Educating Caroline (7 page)

“Well,” Caroline wailed. “It’s true!”

Regaining some of her composure, Lady Bartlett said, fussing with her negligee strings, “I would think, Caroline, considering the novels I’ve found in your room, you of all people would hardly find such a scene very shocking.”

“That isn’t the
point,
Mother. Hurst only wants to marry me for my money,” Caroline said, between gritted teeth. “You know it as well as I do.”

“If that,” Lady Bartlett said, “is true, I can only say it’s your own fault, Caroline.”

“My
fault?” Caroline’s voice cracked. “How on earth is it
my
fault?”

“If he doesn’t love you, it’s only because you haven’t worked hard enough at it. Men don’t simply fall in love, Caroline. They have to be pushed into it. And I haven’t noticed you doing any sort of pushing at all where the marquis is concerned.”

“Mother—”

“Are you in love with him?”

Caroline’s mouth fell open. “What?”

“It’s a simple question, Caroline. Are you in love with the marquis?”

Caroline closed her mouth and swallowed. “I thought I was,” she said. “Up until last night. I mean, how could I
not?
He’s—” Caroline’s throat closed up, making it impossible for her to say more.

“He’s extremely charming,” Lady Bartlett said, knowingly. “And not only charming, but handsome, and incredibly brave. The way he chased off those footpads who assaulted your brother that night—”

“And stopped up Tommy’s wound,” Caroline murmured. She’d heard the story so many times, she could utter it quite by rote. “With his own handkerchief, saving him from bleeding to death before the surgeon arrived. And stayed with us, the whole time Tommy was recuperating. . . .”

“There,” Lady Bartlett said, warmly. “The man saved your brother’s life. Of course you’re in love with him. How could you not be?” She reached out and patted Caroline’s hand. “I wouldn’t be able to resist him myself, if I were your age. So I’m afraid you’re going to have to face facts, Caroline: You’re going to have to fight for him.”

“Fight
for him? And precisely how do you suggest I do that, Mother? Challenge his mistress to a duel?”

Lady Bartlett frowned. “Remember what I said about sarcasm, young lady. Nothing is more unattractive in a lady. No, by fight for him, I mean use the weapons God gave you. That brain in your head, which, despite the tripe you’ve been feeding it, is a good one. And your body, which, if I do say so myself, is the spitting image of the one I had at your age, and which I used to excellent advantage in securing your father, may he rest in peace. These are very important pieces of advice I’m giving you, Caroline. You ought to be writing them down. Do you want to run and fetch some paper?”

Caroline frowned right back at her mother. “No. You mean I ought to throw myself at him?”

“Good Lord.” Lady Bartlett looked heavenward. “No, Caroline. I mean, exercise some womanly wiles. You know how.”

“I—”

“You
know
how. Every woman does.” Lady Bartlett glanced down at her breakfast and sighed. “I know he’s handsome, Caroline, and I know he’s a marquis. But you just have to keep in mind that you are every bit as pretty as he is good looking. Well, very nearly. And your father was an earl.”

“Ma,” Caroline said, impatiently, “Papa was only made an earl because the queen was grateful to him for installing new
plumbing
in the palace.”

“Revolutionary
new plumbing,” Lady Bartlett reminded her daughter. “That made it possible for the queen to have hot water whenever she pleased, with the turn of a faucet, no small feat in a building as old as the palace is. That is nothing to speak so scornfully about, Caroline. Your father was a plumbing
genius.”

Caroline looked at the ceiling. “I know Papa was a genius, Ma. But they’re a bit different, Papa’s title and Hurst’s title. You’ve got to admit it.”

Lady Bartlett shrugged. “Apples and oranges, Caroline. Apples and oranges. Now run along. I’ve got to dress. Oh, and Caroline?”

Caroline, who’d reluctantly pushed herself up from the bed and gone to the door, turned to look back at her pretty mother, so small, so alone and fragile-seeming in that massive bed. “Yes?”

“Do remember that life is not a penny dreadful.” Lady Bartlett smiled at her quite sunnily. “In reality, happy endings—like your father’s and mine—are actually quite rare.”

Caroline nodded, but inwardly, she was thinking furiously,
We’ll see. We’ll just see about that, won’t we?

5

T
he Lady Jacquelyn Seldon was a prodigious shopper. She shopped with an intensity of purpose and sense of concentration—charting routes and tactics well beforehand—that a military strategist might have envied. When Lady Jacquelyn Seldon shopped, everything else seemed to cease to exist, with the exception of Lady Jacquelyn, the product for which she was searching, and the amount of cash that was in her purse.

Which was why it wasn’t until she’d stepped into the dressing room of a stylish shop on Bond Street that she realized she had been followed. Imagine her astonishment when the shop clerk threw open the dressing room door and said, with a wink, “There you are, my lady,” and Lady Jacquelyn stepped into the room to find it not quite empty.

There was a man, his face hidden in the folds of a cloak that was much too heavy for springtime, seated upon the brocade-covered bench across from the full-length mirror.

Lady Jacquelyn drew in breath to scream, but before she could utter a sound, the man threw back the cloak, leaped up, and flung a hand across her mouth.

