Scandalous Brides: In Scandal in Venice\The Spanish Bride (20 page)

“I do not think she could have been stopped. Once your friend has set her mind to something it cannot be turned.”

Elizabeth laughed, and tucked the precious letter into her reticule, to be savored later, when she was alone. “No, that is true. Well, I shall be very happy to see her regardless.”

“But how are you, Elizabeth? Are you well?”

“Me? Well enough. As you can see, Derbyshire is hardly Venice, but I am busy. There are dinners and musicales almost every evening.”

“I thought you were in costume when I first saw you this evening!” He gestured toward her white gown.

“Oh, you mean this gown? I thought my black velvet not quite suited to the evening!” Elizabeth fluffed up her skirt, and smiled.

They were silent for a moment, listening to the Havershams’ eldest daughter mangle a Mozart concerto on the pianoforte, then Stephen said, “You are not happy, Elizabeth.”

She let her bright mask slip at last, and the corners of her mouth turned down. “No.”

“You are not suited to this life.”

“Not in the least! I miss my work desperately.”

“I know how you can escape.”

“Do you?” Elizabeth laughed mirthlessly. “Then pray tell me, Stephen. I have been racking my brain for a way for weeks.”

He knelt beside her, and took her hand in his. “You could marry me.”

Chapter Eighteen

I
t was by no means the most elegant brothel in London.

Smoke hung heavy in the air. The drink was watered, the green velvet upholstery and carpets were a bit shabby and threadbare, and the gilt of the mirrors’ frames was chipped in spots. The “ladies” wore far too much paint, and the lace trim on their shifts was quite dingy (not that one could see that in the faint candlelight). Their faces were harsh, their laughter even harsher.

The patrons were scarcely any better-looking. These were not the dandies and the titled gentlemen who frequented Madame de Sevigny’s establishment across town. These were low-level tradesmen, dock workers, sailors, smugglers. Baths were a rare occurrence for these men, and brawls frequent.

And the most disreputable sight in the entire room was Sir Nicholas Hollingsworth.

He was ostensibly involved in a game of cards, and winning, much to the chagrin of his odorous opponents. A half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey sat beside his pile of winnings; two of the house’s finest, one blond and one a redhead, perched in his lap, one unfastening his shirt and the other giggling against his neck.

He always refused to let any black-haired whores near.

“Oh, come upstairs now, Nicky,” the blonde cooed. “Cards are ever so dull!”

“There’s a new girl,” the redhead added. “We could invite her along, if you like.”

Nicholas threw back his head and laughed, reaching out to pinch the blonde’s ample bum. “That sounds promising, loves! Let me just . . .”

He was shocked from his inebriated haze when one of his opponents suddenly overturned the flimsy card table, scattering cards, whiskey, and coins in every direction. The two whores fled, shrieking, leaving Nicholas sitting in the ruins, utterly stunned. He fumbled for the dagger hidden in his boot.

A slender fist grasped him by the shirtfront and pulled him unceremoniously to his feet. “I wouldn’t go anywhere with those tarts if I were you,” a voice, rough with smoke, said. “There is no telling what you could catch . . . Nicky.”

Then Nicholas found himself looking down into the glittering green eyes of none other than Mrs. Georgina Beaumont.

“Phew! Have you never heard of a small invention called soap, Nicholas?” Georgina lit the only lamp to be found in Nicholas’s lodgings. Her nose wrinkled as she surveyed the damage—clothes scattered on the floor, empty bottles, congealed plates of uneaten food. “There are also things called housemaids, though I doubt you could find one in desperate enough straits to clean this place.”

“I don’t want anyone here,” he answered pointedly, the first words he had spoken since Georgina had dragged him by his shirt from the brothel and shoved him into a waiting carriage.

“Obviously.” Georgina removed her battered old felt hat, and shook her red hair free.

“How did you know where to find me? How did you know I would be at Mrs. Barry’s establishment?”

“Oh, that was simple enough. I have been following you about for a week.”

“Following me!” Nicholas could have hit himself for letting his guard down so shockingly.

“Yes, and that just shows how very low you have sunk. In Italy, you noticed everything and everyone about you.”

