Rules for Being a Mistress (36 page)

Lady Dalrymple snatched the glasses from her daughter.

The black gown set off Miss Vaughn’s white skin to perfection, and its tight corseting worked wonders on her slim figure, but it was all very—

“Shocking!” she gasped.

All eyes were now trained on the gilt-latticed box the Duke of Kellynch had hired for the evening. The gentlemen stared, shocked. The ladies stared, shocked.

Then everyone began to talk at once.

Apparently oblivious to the uproar she had touched off, Miss Vaughn stood for a moment, calmly adjusting the straps of her gown. Lifting her eyes upward, she studied the four compartments of the ceiling, which featured some famous paintings by Cassalie. She studied them long and hard, supremely indifferent to the fact that she was being lecherously ogled by every man in the theater. Kellynch begged her to be seated.

“Let them look,” she replied. “The creatures,” she added contemptuously. She gave them a few minutes more to enjoy the spectacle, then she sat down with her white arms folded on the edge of the box. “Let them suffer.”

On his side of the theater, Benedict found it difficult to contain his rage. That dress was never meant to be worn by any woman other than Cherry, nor seen by any eyes other than his own. It was to be enjoyed by the lovers in perfect privacy, and not displayed on Miss Vaughn for the shock and amusement of all Bath.

Cherry had betrayed him.

Either she had brought the dress to Miss Vaughn or she had given Miss Vaughn the key to his house, allowing her to get it herself. He did not care very much that Miss Vaughn was making a spectacle of herself, but Cherry’s betrayal was a deep and painful wound.

“You must excuse me,” he informed his companions, Lady Serena and Lord Ludham. “I am feeling unwell.” He left the box, then the theater, and walked, almost carried off by fury, to the heights of Camden Place.

Coward,
Cosima thought contemptuously.
The least he could do is sit and look at me and suffer like a man.
“And you call yourself an Irishman,” she sneered aloud.

“What did
I
do?” Kellynch asked Allie, who merely shrugged.

“Will the play never begin?” she complained. “Don’t they know it’s my birthday? Don’t they care?”

The Duke of Kellynch signaled to the manager, who was standing nervously on the stage in front of the curtain. The crowd grew still, and the noise subsided from a roar to a murmur.

“Cosy!”

A man had found his way into the duke’s private box, but it was not the man she wanted.

“Marcus!” she said, annoyed. “You should be with Rose.”

His handsome face was almost white with rage as he stalked into the box. “Excuse me, Your Grace,” he said, his voice tightly controlled. “I would like to have a word with my cousin in private!” Without waiting for an answer, he dragged Cosima out of the box into the elegant suite of rooms attached to it. “Are you trying to give every man in Bath an erection?” he demanded furiously, pushing her against the wall.

Cosima began to cry.

Instantly contrite, Westlands wiped her tears away. “I don’t mean to be such a beast. I know you’re hurt because I’m engaged to Rose, darling,” he went on gently. “But it’s only a sham. I love
you,
Cosy. I’ve always loved you. Since we were children…Do you remember? You thought marrying me would make you a marchioness, because I was a Marcus?”

She sighed impatiently. “That was a hundred years ago, Marcus. We were children.”

“I’ve had my fun,” he said. “I don’t pretend I’ve been a monk, but, I swear, I always knew I’d come back to you in the end. Just be patient, my love. I
will
marry you, over my father’s objections, if need be. If he cuts off my allowance, I’ll borrow against my expectations. I am his heir; nothing can change that.”

He began to caress her, using his right hand. The man she loved didn’t have a right hand. She tried to wriggle from his grasp. “No,” she murmured, catching her breath in dismay as he pushed her back against the wall and kissed her. Because she wanted to be punished, she ceased to struggle and allowed his kiss. But she could not return it, and when his lips left hers, she turned her face away and went back to the box to watch the play.

“I’m ready to sell,” she whispered to Kellynch. “I’ll sell you Castle Argent. I don’t want it anymore. I don’t want to be tied to anything anymore. I want to be free.”

