Guilty Series (92 page)

“Quite. Prince Cesare also desires to strengthen his alliance with us, and feels an English husband for her would be best. Catholic, though, of course. We have agreed to assist. She's already in London anyway. Get the girl launched into English society and find some suitable Catholic peer to marry her. Cesare gives you carte blanche. You will then assist his government's envoy and the groom's family in making the negotiations of the marriage settlement. They will be substantial, for the prince is providing an enormous dowry and
income to get her off his hands. Before he goes home in October, Cesare expects a wedding. You will make that happen.”

Lovely. A long and illustrious career of preventing wars, negotiating vital trade agreements, and preserving treaties had come to this. “Finding a husband for her could be handled by anyone in the diplomatic corps. She is rebellious and troublesome, I grant you. She's illegitimate, and her reputation has now been a bit damaged, but she does possess royal blood. The House of Medina isn't the richest principality in Europe, but it isn't the poorest either. Is she homely?”

“Quite the contrary. I'm told she's very pretty.”

“Well, there you are. The girl's pretty, the father's a prince, there's plenty of money for a dowry. Despite her indiscretions, I'm sure there are prominent Catholic families in Britain who would be willing to connect with the House of Bolgheri through marriage. Especially with such a generous income from Cesare.”

“Yes, but the prince insists that the girl's husband be a peer and possess substantial estates. No fortune hunters.”

“I daresay, but surely there is someone already at Whitehall who could arrange all this. Why do you need me?”

“Cesare has asked for you specifically. He holds you in very high esteem and trusts your judgment. You are also well-respected by every peer in Britain, and you would facilitate matters nicely. Bolgheri is a desirable alliance for us, as
you are well aware, and this marriage would further strengthen our influence on the Italian peninsula. We agreed to put your skills at Cesare's disposal. You do need a holiday, and you'll be in London anyway. It's perfect all round.”

Perfect was not how Ian would have described it. “Ten years of faithful service to my country, and I am reduced to this.”

“There's more.” Stanton gave an apologetic little cough. “You won't like it.”

“I am now a marriage broker for wayward girls,” he muttered, jerking at his cravat. “I already don't like it.”

“Her mother is Francesca.”

“Good God. You mean to tell me that this girl's mother, Prince Cesare's former mistress, is England's most infamous courtesan?”

“Not quite so infamous nowadays. She's nearly fifty.”

“She's been the toast of London for years. She has bedded more peers and ruined more fortunes than I can count. From what I hear, she's bankrupting Lord Chesterfield nowadays.”

“All that's quite true, I'm afraid.”

“Well, there you are.” Ian tried to dredge up the discretion for which he was so well-known and the diplomatic finesse that had made him such a valuable asset to the British Empire, but for the life of him, he could not manage it at this moment. “What gentleman is going to want England's most notorious demimondaine for a mother-in-law, especially when the odds are he's
bedded her himself? As to the daughter, from the way she's managed her life thus far, that scandal-ridden girl seems more suited to follow in her mother's footsteps than to become the wife of a British peer. At least that's what any gentleman I approach on her behalf is going to think. With a mother like Francesca, where am I going to find the daughter a titled husband with money, and a Catholic one, at that?”

“Cesare's orders are that the girl be removed from her mother's house and that there be no further contact with the woman. Seems the mother visited Lucia often when she was in those French finishing schools, and Cesare feels her influence is part of the reason the girl has turned out so wild.”

“No doubt, but—”

“Lucia is to be placed with a suitable chaperone and launched into English society while you search for an amenable groom and facilitate introductions.”

“What of the girl? Does she have any say in the choice of her bridegroom?”

“No. His position, suitability, and willingness to marry her are what matter. Cesare trusts you to find the best match.”

Ian was not flattered.

Stanton held out a sheaf of documents to him. “Here are your official orders from the Prime Minister, along with the specifics of Cesare's dower and a dossier of the girl's life.”

“Such a coup for my diplomatic career,” he
muttered with a tinge of bitterness as he took the documents.

