Lady in Green (11 page)

She wore a veil over her face, attached to a shallow-crowned beaver hat with green feathers at the side; only the tiniest hint of silver-blond curls peeked out beneath the brim. Just in case there was any doubt of the Fair Incognita’s status, the biggest, brawniest groom in the stable bowed low, assisted the lady onto the back of her prancing mare, and followed her down to Oxford Street and hence to Hyde Park. The fraternity of the road was a loyal bunch, or Rob would never have let Annalise out of his sight.

Miss Avery had a glorious ride, feeling freer than she had in ages. It was almost as if she could outride her problems, just gallop away on Seraphina and leave all of the distress and uncertainty behind. Nothing could destroy her sense of release this morning, not even the gentlemen just returning home from an evening’s carousal who were stopped dead in their wobbly tracks by the vision of a goddess flying past on her Arabian mare. They may have been tempted to try to stop her, to talk to her, but the fellow riding behind on a rangy bay looked like he’d be more at home on a gibbet than on a jaunt in the park. If Clarence’s scarred face and thick arms were not discouragement enough, the pistol tucked in his waistband was. The wastrels doffed their hats and reverently watched her ride away.

One fellow was not so polite, or so wise. A sporting mad young buck out exercising his stallion decided to make a race of it with the veiled equestrienne. He tried to pull ahead on his barely controlled mount so he could cut her off and force her to a halt and an introduction before any of the other early morning riders got to her. Ignoring the warning from the lady’s groom, he made a grab for her reins, shouting suggestive offers at the same time.

Annalise could not have been more disgusted if one of the park pigeons had left its calling card on her shoulder. She reached over and brought her riding crop down on the scoundrel’s gloved hand, then, when he pulled back, down on his horse’s flank. At the same time a pistol shot rang out. The unruly stallion snorted, lifted all four feet off the ground, did an about-face, and departed a few days early for the Newmarket meets. His rider didn’t make it as far as the park gate. He stood, rubbing the part of him that had landed hardest and contemplating the bullet hole in his hat. He made one last try as Annalise rode past: “You could kiss it and make it better, sweetheart!”

At least no one could see the scarlet color creeping into her cheeks. Her pleasure in the day had been stolen by the insufferable coxcomb, however, another male with as much control of his passions as over his horse. Men! Faugh!

She returned home by Rob’s prescribed circuitous routes, confirmed in the righteousness of her plans.

*

The earl’s problem was not getting Lady Moira Campbell alone; it was putting the fiery redhead off long enough to send a message to Laurel Street to make sure the place was ready.

“I don’t think this afternoon is the proper time to discuss your new carriage, my lady. My mother frowns on discussions of horseflesh over tea. Why don’t we wait for after Mrs. Hamilton’s card party tomorrow evening? That should break up early, so we’ll have ample time to make sure I know what you want.”

“I like my horses big and dark and not too tame,” the lady murmured. The dark-haired earl stirred his tea with added vigor. “Strong ones that can run all night.”

Lord Gardiner blotted at the tea on his fawn inexpressibles. “I’m certain we can find just what you’re looking for.”

Lady Moira was statuesque, Junoesque, Reubenesque—one escargot away from plump. She was also one escapade away from being cut from polite society and even closer to drowning in River Tick. She couldn’t afford a coach and four. She couldn’t afford a bag of oats. And she definitely couldn’t afford to let Ross Montclaire, Lord Gardiner, slip through her fleshy fingers. The earl was said to be on the lookout for a bride. With his reputation, no milk-and-water miss would suit him, not like a mature woman who could match his passion, yet still bear him sons. Stranger things had happened than a well-breeched young nobleman falling for a well-formed young widow’s lush charms. He might just succumb. If not, he was known to be generous to his ladyloves. She might stave off her creditors a bit longer; she might even put off forever her acceptance of that rich old satyr with damp lips and clammy hands. She much preferred a lusty young centaur with deep pockets. Oh, yes, Moira Campbell was eager to please his lordship.

*

“Good evening, my lord, my lady.” The earl’s message to the house had stated very clearly that he was bringing a lady; Annalise was not impressed that he was associating with a higher class of doxie, although she did wonder if his choice reflected their last conversation.