He looked at her in astonishment.

She must really love this boy Westlands,
he thought.

For some reason, he had thought she was in love with the older, gray-eyed man.

“Is it yourself, Sir Benedict?” Jackson inquired pleasantly. He had taken advantage of the ladies’ absence and reeked of whiskey. “Sure the family has all gone out this night.”

“I want to see Cherry,” he said, pushing his way into the hall.

Jackson looked at him in astonishment.

“Never mind,” Benedict said angrily. “I’ll find her myself.”

He went all over the house, and looked into every room, including the attic and the kitchen. The tortoiseshell cat curled up in the chair opened one green eye and rolled lazily onto its back. Returning to the scene of his first humiliation did nothing to improve Benedict’s temper.

“Where is she?” Benedict demanded of the bewildered Jackson. “Where is she hiding?”

“They’ve all gone to theater with himself,” Jackson replied. “Even Nora, to wait on her ladyship.”

“I want Cherry,” Benedict said sharply. “Short red hair. The illegitimate one?”

“The what?”

“Damn it, man! The love-child!”

Jackson was offended. “Love-child, indeed!” he said with cold dignity. “And you call yourself a gentleman.”

Seething, Benedict walked through the park to his own house. As he unlocked the gate on his side of the street, it occurred to him that perhaps Cherry was waiting for him in the study as usual. He ran up the steps to the house and fitted his key in the lock.

“Good evening, Sir Benedict,” Pickering said smoothly. “You are home early.”

“Is she here?” his master demanded.

Pickering blinked at him. “Who?”

Benedict held his temper in check and went silently into his study. She wasn’t there. Nor was she in the bedroom. The note was propped against the brandy decanter. How well she knows me, he thought bitterly.

The note was simple in its cruelty, with careless, slanting dashes instead of punctuation.

Cherry Vaughn, he knew, was too generous and loving ever to have written such a note. It could only have been written by the ruthless Cosy Vaughn. He walked out of his house and back into the park. He waited for Kellynch’s carriage to appear.

The evening had been too much for Lady Agatha and her youngest child. They had both fallen asleep on the way home. Kellynch carried Allegra into the house himself, while his footman carried Lady Agatha up the steps. Miss Vaughn was the last to enter the house. A few moments later, the Duke of Kellynch and his footman departed.

Cosima went up to her room, opened the window, and leaned out. The taper in her hand drenched her pale hair and creamy skin in a warm, golden orange glow. Her unsurprised face as he left the shadows told him that she had known he would come. He could have killed her.

“My mother is sleeping downstairs,” she warned him. “So don’t you dare shout at me.”

“You have something that belongs to me,” he snarled at her.

“Oh, yes, of course,” she murmured, setting down her candle. It took her a moment to loosen the laces enough to free her body from the black dress. She made a ball of the satin and flung it out of the window. It landed a little short of the street, and hung on the wrought iron gate in front of her house. The cold, clean night air caressed her body, hardening the nipples of her breasts. As she lifted the candle again, he could see that she was naked.

Unless it was being eaten by dogs, Miss Vaughn’s naked body had no power to please him. “Where is she?” he demanded. “What have you done with her?”

“What are you looking at?” she suddenly demanded.

A constable of the Watch stood next to Benedict, looking up at the naked girl curiously.

“Constable, you may go,” Benedict said harshly. “Nothing to see here.”

The constable seemed to disagree.

“Move along, Constable,” Benedict snapped, “or I’ll have you arrested for eavesdropping on a private conversation.”

The watchman wisely withdrew. In his line of work, it didn’t pay to offend the gentry.

Miss Vaughn hadn’t budged from the window.

“Tell you what,” she said agreeably. “I’ll sell her to you.”

“What?”

“That’s what you do with a whore,” she said pleasantly. “You sell her, don’t you?”

His mouth twisted. “Name your price.”

