan. Her brother, Frost, was studying her, concern shadowing his expression. His sister had already lost one babe in the early months of her pregnancy. Frost had been the last to know, which did not sit well with their friend. The slight had not been intentional. At first, the couple had wanted to be certain that Regan was indeed pregnant. Later, there did not seem any point in worrying Frost. Dare was feeling guilty enough, believing he had failed Regan by not taking better care of her. Whether he liked it or not, Dare would not have to shoulder his concerns by himself.

“What has the ladies so excited?” Hunter asked, drawing the men’s attention away from the women.

“Earlier, Sophia and Juliana were discussing a visit to Vauxhall,” Reign said.

“No,” Dare and Frost said in unison.

Saint chuckled. “Fifty pounds the ladies get their way.”

Hunter raised a finger. “I— Oh, never mind,” he said, his brain catching up with his mouth.

“A fool’s wager” was Sin’s reply.

“Agreed.” Reign nodded at the dresses Regan and Isabel were holding up for Catherine to admire. “It appears we will have another lady to watch over.”

“How serious are you about Miss Deverall?” Hunter asked.

You can’t have her!
Saint thought, his upper lip curling. He was about to warn his friend off until he noticed Hunter was grinning at him. Christ, he was such an arse. Thankfully, the others were too interested in the ladies as they debated over which costume Catherine should wear.

Feeling overwhelmed by the attention, she appealed silently to Saint. He shrugged and gave her an encouraging smile. She rolled her eyes and gave up on him.

“You’re smitten.”

Saint took his time responding to Hunter’s question. He took a sip of his brandy to hide his smile. “Of course. Though she’s skittish around gentlemen.”

“Who could blame her with the likes of you sniffing at her skirts,” quipped Vane.

Before Saint could respond, his gaze shifted to the activity across the room, and he froze with the edge of the glass touching his lips. His vision narrowed and the world slowed as Isabel took the half-mask decorated with white feathers and held it up to Catherine’s face.

Saint choked on the brandy filling his throat.

No.

It wasn’t possible.

Catherine immediately turned her face away, making some excuse to Isabel so her feelings were not injured. However, the damage was done.

How had she fooled him for so long?

The sound of breaking glass distracted Saint momentarily. Frost had dropped his empty glass. Their gazes abruptly locked. Saint assumed his friend was equally flabbergasted. He was not the only one who’d figured out that Catherine had a damn good reason not to accept Lord Greenshield’s claim.

Catherine was Madame Venna.

*   *   *

From the corner of her eye, Catherine watched Saint clap his hand on Lord Chillingworth’s shoulder. The two men left the room.

“Something amiss?” Juliana raised her voice so the gentlemen heard her from the other side of the long drawing room.

“Frost’s foxed,” her husband replied, shrugging apologetically.

Juliana seemed amused by her husband’s explanation. To her companions, she said, “That’s a relief. When I heard the glass shatter, I thought a fight was brewing.”

Relieved by the distraction, Catherine set the half-mask aside. “Why? I thought they were friends?”

Little did Juliana know that she was correct about the fight, but she had picked the wrong side of the drawing room. Catherine had not expected Isabel to hold the feathered half-mask to her face. She’d averted her face and took the mask from the startled woman’s hands. Thankfully, Saint and his friends were too distracted by the earl’s drunken antics to notice.

Juliana gave her a sympathetic look. Saint must have told her husband that she had no family. “Oh, they are. More like brothers than friends, really.”

“And like all brothers, they have disagreements,” Regan explained.

Sophia added, “Occasionally, they break furniture.”

Isabel scowled. “Not to mention their thick skulls.”

Juliana sighed. “Our gents earned their reputations honestly.” She noticed Catherine’s distress and patted her hand. “I know they can be intimidating, but they are good men. You do not have to worry about Saint—”

Catherine’s mouth went dry as she gazed at the ladies’ knowing expressions. “Oh, all of you are mistaken. Saint isn’t courting me. We are just friends.”