“We have every confidence you will fulfill this assignment with your usual skill, Sir Ian.” Stanton stood up with an air of finality. “We know you will do your duty.”

Those words were a sharp reminder. Ian rose to his feet. He cleared his throat, straightened his cravat back to its original perfect knot, and with an effort, recovered his poise. “I always do my duty, Lord Stanton.”

With a stiff bow, he departed, but his duty did not stop him from spending the journey from Gibraltar to London cursing troublesome Italian girls and international politics.

 

Lucia loved living with Francesca. They shopped and talked and spent countless hours together. Deprived of her mother for all but a few short visits each year throughout most of her life, she felt that she and Mamma were a real family at last.

Francesca was a charming hostess with a small, intimate circle of friends. Her current lover, Lord Chesterfield, a confirmed bachelor, won Lucia's approval at once because he was so obviously besotted with her mother. Being of the demimonde, Francesca cared little for the conventions of society. She also liked nothing better than scandalizing the respectable ladies of the ton.

For her part, Lucia was thoroughly enjoying herself. She was allowed to do what she liked
and go where she wished, and she found that freedom lived up to all her expectations. Her mother gave her a generous allowance and all sorts of delightful suggestions on how to spend it. If anyone knew how to spend money, it was Francesca.

But one afternoon when Lucia had plans to go to Bond Street, she entered her mother's bedchamber to see if Francesca desired to accompany her and found the other woman already occupied. She was being fitted into a blue velvet riding habit by her modiste.

“I'm afraid I can't go with you today, darling. I have all sorts of plans. For one thing, my new riding habit has just arrived.”

“So I see.” Lucia studied her mother for a moment, appreciating how well the royal blue color complemented Francesca's dark auburn hair. She also noticed that the modiste was not simply fitting the riding habit, but was in fact stitching the pieces of it together right on Francesca's still-slender body, thereby achieving a skintight garment that would surely cause a scandal. “Are you wearing anything underneath that, Mamma?”

“Not a thing,” Francesca answered, lifting her arm so that the modiste could stitch the side seam of the bodice into place over her bare skin. “Shocking, aren't I?”

Lucia walked over to the bed and fell back into the soft pillows lining the carved headboard. “Very shocking,” she agreed in amusement. “But that won't stop the English ladies from rushing
out to copy it. They'll all be getting stitched into their riding habits within a week.”

“Exactly. But just as they begin to wear this fashion, I shall be on to something else.”

Even at the age of forty-nine, no longer at the height of her beauty and with a few lights of silver in her hair, Francesca's daring but faultless fashion sense still held sway over the respectable ladies of the ton.

Lucia smiled. “I suppose you already have some new sensation in mind?”

“Of course,” Francesca answered as a maid entered the boudoir with a calling card in her hand. “That carriage Chesterfield ordered for me will be here in less than a fortnight. It has mother-of-pearl inlaid on the doors and the ride—oh, Lucia, Chesterfield assures me it has the smoothest chassis you can imagine. I shall wear the fullest skirt I can find so that it billows all around me—a white skirt, I think—and I shall glide upon the Row like a swan glides upon the water. Not now, Parker,” she added in English as the maid held out the calling card to her. “Heavens, can't you see I'm only half-dressed? I couldn't possibly see anyone now.”

“The gentleman claims he is here on a matter of great importance,” the maid replied. “He says that you were given to expect his arrival. Shall I have Mr. Fraser tell him you have gone out?”

Francesca shifted her position as the modiste moved to stitch up the other side of her bodice, then she glanced at the card. “Oh, dear, he's
downstairs now? I've mixed things up, for I thought he was coming tomorrow—” She broke off and gave Lucia a rather furtive glance. “Tell him—umm—tell him I shall be down in a few minutes.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Parker set the man's card on the dressing table, curtsied, and departed.

“Who is he?” Lucia asked, her mother's odd glance at her a moment before making her curious.