“No,” she insisted, leaning out the window. “
You
name your price. How much is the girl worth to you?”

Four days later, the arrangements had been made with his bank. Benedict went to Lady Matlock’s house to take his formal leave of Bath, interrupting the waltzing-lesson. “We are very sorry to see you go, Sir Benedict,” said Lady Matlock, suppressing a yawn. “But, I daresay, you must go and pay your respects to your grandmama in Ireland.”

“Er…yes, of course,” he murmured. In fact, he had no thought of doing any such thing. He had no idea where he was going or how long he would be gone. Miss Vaughn had not yet told him where he could find Cherry. He murmured something about family duty.

Now I am a liar,
he thought grimly.
A liar, as well as a hypocrite.

He took his leave of Serena. “You must invite your Irish relations to our wedding, Sir Benedict,” she said in a tone that suggested she hoped none of them would be able to attend.

Lord Ludham cheerfully promised to look after Serena while Benedict was gone.

Last of all, Benedict turned to Miss Vaughn.

“Miss Vaughn.”

He bowed to her. She was wearing the dress that looked like mattress ticking. Her pale hair was neatly braided with pin-curls on her brow. She looked harmless and demure as she curtseyed. “Have you got my money?” she asked quietly.

“The papers have been delivered to your house,” he answered in a low voice. He had signed his inheritance over to her, the princely sum of thirty thousand pounds. “All you have to do is sign. Now tell me where I’m going.”

She smiled at him. “Did you not hear? You’re going to Ireland to pay your respects to your grandmother. If you hurry, you just might overtake Kellynch. He left about two hours ago.”

“She’s gone back to Ireland then?”

“Where else?” said Miss Vaughn.

Lady Matlock’s voice pierced the illusion of privacy. “What are you doing there so secretly with Miss Vaughn, Sir Benedict?”

Benedict stepped away. “I was just asking Miss Vaughn if there might be some service I could perform for her while I am visiting her native country.”

“Oh, fetch her harp!” cried Lady Matlock at once. “I’m sure if you brought her harp from Castle Argent, she would play for us.”

Benedict was sardonic. “I would be honored. Whereabouts
is
Castle Argent?”

She shrugged. “Oh, you know. West of Dublin, east of Galway City.”

His lips thinned. “Somewhere between Malin Head and Mizen Head?”

She smiled faintly. “You can’t miss it.”

“Believe me, I won’t,” he said coldly.

To his surprise, Miss Vaughn followed him out.

“Cousin Ben?” she called.

He paused on the stairs and looked at her silently.

“You’ll want to take the Grand Canal from Dublin, and get off at Ballyvaughn. That way you won’t get lost,” she said sheepishly. She had meant to keep herself aloof of him, and remain at the top of the stairs, but her feet, as if possessed by a will of their own, were straying toward him one step at a time. She couldn’t bear to think what might happen to him in Ireland if he got lost in the countryside. Some of those bogtrotters had no manners.

“It’s a short walk from Ballyvaughn to Castle Argent. And don’t mind the dog,” she added. “She’ll knock you down and lick your face, but she’ll never hurt you. Her name is Dolphin, but we call her Dolly. Take this with you,” she added, now close enough to give him her handkerchief. “Keep it in your pocket, and she’ll know you’re a friend.”

“Yes, Mother,” he said rudely.

Taking the square from her, he used it to blow his nose.

“Bastard,” she said dispassionately.

“Bitch,” he muttered, turning away.

Sadly, his manners had sharply declined since meeting Miss Vaughn.

It was good that he was leaving Bath,
Cosima told herself. By the time he returned, the fire between them would have burned itself out. When he returns, he will be just another man to me. Soon enough, a married man. Serena will take him to London and there it all would end.

But, for now, she felt like a bereaved widow.

When Benedict reached the Welsh coast the following night, the choppy Irish Sea was in no mood to be crossed, and he was forced to put up for the night at one of the local inns and wait for the morning packet to Dublin. When he went down to dinner, he found the Duke of Kellynch dining alone. “Lord Oranmore! So you decided to go to Dublin and claim your inheritance after all,” the duke greeted him. “Good for you!”