“Yes, I noticed how very stubborn lady artists can be.” He sat down on a pile of dirty clothing, and closed his eyes wearily.

“Oh, Nicholas,” Georgina said sadly. “What have you done to yourself?”

“I have not
done
anything.”

“Except drink and gamble and whore. I must say, you do not whore very well, either. You flirt and tease, but you never take a girl upstairs.”

“You have only been following me for a week. I may have been engaged in all sorts of debaucheries before that.”

“No. I doubt that you did anything differently at all before I found you.” She paused sympathetically. “Poor Nicholas. None of them are Elizabeth, are they?”

“God’s blood!” he exploded. “Why are you doing this, Georgina? Why are you here, and not sporting with the Italian models at home?”

Georgina blinked in shock at this deliberate cruelty. “That is unkind, Nicholas. And unfair. But since I know what pain you are in, I will overlook it. Once. And in answer to your question, I am here to shake some sense into you, you stupid man. And into Lizzie as well.”

“I like being unsensible, thank you very much, so you can just be on your way.”

“Blast you! I saw the two of you in Italy. I know that you truly care for each other—love each other. Just as I loved my Jack, once upon a time. Probably you would be wed by now, if you had not turned out to be such a lying coxcomb.” She pushed some dirty clothing off a chair and sat down gingerly. A piece of stationery crackled beneath her hip, and she pulled it out and read over the familiar handwriting with growing comprehension. “I see.”

“See what?”

“This letter Lizzie gave you. You know what happened to her, then? Before she came to me in Italy? Her brother’s beastly behavior, and the... the unfortunate demise of the duke.”

He closed his eyes. “Yes. I know.”

“So that is why you will not go to her, Nicholas? The truth gave you a disgust of her?”

“No! It is not that at all. Surely you know that nothing could give me a disgust of her, and certainly not the fact that she was horribly taken advantage of.”

“Then what is it?” Georgina cried. “What could possibly be wrong?”

“She would not have me if I did go to her! You are completely right—I am a lying coxcomb. She deserves better than someone who would treat her as shamelessly as Peter and that duke dared to. She is far better off as far from me as she can possibly go.”

“Oh. Oh, Nicholas, what a terrible mess we have all made of things.” Georgina went and opened the window, leaning far out to breathe of the cool night air. “I have never seen two such stubborn, fatalistic people as you and Lizzie. You will not even try to solve your differences, you just weep and get foxed, and declare that you are nobly letting her go on to a better life without you. Where is the man I knew in Venice? You would never have let her get away from you there!”

“Georgina, it is not that easy . . .”

“Pah! Of course it is. And you are just fortunate to have me as your friend. I will help you to resolve everything.”

“Will you now?”

“Yes, I will. But you must cooperate.”

“Cooperate. Yes. And just how do you propose to get Lizzie to forgive and forget all that I have done? Will you wave your magic wand?”

“Oh, very witty. Not that you deserve to know, but I am on my way to Derbyshire. I am leaving in the morning, and have a very fast phaeton to take me there. And you, Nicholas, will accompany me.”

“Oh, will I?”

“Oh, you will. And please stop saying ‘oh.’ ” She kicked disdainfully at an empty glass, and sent it rolling across the carpet. “The country air will do you some good, I think. Whatever would Lizzie say if she could see you living in this squalid manner?”

Nicholas had the most bemused, dreamlike sensation of being completely overcome by a tidal wave. His will was no longer his own. “She would probably say that it was no more than I deserve.”

Georgina drummed her fingers on the windowsill thoughtfully. “No. Somehow I do not think that is what she would say at all. She would say . . .”

“M-marry you?” Elizabeth blinked up at Stephen.

“Why, yes.” Stephen’s face was quickly becoming quite as red as his hair. It was obvious that he was not at all accustomed to proposing to young ladies, or to having his proposals greeted with obvious shock and dismay. “It is the perfect solution to your difficulties. If you ran away to Gretna Green with me tonight, you would no longer be under your stepbrother’s guardianship. You could resume your painting, return to your home in Italy—whatever you like. I would not make, er, um, husbandly demands upon you, I vow that on my honor.”