“I have known these men for most of my life,” Regan said, draping the dress she had been holding across the nearest chair. “And Juliana has been married to Sin for—?” She looked askance at the marchioness.

“Four years.”

“Four years,” Regan echoed. “And in all this time, not one of these men has ever brought a lady home to meet the family who did not end up getting leg-shackled to a Lord of Vice herself.”

“Dear heavens!” Catherine exclaimed, her knees giving out as she sank into the chair behind her.

*   *   *

He managed to drag Frost down the hall before the man blurted out his next incriminating words.

“Damn me, do you know who that woman
is
?”

“Yes,” Saint hissed, resisting the urge to stuff the nearby floral bouquet down his friend’s gullet to prevent him from speaking another damning word. “And the entire house will know it, too, if you do not lower your voice!”

Frost tossed back his head and laughed. “Oh, this is rich. Quite rich. Lord Greenshield’s bastard daughter is the proprietress of one of the most exclusive and notorious—”

“That is enough from you,” Saint growled.

Frost, naturally, was oblivious to his friend’s dangerous mood. “—brothels in all of London. We have to tell the others.”

Saint seized the earl by his coat and shoved him against the wall hard enough to make the nearby picture frames rattle. “Absolutely not. If you so much as
hint
of it, I will start with your tongue and work my way down.”

Three inches taller, Frost stared down his nose at Saint, his exotic turquoise-blue eyes shining as if there were a lamp in his hollow head. “My, my … you are not by chance threatening me? You might want to step back, my friend, and think twice before you raise your fist to me,” he said silkily. “The others won’t stop me from knocking you on your bloody arse.”

Saint grimaced and released his friend with a furious shove. He pivoted and scrubbed his face with his hands as he tried to collect his thoughts.

Catherine was Madame Venna. Madame Venna was Catherine.

Saint brought his fist to his mouth as he considered what to do next. He had no real desire to challenge Frost to a fight. Out of them all, the earl’s fists were the best in the sparring ring. Besides, Saint already felt like he had taken a punishing blow to his head. His brain could not seem to reconcile what had been right in front of him all along.

He jabbed a finger at Frost. “Not one word.”

The call for violence in the earl’s expression eased to something akin to pity. “You honestly didn’t know?”

Shaking his head, Saint sagged against the wall opposite Frost. “She has fooled everyone for years. How has she managed it?”

Frost calmly smoothed the wrinkles Saint had crushed into the front of his evening coat as he pondered the question. “It’s a remarkable ruse. Madame Venna uses half-masks and wigs like a player on stage. Even in an”—he discreetly cleared his throat—“intimate setting, the bedchamber is not well-lit and she never removes her mask.”

Saint glared at his friend, still resentful that Frost had bedded Madame Venna.

“Miss Deverall distances herself from the Golden Pearl so there is no reason for her life and Madame Venna’s to intersect. I suspect only a few people, if any, are aware that she lives two separate lives.”

“I’m to blame,” Saint said wearily.

“Really? How so?”

“I’m the one who found the piece of paper with Catherine’s name scrawled on it at the Golden Pearl. I thought she was some poor girl about to be sold to a brothel, and instead—”

“You became part of both of her worlds. Hmm…” Frost appeared thoughtful.

“What?”

“I wonder … beneath the lies and clever masks, which lady is real? Miss Deverall or Madame Venna?”

Both ladies felt damn real to Saint. He had hungered and lusted after Madame Venna to the point of madness, and Catherine ignited all his protective instincts. His feelings for both women were so muddled, he longed to punch something.

Saint eyed Frost, and considered it. He needed someone to knock some sense into him.

“Are you planning to tell Catherine that you know?” Frost quietly asked.

He exhaled noisily. “No,” he said, straightening. He was stalling, but soon he would have to return to the drawing room and face her.

The earl looked surprised. “No?”

“If I confront Catherine, she will merely shut me out of her life. Madame Venna, too.” Six years ago, he was punished for getting too close.