“I am not Lord Oranmore,” Benedict said firmly, taking his seat at a separate table.

“I see,” said Kellynch. “Incognito, eh? Would you care to join me for dinner?”

Benedict studied the bill of fare studiously. “No, I thank you.”

“I’m having the duck,” Kellynch told him loudly. “I daresay if it were an English title, you’d have lost no time claiming it,” he went on, “but as it is only an Irish title, it is of no consequence to you. Would it interest you to know that your grandfather left behind a fortune of five hundred thousand pounds? Hmmm?”

The lady at the table next to His Grace gave an involuntary gasp.

Benedict reluctantly left his table and sat down at Kellynch’s. Anything to shut the man up. “You go from nonsense to nonsense, sir. I am
not
Lord Oranmore, and my grandfather had nothing like five hundred thousand pounds. How could he? That is an absurd sum.”

“It
is
an absurd sum,” Kellynch agreed. “It makes me angry whenever I think of it. Of course, every landowner in Ireland was compensated for his boroughs when the Act of Union passed in oh-one. My father got his fair share of the windfall. But your grandfather was unique in that he regarded it as a bribe—flatly refused to spend a penny of it. Didn’t stop him from taking it, mind you. He just wouldn’t spend it. Instead, he invested it. Probably, it was looking at all those zeds that carried him off in the end. You’re lucky.
My
father gambled all his boroughs money away in the first year.”

“I daresay it will take my cousin Ulick more than a year to gamble away five hundred thousand pounds,” Benedict said dryly.

“Ulick? He’ll be doing no gambling this side of hell.”

“Good Lord,” Benedict said, startled. “Did Ulick die?”

“In a Barrack Street brothel with a smile on his mug. Of course, that’s not
exactly
how your grandmother decided his obituary should read in the
Times
of Ireland.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. His son must be, what, eleven or twelve by now? I trust he has sound guardians to watch over him.”

Kellynch shook his head sadly. “Poor lad! He never saw the age of seven, let alone eleven. Fever carried him off, along with his poor mother. The two daughters were left unscathed. Sure they’re fine young ladies now, your cousins. Nuala and Glorvina.”

Benedict waited without comment while the waiter served the meal.

“That is very sad,” he said carefully. “However, my uncle must be pleased.”

“There’s not a lot of pleasure to be had in the cemetery,” Kellynch said. “Not below ground anyway.”

“Cousin Tom?”

Kellynch shook his head. “Don’t ask.”

“So you’re saying that
I’m
Lord Oranmore? Why was I not informed?”

“Your grandmother would move heaven and earth to cut you out of the succession, that’s why. Lady Angela Redmund could have married the richest man in Ireland, but one of those Richmond girls snapped him up when your mother married that English fellow. Your grandmother never spoke to her daughter after that. Now, she’s married Glorvina to some chinless wonder in the hopes the union will produce male issue before
you
come traipsing into Ireland with your greedy aspirations.”

Kellynch chuckled. “Unbeknownst to her ladyship, poor Gerald had the misfortune of insulting Cosy Vaughn one night at Dublin Castle. Her brothers took him to Phoenix Park and put some manners on him. He won’t be cutting the mustard any time soon.”

Benedict frowned. “I suppose that sort of thing happens quite often in Ireland.”

“Not to the Lord Mayor’s son, it doesn’t!” For a moment, the duke looked wistful. “Ah, but they were a breed apart, Larry and Sandy Vaughn. What they did to young Lord Lucan—! But his death was not entirely in vain. The creatures were more apt to be respectful of Miss Vaughn after that.”

“And their other sister as well,” said Benedict.

“Allie? Sure, she’s too young for all that. Thank God!”

The meal was finished in silence.

