Taming the Rake (11 page)

But rather than inspire lust, the obvious ploy only filled him with distaste.

As the first act wore on, Gina did her best to ignore the couple in the box opposite. Only once, right before the curtain fell, did their eyes meet. Jolted by the intensity of the connection, her carefully controlled expression dropped, revealing some of the uncertainty she felt. And just for a second, Gina thought she saw his expression shift. Something resembling discomfort flickered in his eyes before he once again ignored her and turned back to the stage.

The moment was lost.

“Is something wrong?” the duchess asked.

Gina forced her gaze away from the couple in the box. “No, of course not,” she answered coolly.

The duchess studied her knowingly, letting Gina see that she knew exactly what had caught her attention. “You look flushed.”

“It’s a trifle warm in here, that’s all,” Gina explained, waving her fan emphatically.

“Hmm.” The duchess’s gaze flickered over to Coventry’s box. “If you are sure that is all, I will have your father fetch us some refreshment at intermission.”

Gina looked past the duchess to her father, who was also watching her with a strange expression on his face. He hadn’t missed the exchange and looked alternatively shocked and upset. The duchess leaned over to whisper something in his ear and he stood up to leave, almost too quickly.

Thankfully, the duchess chose not to question her any further and the opportunity for conversation was lost when a steady stream of callers began to make their way to the duke’s box. Determined not to betray her interest again, Gina forced her eyes from Coventry’s box for the remainder of the evening.

But the play and Miss Siddons’s performance, which Gina had so looked forward to, were irreparably tainted by the forced meeting and continued presence of Coventry and his strikingly beautiful mistress.

Gina’s pride still rankled, but it was the sick, burning feeling in her chest that truly alarmed her. Not wanting to think about why, she vowed that such an occurrence would not happen again. The woman would have to go.

Coventry slid his finger behind the collar of his shirt and yanked. The blasted cravat was too tight, and the air in the theater had suddenly turned stifling. He wiped the back of his hand across his brow. He shouldn’t care what Lady Georgina Beauclerk thought. He was free to have a dozen mistresses if he chose. But the unmistakable fact was that he did care. The intensity of her gaze felt like a slap. But rather than amuse or anger him, he’d felt a sharp twinge of shame for his actions. Though he’d be damned if he knew why.

She was pursuing
him,
not the other way around. And he’d made perfectly clear his disinterest. She’d meddled in his business enough. Even though, devil take it, he couldn’t deny the improvements she’d made to his household.

But one thing was for certain, the evening was fast becoming a nightmare. One that would not end any time soon, he thought, thinking of the conversation that awaited him later with Simone.

Damn, he needed a drink.

Thus, the instant the curtain dropped for intermission, an unusually agitated Coventry leapt to his feet. Eager to escape, he extracted himself from Simone on a much-needed quest to retrieve some refreshment.

He’d not taken two steps outside his box before he was intercepted by the Duke of St. Albans.

“I’d like a word with you, Coventry.”

Hell
.

Was it just his current state of confusion or did the duke sound angry? He swallowed hard, wondering what the duke might have heard. Or worse, seen. “Actually, I was just on my way to find some refreshment—”

“Your drink can wait,” St. Albans growled.

No mistake. The duke was furious.

Coventry drew himself up for what was sure to be an unpleasant conversation. “Very well.”

They moved toward the wall, out of earshot of the flood of patrons filling the aisles.

“What is going on between you and my daughter?”

Coventry cursed silently. The duke
had
heard something. “Nothing,” he assured him, perhaps a tad too vehemently.

The duke leveled his steely gaze on him, the friendship between them forgotten. Rather than his usual lighthearted, avuncular manner, the duke now had the unmistakable bearing of a father holding out a box of dueling pistols. Which given Coventry’s rather prurient thoughts, wasn’t that far off the mark.

“You better see that it stays that way.” The warning in his voice was unmistakable.

Coventry’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t like being threatened. He studied the older man. Though they were about the same height, the duke had a few years’ worth of added muscle on his frame. His expression held no quarter. St. Albans would be a formidable enemy. One that Coventry did not want to make. No matter the insult.