“Devil take you, Jackie,” the Marquis of Winchilsea hissed. “There have to be half a dozen starchy old matrons out there. Do you want them to hear?”

Jacquelyn, panting hard, whispered as he lowered his hand, “What in heaven’s name is the matter with you, Hurst? Are you mad?”

“I’m sorry, Jackie,” Hurst said, sinking back down to the bench again. “I hadn’t any choice. I think . . . I think I’m being watched.”

“Watched? By whom?” Jacquelyn demanded, settling herself down upon the bench beside him, tugging on her bonnet strings. “Here, darling, see what you can do about this. It’s turned into a dreadful snarl.”

Hurst obliged, albeit perfunctorily, plucking at the knot in the silken bonnet strings. “If I knew who it was, I’d do something about it, now, wouldn’t I, love? And I’m sorry to burst in on you like this, Jacks, but I couldn’t wait. I had to see you. I simply had to.”

Jacquelyn, keeping her chin raised so that Hurst could reach the knot, couldn’t help but smile. Really, but it was delightful, the way he couldn’t seem to get enough of her. She’d have thought their little interlude at Dame Ashforth’s the night before would have satisfied him for a bit, but evidently not. A far cry, she thought, her smile fading a little, from Braden Granville, who lately did not seem to remember that she was even alive.

“Darling,” he said, when he’d got the knot undone at last, and she’d whipped the bonnet from her head, and turned to the mirror to examine the extent it had ruined her coiffure.

“Yes?” she said, absently, noting how well their reflections looked together. Pity Hurst hadn’t Granville’s money. The two of them would have made such a striking couple.

“Does he know?” he asked, worriedly.

She blinked, the rich forest of her lashes momentarily hiding her gaze from him. “Does
who
know, Hurst?”

“Granville,” he hissed. “Granville! Who do you think?”

Jacquelyn’s perfectly plucked eyebrows lowered. She wasn’t going to tell him. What was the point? That remark Granville had made about his lawyer . . . he had been joking. Of course he had been joking. Not in very good taste, of course, but then what else could one expect of a man who’d been so coarsely reared?

“What are you talking about?” she asked her lover, lightly. “Of course he doesn’t know.”

“Are you sure?” Hurst looked uncertain. “Because last night—I could have sworn he’d found us out.”

“Yes,” Jacquelyn agreed, forcing a giggle. “That was close, wasn’t it? We’ll have to be a good deal more careful in the future. But it was worth it, wasn’t it?”

“Of course it was,” Hurst said, but his tone was hurried. “Did he say anything to you afterward? Anything to indicate he might . . . know.”

“Don’t be silly, darling,” Jacquelyn said, easily. “Granville hasn’t any idea. I’ve only just come from his offices. He’s as blissfully ignorant as ever. Look, he even gave me this.” She reached into her reticule, and pulled out the large pile of notes she’d wheedled from her fiancé. “Do you think if he knew anything about the two of us, he’d have parted with so much so easily? I tell you, he has no idea.” As she said it, she willed herself to believe it.

“Hasn’t he?” Hurst’s impossibly handsome face wore an expression Jacquelyn didn’t like. She didn’t like it at all. “Are you certain? Because I’m certain someone’s been following me.”

“Following you? Oh, Hurst, really. I mean, you can’t think . . .” Only then did Jacquelyn’s self-assurance slip just a little. “Well. . . . He has been a bit . . . standoffish, lately.”

Hurst reached out and grasped her shoulders in a painful grip. “What do you mean?”

“Well, not to put too fine a point on it, he hasn’t wanted to . . . you know. In quite a while.” Jacquelyn hoped it didn’t show, how much this fact bothered her. She wasn’t in love with Braden Granville—heaven forbid!—but it bothered her, the fact that he no longer seemed as smitten with her as he’d once been. It bothered her more than it should.

Hurst looked alarmed. “But that won’t do. That won’t do at all. You’ve got to keep him interested, Jacks. We can’t have him calling it off.” He gave her a little shake. “Not now.”

“I know that.” She blinked at him. “Do you think I don’t know that? Don’t worry. I have a grand seduction planned.”

“When?”

“After the Dalrymples’.”

“But that’s not for—”

Jacquelyn laid a finger over his lips.

“Don’t worry,” she said, again. “Jackie has it all under control. You will wed your rich little plumber’s daughter, and I will wed my wealthy gunsmith, and the two of us will meet in secret in Biarritz every other month or so, and everything will be just the way we planned—”

Hurst let go of Jacquelyn suddenly, and leaned forward until he’d sunk his face into his hands. “Oh,” he said, into his fingers.
“God.”

“Darling?” Jacquelyn laid a hand upon his shoulder. “You don’t like Biarritz? I suppose we
could
go to Portofino, instead.”

“It’s not that,” he said, with a groan. “It’s nothing to do with that.”

“Then what is it?”

But he couldn’t tell her, of course. He’d look such a fool. And he never wanted to look that way, not in front of her.