It was quite the longest speech Elizabeth had ever heard him make. She felt the tickle of tears on her eyelashes, and turned away to fumble for a handkerchief. “Oh, Stephen, I do seem to have become such a watering pot since I returned to England! You are quite the sweetest man I have ever met, and I am truly blessed to have you for my friend.”

He smiled grimly. “But you are refusing me.”

“I must. I think it is the only sane thing to do. Do not think I’m not tempted by your offer, because I am, terribly. I quite long for the Italian sun on my face again.”

“Then why not accept me? We enjoy the same things in life; we have the same friends. I could give you a comfortable home. We could be content together.”

“Content, yes.” Elizabeth had a sudden vision of the two of them, doddering old artists wielding brushes and palette knives in their palsied hands, never speaking to each other because there was no need. She almost laughed. “But never truly happy. I had a truly happy day once, and I know how that can be. I could never ruin your life by depriving you of the chance to find that; that would be poor repayment indeed for your friendship.”

“Is it your secretary, then? Nicholas?”

She felt the tears beginning in earnest, and ducked her head into the lace ruffles of her bodice. “I did love Nicholas once, yes. In point of fact, I strongly suspect I love him still.”

“Then ...”

“No! It is of no use to even speak of it. I do not even know where he is, and if I knew I am not sure what I would do about it.”

They sat together quietly, listening to Miss Haversham finish off Mozart and a Miss Julian begin a Handel sonata. Finally, Stephen took her hand in his very gently.

“Are you certain I cannot persuade you?” he said.

“Quite, quite certain.”

“Then, dear friend, I hope you will still call for me if ever you require assistance.” Then he pressed a kiss to her fingers and left her, winding his way through the milling crowd to take leave of their hostess.

Elizabeth dabbed at her eyes and smoothed her skirts. She very much wanted her own fireside and a glass of brandy, but unfortunately a tedious evening still stretched endlessly before her.

“If only I could hide here in this alcove all night,” she mused aloud.

“That would be insufferably rude,” Peter said from beside her.

Elizabeth spun around. “Really, Peter! Must you creep up on me so?”

“I was merely coming to tell you that Lady Haversham requires a fourth at her whist table.”

“You know I dislike whist.” Elizabeth hated the querulous tone of her voice, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. It had really been a most trying evening, and her head ached. The façade had become so heavy.

Peter observed her flushed cheeks and overbright eyes through his quizzing glass. “You and that sculptor were having a most . . . involved discussion, my dear.”

“Yes, we were. Fellow artists are quite rare in Derbyshire, you know.”

“And perhaps you knew him before? In Italy?”

Elizabeth’s frayed temper snapped. “If I did, it is hardly any of your affair! And now, if you have no objections, I must join our kind hostess.” She wrapped her Indian shawl over her shoulders and turned her back on him, stalking away across the drawing room in obvious high dudgeon.

Chapter Nineteen

T
he next day, Elizabeth went for a very long walk.

She ended up on her favorite seat, a large, flat rock atop the crest of a hill, placed fortuitously in the shade of a tall oak. From this vantage point she could see the house and fields of Clifton Manor spread out before her.

It was a lovely, peaceful place in which to be alone to think. She had quite forgotten how beautiful England could be when one was solitary in its cool, green prettiness.

And she had a great to deal to think of. Such as Stephen’s surprising appearance in Derbyshire, and his even more surprising proposal of marriage.

It would have been a most convenient solution, to marry him and resume her career. With such a successful sculptor as her husband, she could even attract more patrons, have the possibility of joining more professional societies.

If only she loved him, or even felt more than a sisterly fondness for him. But he could not make her laugh until her ribs ached; he did not make her very toes curl with just the thought of one of his kisses. The only time he had kissed her, once in Rome, it had been distinctly lacking in finesse and passion.

Unlike Nicholas’s kisses.

“I do miss you, Nicholas,” she whispered. “Was I wrong to go away from you?”

She had been plagued by doubts all through the sleepless night. Did she give in to Peter’s demands too easily? Should she have given Nicholas a greater chance to explain his actions?

But what explanations were there? He had lied to her for weeks, about his feelings, his very identity.