“Whatever you have heard, I assure you there is no truth to any of it.”

“I didn’t believe it at first,” St. Albans said, shaking his head. “But with what I saw tonight…” Apparently thinking better of it, he stopped whatever it was that he was going to say. “Will you give me your word to stay away from my daughter?”

Coventry hesitated. “Why?”

The duke straightened to his full height. Perhaps he was an inch or two taller than Coventry realized.

“Do you intend to offer marriage?” he challenged.

Point taken. “No,” Coventry acknowledged.

“I will not have my daughter trifled with.” The duke lowered his voice. “I will have your word.”

A corner of his mouth lifted wryly. “And my word is good enough for you?”

“It is,” the duke replied stiffly.

Something about that fact made Coventry speak carefully. “Then I give you my word that I will not pursue your daughter.” He couldn’t control the other way around.

The duke studied him, and finally nodded. “Good.” He bowed his head politely. “I will leave you to enjoy the rest of your evening.”

Coventry nodded. But before the duke moved away, Coventry stopped him. “St. Albans.”

The duke turned slowly as if he was reluctant to hear what Coventry had to say.

“Perhaps I am not the one you should be speaking to.”

The duke’s eyes flared, and Coventry thought he was going to make a move toward him. But St. Albans held himself back. His mouth fell in a grim, straight line. “Be assured, I intend to rectify that later tonight.”

It was near dusk almost a week after the play when the earl’s carriage clattered to a halt before the charming brick townhouse on Curzon Street. It had taken quite some doing, but Gina had finally tracked down the address.

Earlier in the week, she’d waited for Coventry to depart for his club before descending on his lodgings, Augusta in tow, under the pretext of putting the finishing touches on his study. She grinned at the recollection of the much-changed room, more than pleased with the results of her first foray into decorating a bachelor’s home.

And even better, there wasn’t a bottle of port or whisky to be found.

Mr. and Mrs. Jennings were certainly accommodating—grateful as they were for the newly hired servants. The improvement in his household efficiencies could not be denied, she thought with satisfaction.
Let him try
.

Though he’d issued instructions forbidding her from helping with the household accounts, he’d said nothing about organizing his papers. While filing them into appropriate folders, she’d found what she’d been looking for on a recent correspondence to one of his solicitors. She frowned, recalling the other information on that letter. The cyprian was costing him a fortune. The outrageous sum bolstered her courage. Think of all the money she was about to save him.

Gina didn’t relish snooping through his private letters, but there had been no other choice. She could hardly ask directions.

Borrowing Coventry’s carriage had seemed prudent, as all of her father’s numerous conveyances had the St. Albans crest prominently displayed on the doors. Presumably, the earl’s crest in this neighborhood would not be similarly remarked upon.

Gina dared not risk discovery. This visit must be conducted under a heavy veil of secrecy. She looked down at her hands gripping the folds of the shapeless black domino that cloaked her evening clothes. With any luck she would finish her business in plenty of time to prepare for the soirée at the Blakemore’s, but just in case, she’d decided to be prepared by dressing for the evening. It certainly wasn’t because she wanted to look her best. At least that’s what she told herself when she’d selected her finest gown of pale gold satin.

Pulling the hood of the domino over her head, she took the footman’s proffered gloved hand and alighted from the coach. The faint scent of lavender and roses from the small garden wafted over her. She paused on the cobblestone walkway, inhaling deeply to help calm her shaky nerves.

What she had planned was bold, reckless even, but it had to be done.

Though she could well imagine the scandal if the ton ever found out she’d visited the home of a cyprian. And if her father ever found out…

Gina grimaced, remembering his fury after the play. Apparently, he’d noticed her staring at Coventry’s box and that, coupled with rumors he’d heard, had prompted him to question her interest in Coventry. She’d been quite truthful when she answered that she had none. Nevertheless, guilt still gnawed at her conscience. She’d never deceived her father before. Though technically she’d spoken the truth, she conceded that her father would not agree. In no uncertain terms, he told her that the Earl of Coventry was not an acceptable suitor.

She agreed, but she intended to bring him up to snuff just the same.