“Darling? What is it? Do tell me.” Jacquelyn gazed concernedly down at him. As she did so, she happened to catch a glimpse of her own reflection in the dressing mirror, and she thought to herself how very well a look of concern became her. Perhaps she ought to look concerned around Granville. Then he might notice her a bit more. “Is it just that you think you’re being followed?”

Hurst sunk his fingers into his eyelids, massaging them. “Yes,” he said, into his hands. “Yes, that’s it. It’s just that I’m being followed. That’s all.”

“La, that’s nothing,” Jacquelyn said, tucking a stray curl of her midnight black hair back behind a shell-like ear. “So long as you haven’t let them see you coming from my place.”

“Of course I haven’t,” Hurst said, into his hands. “You know how careful I am. Even before I was sure, I always took care not to be seen.”

Jacquelyn smiled. “Well, then, what does it matter? As long as Granville doesn’t suspect—”

Hurst lifted his face. He wasn’t certain how much longer he could take all of this.

“But what if it isn’t Granville?” Hurst exploded. “What if it’s . . . someone else?”

Jacquelyn burst into bright, tinkling laughter. “Well, who else could it be, darling? You can’t have
two
jealous husbands-to-be after you, can you?”

“You don’t understand,” Hurst murmured, despairingly. “You don’t understand at all.”

“Understand what?” Jacquelyn tore her gaze from her reflection and looked at him. “Darling, whatever is the matter?”

He only shook his head. How could he tell her? How could he tell anyone? It was an impossible situation, and, loath as he was to admit it, it was all his own doing. But how could he have known? As a brash nineteen-year-old, he’d stumbled into it, drawn in as innocently as a lamb to the slaughter.

Well, maybe not that innocently. Lambs did not, of course, play cards.

But Lewis’s invitation had been irresistible. There weren’t many card games at Oxford that offered the kind of stakes that Hurst, an inveterate gambler, was looking for. The fact that the one Lewis mentioned took place in the back of a less-than-reputable tavern ought to have been his first clue. And the fact that the dealer called himself The Duke, when he was clearly anything but, should have sent him running.

But he’d stayed. He’d stayed because he was the best player in his circle—a circle made up of privileged, titled young men like himself—which made him believe he was the best player in the world.

But the best player in the world could not beat these fellows.

At first Hurst did not know why. He’d lost, and then he’d lost some more. And since he hadn’t had anything much to begin with—not even the promise of a few thousand pounds when he turned twenty-one, since his family had nothing, nothing except their good name and a few abbeys—he hadn’t the slightest hope of paying back what he owed.

But The Duke hadn’t been angry. In later years, Hurst had seen The Duke angry, and that night was nothing in comparison. The Duke had been quite calm. Since Hurst could not pay him back in money, he’d pay him back by taking over Lewis’s job of luring more innocent, privi leged young Oxford men—like he himself had been— into the game.

Only, The Duke had added, with a smile, it would be better if the innocents Hurst brought him actually had the funds to cover their losses.

For a while, it had not been a bad arrangement. Hurst had proved quite good at his job. And when he had finally learned why he’d lost so badly, he’d felt as if he’d been brought in on a valuable family secret. He was not even resentful. He applied himself to his task with even more vigor. It was comforting to know he was not the only young man in England who’d been so easily duped.

And when he’d finally been obliged to leave Oxford— his family’s limited funds could not be stretched far enough to allow him more than a year there—he’d continued in The Duke’s employ, advising the young Oxford-bound boys he knew of the “best game in town,” and often making the trip from town for the express purpose of escorting them to that game.

It had all been going far better than anyone—least of all Hurst, who knew himself to be quite without any employable skills whatsoever—had expected, until the night the young Earl of Bartlett had accused The Duke of cheating. Then it had all ended, in a shower of blood and bullets.

For a while he’d thought he was safe, that The Duke didn’t know . . . how could he? The two of them hardly traveled in the same circles, and The Duke certainly did not read the society pages.

But now, he was certain. He’d seen the man—the man with the walking stick, the one who’d been trying so desperately not to be seen—as he’d left his mother’s place earlier that morning. He wouldn’t have thought anything of it had he not seen the man again, outside his tailor’s.

That cinched it. He’d been found out. He was going to be made to pay for what he’d done. . . .

Because if it wasn’t Granville’s men that were following him—and, oh, how much preferable if it were!—it could only be The Duke’s. And while the thought of Granville sussing out his affair with Jackie and ruining his chances with Caroline was unsettling, the thought of The Duke finding out the truth about what he’d done was terrifying.

“Hurst, darling.” Jacquelyn sounded concerned. “Let me help. You know how good I am at making you feel better.”

He wrenched his hands away from his face. “You can’t,” he cried, aware that he sounded like a wild man, and not caring. “All right, Jackie? This is one time there’s nothing—nothing—you can do to help.”

Jacquelyn raised her eyebrows.

And without another word, she leaned down and lifted the hem of her skirt, revealing her long legs, clad in stylish lace-trimmed pantaloons. Pantaloons which, she soon showed him, were quite easily removed.

“Nothing?” Jacquelyn asked, as she brought his head down toward her lap.

Hurst gazed at the thick black patch of down between her legs. “Well,” he admitted, reflectively. “Maybe something.”