The housekeeper curtsied deferentially as she took the woman’s wrap. This blowzy female may be a lady, but she was certainly no better than she ought to be, with her black crepe gown cut down to there. The widow’s vibrant coloring looked spectacular in black, Annalise thought sourly, looking at her own hanging black bombazine with disgust. She might look like the hag she meant to imitate, but at least she was decently covered. “You must be chilled, my lady, it’s such a damp, cold night. There’s a nice fire in the small parlor. And, my lord, I think I made a good find in some excellent Burgundy. I’ll need your opinion, of course, before purchasing the case. If you’ll come this way?”

The parlor was snug; the Burgundy was superb. The earl had two glasses finished and half Lady Campbell’s buttons undone when he heard a scratching at the door.

“Yes? What is it, Mrs. Lee?”

“I’m sorry, Lord Gardiner,” she said from the doorway, her eyes carefully averted, “but Robbie thinks there might be a swelling in one of the horses’ forelegs.”

“Blast!” But he went to check his precious cattle.

“Would you care to wait upstairs, my lady? Perhaps you’d enjoy a relaxing bath while his lordship is busy with the horses? These things can take awhile, as I am sure you know. I can have hot water upstairs before you can say Jack Rabbit.” When Gard came back, complaining that he found no swelling and no stableman, either, Annalise was quick to tell him that Rob must have gone to the livery stable to fetch ingredients for a poultice. “You know he would not take a chance with the horses. Oh, and Lady Campbell is having a bath.”

She only raised her pointed chin a little, as if to say this was part of her tidy housekeeping. He nodded curtly and went to stand by the fire, cold again. He welcomed the glass of wine Annie put in his hand.

Annalise ran upstairs to help Lady Campbell with her bath, downstairs to tell the earl just a few minutes more and pour him another glass of Burgundy. Upstairs, downstairs. “Will that be all, my lord?”

“Yes, thank God. Ah, thank you, Annie. I’ll see to the lady now.”

Annalise’s lip curled. He’d see her, all right. The trull was lazing in the tub surrounded by bubbles, waiting for Lord Gardiner to watch her leave the water, like Venus rising from the sea. Or a fat pink sow shaking off a puddle. Annalise went back to her own rooms. Gard flew up the stairs.

Now, there was a sight that could warm any man’s blood. Except that Ross was still a trifle chilled. He held the towel and Moira flowed into it, not so quickly that he couldn’t see she was a natural redhead after all, disproving his doubts. But that rosy skin, that fiery triangle. Ah, the heat rose in his face, at least.

“Come to bed, my centaur,” she urged, unbuttoning his marcella waistcoat, letting the towel fall to the floor between them. Soon his shirt followed. “Hurry, my charger, I want to ride.” And his dove-gray pantaloons. “I want to gallop with the wind, my noble mount, my stallion.” Finally his smallclothes. My gelding?

Moira shrugged. The earl took another drink from the bottle he’d carried upstairs. “Just a little cold,” he apologized.

“I’ll warm you soon enough,” she said, getting into the bed and holding out her arms.

’Faith, she was inviting. Not just a tasty morsel, she was a whole feast, laid out just for him. Why was his appetite not rising to the occasion? Because instead of her lush charms he saw his blasted housekeeper’s sidewalk-straight chest. Instead of flowing auburn locks he saw an awful, dingy cap. And instead of Moira’s full red lips he saw Annie’s pursed-up, pinched-together mouth, frowning in disapproval. Or worse, smirking in secret enjoyment. Let the old stick enjoy this, he thought,
throwing himself into Moira’s eager embrace, returning kiss for kiss, caress for caress.

Soon they were both damp and breathing hard. Moira had twice crested the great steeplechase hurdle and feigned a third. The earl had not yet left the gate.

“My Earl en Garde,” Moira panted in his ear. “I have yet to be pierced by your famous sword. Show me your weapon,” she gasped. “I long for your forged steel.”

Unfortunately, that particular dagger stayed in its scabbard. The earl’s lance couldn’t have made an indentation in a feather pillow. Blade, bayonet, broadsword—there wasn’t enough mettle to make a butter knife.