Determined, squaring her shoulders, she climbed the stairs and raised the brass knocker molded into the cherubic face of an angel. A prickle of apprehension ran down her neck as she let it drop against the door. When Coventry found out what she had done, there would be hell to pay. But there was no other alternative.

If she ever hoped to have him entranced enough to propose, she would have to be rid of his mistress. Gina was practical. Though she was attractive, she didn’t have the beauty or the experience necessary to entice him away from such a lauded cyprian as Madame Simone de Richelieu. For that was her name. Gina had discovered quite a bit about his paramour over the past week. Madame Simone had arrived in London as a young girl, orphaned by the terror. It was rumored that she was from the aristocratic family of the Duc d’Aiguillon. Gina supposed it was not an uncommon plight for a penniless orphan, blue of blood or not, to find herself in such circumstances.

Coventry was not her first protector.

Nor, if Gina had anything to do with it, would he be her last.

How would Coventry recognize all of the qualifications that Gina had to offer as a wife if he was under the spell of another woman?

Though admittedly, he hardly seemed under her spell. Gina doubted the Earl of Coventry could ever be under anyone’s spell. Nothing seemed to penetrate his icy shell. If he’d ever had a heart, he’d long since ceased to use it. More and more Gina had started to realize that the prospect of Coventry falling in love, or even becoming besotted with her, was dubious at best. Her best bet to extract a proposal from him was to appeal to his good sense—if she could unearth it from beneath the alcoholic haze. She would clean up his life. Whether he liked it or not.

The door opened. The servant that greeted her quickly masked his surprise at finding a lady swathed in a domino at the doorstep and led her into a small sitting room. She gave her name and waited.

At once Gina was struck by the tasteful decoration of the comfortable, sunny room. Large sash windows opened to a delightful view of the rose garden. With the windows ajar on this warm spring evening, the room was flooded with the gentle bouquet of fresh flowers that she’d noticed on the walkway. Gilded furniture carved in the French fashion was elegantly upholstered in pastel striped silks of peach and soft green. It was not at all what she expected from a cyprian. Somehow she’d imagined something more vulgar, with plush scarlet velvets and heavy gold tassels and bullion. More like the way Madame Simone was gowned the other night.

Impatient, Gina was about to stand up to ring for the serving man when the door opened, admitting Madame Simone, and the reason for the delay became immediately apparent.

Her face was a blotchy, swollen mess. From the painfully red and puffy state of her eyes, it was obvious that she’d been weeping—and had been doing so for some time. Although she’d made some attempt to repair the damage, faint smudges of black still stained her pale cheeks. Her beautiful hair was covered by a simple linen cap. Gowned in a simple morning dress of pink muslin with no jewelry, Gina felt uncomfortably overdressed in comparison. The attention she had paid to her own gown suddenly seemed silly and shallow.

Bereft of the dazzle she’d exhibited the other night, Madame Simone looked considerably older than Gina realized, and heartbreakingly fragile—like the china doll she resembled.

“
Pardon,
milady, for kaping zyou watting.”

Her voice sounded so raw, Gina could barely understand her beneath the heavy accent.

In French, Gina said, “No, it is I who should apologize, Madame, for arriving unannounced. Perhaps I should return at another time?”

“It is not necessary.” She waved her hand for Gina to continue.

Gina fiddled with her skirts for a moment, unsure how to begin. “You are probably wondering why I am here.”

Simone smiled wanly, unshed tears sparkled in her eyes. “I assume it is not a social call. But I think I can guess why you are here.”

Surprise must have shown on her face.

“You are the reason for this.” Madame Simone spread her hands in emphasis.

Taken aback, Gina started. “I assure you, you must be mistaken.”

Madame Simone shook her head. “I think not.”

Gina didn’t understand. She’d told no one of her plans to offer the cyprian a substantial settlement to find a new protector. “But how could I be responsible? I’ve never seen you before the play. I had nothing to do with whatever it is that has made you so unhappy.” Gina rose to leave. “I’m sorry, Madame. My visit has obviously been ill-timed. I will return perhaps when you are feeling better.”