“By the way,” the duke went on, as they went out to the lounge to enjoy brandy and cigars. “She’s agreed to sell me the house. After swearing up and down she wouldn’t. But that’s a woman for you. The answer’s always no, until it’s yes, eh? They have us by the balls from the minute we’re born until the minute we die. Funny thing is, I actually have the money, for I’ve just sold my house in Dublin. Now all I have to do is convince my mother to move out.”

Benedict stared. “Miss Vaughn agreed to sell you Castle Argent?”

“Aye. Fifty thousand pounds! ’Tis highway robbery.”

Benedict pressed his lips together. Before leaving Bath, he had signed over to Miss Vaughn thirty thousand pounds. If she had agreed to sell Castle Argent to Kellynch, it was not because she desperately needed funds. The woman was a greedy, scheming bitch. The sooner he got Cherry away from her, the better.

Wouldn’t Cherry be delighted when she found out that her lover was Lord Oranmore, with a staggering fortune of five hundred thousand pounds? And wouldn’t Miss Vaughn gnash her teeth?

“I admit I was surprised,” said Kellynch. “Cosy Vaughn is as stubborn as a mule! But, I suppose, love has made her see the light at long last.”

“Love?” Benedict scoffed. “Miss Vaughn?”

Kellynch laughed. “That young lad of Lord Wayborn’s. What’s his name—Waylands?”

“Westlands.”

“He came to the box that night at the theater and had a bit of a chat with his pretty little cousin. All of a sudden, she said she’d sell me the house. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out she’s reached an understanding with this Wetlands boy.”

“Westlands,” Benedict corrected him automatically.

“He’ll be breaking it off with that poor girl Rose any minute now,” Kellynch sighed. “For there’s no getting between Cosy Vaughn and what she wants.”

“Between ourselves, we’ve given her a handsome dowry, too!” Benedict said bitterly.

The next morning, the Irish Sea was smooth as glass, and the mail packet crossed without any difficulty, decanting its passengers in Dublin in time for tea. “My wife is sure to have sent a carriage for me,” said Kellynch, moving with surprising speed around some bags of wool on the dock. “Come; I’ll set you down at Saint Stephen’s Green. Oran House is on the west side, in French Walk, in case you don’t know. The three front windows are broken forward under a pediment. You can’t miss it.”

Benedict declined, and, leaving Pickering to deal with the luggage, he left the docks and walked into Dublin, ignoring the hordes of boisterous, dirty children who crowded around him, offering to do any mortal thing for a penny. Try as they might, they could not make themselves as pathetic as their London counterparts. Benedict could almost suspect that they were begging as a competitive sport, their tales of misery were so wildly inventive, and they told them with such sparkling eyes. Also, their dirty cheeks were suspiciously rosy. The dregs of London were too miserable to tell stories.

He walked west, following the River Liffey to the center of Dublin, where stately mansions with elegant facades faced the river, in marked contrast to the eastern limits, where the houses had their backs to the river. Turning south, he walked past the spires of Trinity College to Saint Stephen’s Square. Oran House stood across from a long promenade shaded by lime trees. Its brass name plate was almost completely covered in ivy, but its distinctive architecture made it easy to find.

A very proper English butler in black livery answered the bell. Benedict took out his card, then hesitated. He was no longer Sir Benedict Wayborn, as it said on the card. The full implications of this suddenly hit him. He would be obliged to give up his seat in the House of Commons, and take his grandfather’s place in the House of Lords. There he would be as the lone voice crying out in the wilderness, a reformer surrounded by Tory conservatives.

“What name shall I give her ladyship?” the butler coldly inquired.

“Lord Oranmore.”

“Lord Oranmore,” the butler said severely, “is dead. Perhaps you noticed the black crepe on the knocker?”

“I’m new,” Benedict explained. “I’ve just arrived from England to take possession. I haven’t had a chance to get any new cards printed up.”

The butler’s eyes flickered. “In that case, my lord, her ladyship will be delighted if you join the family for tea in the drawing-room.”