Moira did not give up. Her hair hanging in moist tendrils, she tried tricks no Haymarket whore would do, to the embarrassment of them both. Nothing. Then she laughed. And kept laughing all the way down the stairs, where Annie held the door open for her.

Chapter Twelve

His
life was over. There would be no pleasure. Ever. No children. Ever. So this was his punishment for a life of sin, being cut down in his prime. He should have listened to his mother and ensured the succession years before. Now, most likely his father would come visit
him
in the middle of the night. Lord knew, no one else was going to.

Gard checked under the covers. No soldier stood at attention. “Traitor!” he cried. “Deserter!” Near tears, he drank straight from the bottle of wine, not bothering to find a glass. Maybe he should see a physician? Maybe he should join a monastery. Lord, the closest he’d ever get to a woman again was with a drawing pencil—one with lead in it! If he got up, he could go visit the foundling hospital on the other end of Bloomsbury, see all the little nippers no one wanted—no one but a man who would never have his own.

No, he thought, if he got up, he might have to face Annie and her knowing smile. His life was hard enough. It was the only thing that was.

Jupiter, how was he ever going to face Lady Campbell? She wasn’t some chance-met cyprian he’d never see again. She was part of the beau monde. He was bound to encounter her at every ball, rout party, and breakfast his mother dragged him to. The theater, the opera, not even the farthest-flung of his properties was far enough away to make a safe haven. The woman was always invited to country parties. What could he say? What could she say? Then again, she might find a lot to say—to everyone else. What if Moira Campbell were a gossip?

Oh, God, all women were gossips!

It was all Annie Lee’s fault, of course, that he’d picked a prime article from the polite world instead of his usual opera dancers and actresses. Hell, Corinne could have slept through the whole debacle and woke with a smile on her lips. But no, there was Annie with her long-nosed insinuations that his soiled doves were befouling her roost. Her roost! He laughed, but it came out more a sob. Quit whining, she’d said when he complained about the flea bites. Would she tell him to keep a stiff upper lip now, too?

Gard drank the last of the wine and lay in a sodden stupor, telling himself that he’d get up and go home when he was sure the old bat had gone to sleep. He stayed awake, breathing in the nauseating mixture of sweat and heavy perfume, afraid to shut his eyes. He knew he’d hear Moira’s laughter in his nightmares, that and Annie’s “Good night, my lady. Thank you for coming.”

*

“All right, missy, I want to know what you did to that poor bloke. I brought me a peacock and his game pullet to the house, and I took home a cackling hen. Hours later I get to half carry a bird what’s like to cock his toes up. Plucked and ready for the pot, he looked. I want to know what’s going on, chickie.”

Annalise was in her riding habit, the black cape buttoned securely over it so no green showed. She was getting warm in the stable, warm under the ex-highwayman’s steady regard. “Don’t be silly, Rob. I just keep house, remember?”

“And I’ve known you since you was in pinafores, remember? I mistrust that dancin’ light in your eyes. Tells me you’ve been up to no good. Just how bad have you been, is what I want to hear.” He made no move to follow her when she stepped impatiently to the door, just stayed seated on an upturned keg, polishing harness.

So Annalise told him. About the sleeping powder in the wine and the fleas in the bed.

“And?”

“And…I gave the earl an inhibitor.”

“An inhibitor?” Rob sounded it out. “You gave him something to inhibit his—gor blimey, you didn’t, girl!”

She nodded and picked up the harness he’d dropped.

“You took the charge out of his pistol? The wind out of his sail? The fire out of his furnace? That’s downright evil. Why, I knows body snatchers as wouldn’t sink so low.”

Annalise shook the reins under her friend’s nose. “He is not going to carry on in this house while I am under this roof!”

Rob shook his head. “Little harmless fun is one thing. Give him somethin’ to think about besides his rod. But diddlin’ him out of it altogether is a whole nother kettle of fish, chickie. I ain’t going to be party to filchin’ any fellow’s manhood.”

“Gammon. I didn’t steal anything. I didn’t even borrow it! That insufferable man’s manhood is the last thing I’d want! I simply discouraged him, temporarily, so maybe he’ll go away and leave us in peace.”