“Oh, I don't know, darling,” Francesca answered. “Go on to Bond Street and enjoy yourself.” She tilted her head to look down at the modiste, who was on her knees stitching the gusset together under Francesca's arm. “Annabel, you must hurry. It doesn't do to keep a man waiting too long, especially when it's a matter of business. They get so impatient, poor dears.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Annabel murmured around a mouthful of pins.

“A matter of business?” Lucia repeated, more curious than ever. “Are you breaking with Chesterfield?”

“Not that sort of business.” Francesca turned toward the mirror. “He wants to see me about some legal matter.”

“What legal matter?”

“Oh, I don't know. Something deadly dull, I'm sure.” She waved a hand toward the door. “Take the carriage to Bond Street. Since I'll be riding horseback to Hyde Park, I won't need it. Go on, now.”

Lucia frowned, becoming suspicious. Her mother's manner was decidedly odd, almost eager to have her gone. She stood up and walked to the dressing table, taking the card before her mother could guess her intent and pick it up.

“Sir Ian Moore,” she read aloud. “Ian Moore. I know that name.” Her frown deepened as she tried to recall why it was familiar. When she looked at the card again and read his title, she knew. “He's the British ambassador who arranged for Elena to marry an Austrian duke. What is he doing here?”

“I told you, I don't know. A note came from someone at Whitehall that he would be coming to call, and I should expect him.” She gestured to the card. “I can't refuse to see him. He is an ambassador.”

“Elena's never even met that duke, and she's being forced to marry him to strengthen alliances. She's devastated about it.”

“Indeed?” murmured Francesca as she picked up a blue velvet hat from the dressing table and put it on. “I wouldn't know anything about that. You know how bad I am about politics.”

Lucia looked up and studied her mother's reflection in the mirror, watching as Francesca tipped her hat first one way and then another on her head, trying to determine the most flattering angle. It did not escape her notice that her mother would not meet her gaze in the mirror. With sudden clarity, Lucia knew exactly what that British ambassador was doing here.

“They're going to marry me off, aren't they? Just like they're doing with Elena.” She could see the truth in her mother's face. “Aren't they?”

Francesca sighed, took off the hat, and tossed it over Annabel's head onto a nearby chair. “I didn't want you to know anything about it until after I had talked with him myself.”

“That is why he's here, though, isn't it?” Lucia's blood began to boil.

“He is here about the possibility of a marriage for you, yes. Oh, darling,” she added on a sigh as she studied her daughter's face, “you've always wanted a home of your own, marriage, and babies. When you were a little girl, I can't think how many times we used to plan your wedding, and dolls were the only toys you ever wanted to play with. Please don't say that episode with Armand has sworn you off love, and you intend to be a spinster, for I know you too well to believe it. Besides, I should hate not to have any grandchildren.”

“Of course I want to get married, but I have no intention of letting Cesare arrange that marriage for me! I intend to choose my own husband, and I'm going to tell this oily little diplomat to pass that message along.” Her fist tightening around his calling card, Lucia turned and started for the door.

“Don't do anything rash,” her mother pleaded after her. “Moore is a powerful ambassador. He has enormous influence. Remember what I've always told you. Honey catches more flies than vinegar.”

“Oh, I will be as sweet as honey,” Lucia promised, “when I tell him to go to hell.” Ignoring her mother's exasperated groan, Lucia started downstairs to the drawing room.

 

Ian would have thought that Francesca, the most notorious demirep in England, would possess a house in keeping with her flamboyant reputation. In this, he could not have been more wrong.

The home in which she lived was a quiet, discreet address in Cavendish Square, her butler was as dignified and impeccable as a servant could be, and her drawing room was an elegant, thoroughly English one of slate blue and willow green, with a painted porcelain shepherdess on the mantel, a landscape by Turner on the wall, and a beautiful Axminster carpet on the floor. Everything seemed designed for solid comfort, not for show. Of course, it was Chesterfield, Francesca's current protector, who paid the bills, and Chesterfield was a very conventional fellow.