Clearly neither lady was comfortable with intimacy, nor the truth.

“You have the power to ruin her.”

Saint did not reply. He was quite aware that he could topple Madame Venna’s little kingdom and turn Lord Greenshield into a laughingstock for siring London’s most famous whore. Finally, he said, “I would not see her hurt because of me.”

“Then what do you want?”

“Honestly, I’m too angry to know what I want,” Saint admitted. “However, both Catherine and Madame V have amused themselves at my expense, and that doesn’t sit well with me.”

Understanding lit Frost’s gaze. “Do you require my assistance?”

“Your silence will suffice,” Saint replied tersely. “I will deal with Catherine and Madame Venna.”

Chapter Twenty-one

The evening had not been as unpleasant as Catherine had imagined. She had entered Lord and Lady Sinclair’s residence, uncertain what to expect. After all, she was planning to spend the evening with the Lords of Vice and their ladies. Over the years, her experiences with many of the unmarried members of Nox, combined with the tales her girls recounted of what transpired within their private club, led Catherine to believe that these gentleman could not be domesticated.

She had been wrong.

This had not been a gathering that rivaled one of the numerous private celebrations at the Golden Pearl. It had been a quiet affair, filled with laughter, debate, and genuine affection for one another. These people were a family. She had not expected to envy them for it.

“They surprised you, did they not?”

Catherine started at the Saint’s question. There had been little opportunity to speak with him after she had been introduced to Juliana, Regan, Sophia, and Isabel. A private smile curved her lips. The ladies had taken shy Catherine in hand and done their best to make her feel like she belonged. For a brief time, she had not been alone. It had been a novel experience.

“Yes, I did enjoy myself,” she confessed. “I like your friends, my lord.”

The interior of the coach was cloaked in darkness. Only the outside lamps had been lit. Even so, she could sense Saint’s tension and annoyance. It rolled off him like heat.

“The sentiment was returned. As we prepared to depart, the ladies seemed reluctant to leave you in my care. I believe they were concerned that I would ravish you in the carriage.”

A thrill of anticipation rippled up her spine. “Ridiculous,” she scoffed. Saint had been nothing but courteous to Catherine.

Seated opposite her, she heard him shift against the leather cushion. Perhaps he shrugged. “Well, my friends have known me for years.” He paused. “How long have you known me, Catherine?”

Her lips parted to offer a reply as her inner voice warned that he was speaking to Catherine and not Madame Venna. “Weeks” was her faint reply.

“Yes, weeks. So perhaps my friends were right to be concerned. You really do not know me at all,” he drawled.

Catherine shivered. If he had been any other man, she would have believed she was in danger. “Perhaps not. Nevertheless, you are an honorable gentleman. I—I trust you.”

Silence.

It was unlike him to be so quiet. It did not matter which guise she donned, Saint never had a problem with words. Had she offended him?

Finally, he muttered, “You’re cold. Why didn’t you tell me? Here.”

Soft whispers of fabric and the creak of leather could be heard as his coach clattered and rumbled its way to her residence. He leaned forward, and she mirrored his actions to accommodate him.

Catherine winced as her forehead glanced off his cheek. She inhaled sharply. “Forgive me. It is so dark—”

“Hush.” His evening coat settled over her shoulders like a blanket. “Warm enough?”

It would be warmer if you sat beside me.
“Yes.” The residual heat from his body and his scent were familiar and comforting as she settled back into her seat. “Thank you.”

More silence.

She counted the beats of her pulse, which seemed to increase with each passing minute. It was maddening. If she were here as Madame Venna, she would not have been sitting so far away from Saint. A tête-à-tête in the middle of the night, polite discourse would have been unnecessary. There were other pleasurable ways to fill the silence. Regrettably, Catherine was a rather dull, well-mannered lady. She lived a quiet life on the outer fringes of the
ton,
and while her observations were beneficial to Madame Venna, she was a sexless creature.

So why was Saint with her?