The Importance of Being Wicked (7 page)

Chapter 6

A
fter the birth of his twin sisters, Thomas's mother no longer made her annual visit to London. The inconvenient house in Whitehall built by the first duke was let, and his father rented rooms when he spent a few weeks in the capital to attend Parliament. After his death, Thomas made a quick trip on business and discovered Nerot's, comfortable, conveniently located, and reasonably priced—at least by ducal standards.

He enjoyed hotel living for its informality and privacy. Two rooms, in addition to a dressing closet and a room for a servant, were quite adequate to his needs. He relished the unwonted isolation, almost anonymity, without the mother, sisters, and huge domestic staff who inhabited Castleton House. In these modest quarters, he felt a freedom that as the heir and now owner of a ducal estate he could never experience. If he needed a drink, a meal, hot water, or a carriage, all he had to do was ring the bell, and his needs were met quickly, without fuss or reference to the convenience of others.

The morning after the masquerade, dressed only in his banyan, he tucked into a hearty breakfast. To the comfort of lounging
en deshabille,
was added the pleasure of eating beefsteak and eggs piping hot from the hotel kitchen. At home, the food was generally tepid after being carried from distant offices along miles of ancestral passages. Under his father's strict rule, attendance at an early breakfast, in the dining room, had been obligatory.

During his postmeal shave, he sensed the disapproval of his valet though you'd think he would be pleased not to have to get up at the crack of dawn. Minchin, a middle-aged man of silent efficiency and rectitude, was a legacy from the late duke. It hadn't seemed fair to dismiss so senior a servant. Not until Thomas's chin was smooth and the razors set aside did Minchin bring up the state of his eye.

“An accident, Your Grace?”

“I walked into a lamppost on my way home last night.”

“Indeed, sir. Very painful. Might I suggest a slice of raw beef to reduce the swelling.”

Thomas walked over to the full-length mirror that was one of the hotel's amenities. It wasn't as bad as he feared, but he sported a dark bruise above his right cheekbone. It itched.

“If you think it will help.”

“Better not to alarm the ladies.” Minchin knew why he was in London.

The ladies, of course, knew exactly how he'd acquired the shameful evidence of his unseemly behavior. Not that they'd seemed shocked by it. Mrs. Townsend and Lady Windermere had exhibited a cheerfulness bordering on hysterical delight at the adventure. Their laughter had shaken the carriage all the way home. If Miss Brotherton expressed herself more quietly, it was only because that was her nature. Thomas had little doubt that his future bride had been as amused as her more vocal companions.

No, he didn't need to worry that they would be repelled by a black eye. On the other hand, now he'd been in London for several days, he perceived that his garments were quite out of fashion. Sensible, good-quality clothing made by the best tailor in Winchester, but not in the least tonnish.

“I notice coats are shorter at the front and lapels are wider these days. Do you think I should visit a London tailor?”

“Your Grace's father never did,” Minchin replied in his usual toneless voice.

“He didn't set much store by fashion. I believe he wore the same style of coat for twenty years.”

“Indeed, Your Grace. His late Grace could be quite rigid in his attitudes.” Minchin's lips thinned. Could he actually be displaying a tinge of humor?

“Rigid?”

“His attitude toward dress, I meant, Your Grace.”

“If I had it in mind to buy some new clothes, where should I go?”

The speed of Minchin's response made it clear this was a question he'd studied. “Your Grace will wish to acquire some of the new pantaloons for daywear. Meyer or Weston are well regarded. For coats, Mr. Brummell favors Schweitzer and Davidson on Cork Street.”

“Who is this Brummell? Never heard of him.”

“He is said to be the best-dressed man in London and sets the example for all others, even the Prince of Wales. On Mr. Brummell's advice, His Royal Highness has ordered several coats from Schweitzer.”

“My father certainly wouldn't approve of
him.
” The former duke had spent much of his last ten years railing against modern immorality as exemplified by the Duchess of Devonshire, Charles James Fox, and, above all, the heir to the throne. It had been a great relief to him when the King dismissed the Whigs for Mr. Pitt. Castleton, scion of generations of Whig dukes, happily joined the mass exodus to the Tories.

The extravagance, depravity, and ingratitude of the Prince of Wales had been a constant refrain. And while the duke never criticized his own son directly, there were times when Thomas had felt obscurely guilty, as though by the mere fact of
being
a son and heir he shared the Prince's less desirable traits. Which was truly unjust since Thomas had always been dutiful, never misbehaved.

“Perhaps I'll call on this Schweitzer. Cork Street did you say?”

“Indeed, Your Grace. Would you like me to arrange an appointment?” Minchin sounded positively eager. Valets, Thomas supposed, must get a vicarious pleasure out of their masters' new clothes. Miss Brotherton would appreciate them too.

That final thought rang a false note. Nothing in his acquaintance with her indicated the slightest interest in fashion, men's or women's. Her cousin, on the other hand, demonstrated a distinct sense of style. He could readily imagine her being attracted to gentlemen of tonnish appearance, like that abominable Horner. He wouldn't want to look like that blackguard with his wandering hands.
Horner
was the kind of man Mrs. Townsend admired.

But Mrs. Townsend had considerable influence on her cousin. She thought Thomas a stick-in-the-mud, she'd made that perfectly clear. If he improved his appearance, she might put in a good word for him with Anne. That was, of course, the only reason to impress her. He had no other motive in seeking her approval of his person.

“I daresay London tailors' prices are excessive,” he remarked.

Minchin looked horrified at the introduction of such a vulgar topic. “Naturally, no reputable tradesman would
dun
Your Grace.”

Of course not. He could buy half the contents of Bond Street on his credit. But adding to his father's debts was not his goal in coming to London. His niggling sense of responsibility quashed the fleeting urge to order an entirely new wardrobe. A new coat or two would be quite sufficient for Mrs. Townsend.

For Miss Brotherton, rather.

And they wouldn't be striped.

M
r. Schweitzer proved accommodating—also persuasive. Thomas assuaged his guilt at ordering so many new garments by calling them an investment. The tailor's accommodation didn't extend to an ability to deliver a new coat in less than a fortnight. Thomas escorted Miss Brotherton on an afternoon visit to the British Museum without being able to test the efficacy of his improved wardrobe. His lack of the latest mode mattered not a whit. Compared to the gentlemen patronizing Montagu House that day, he was a dapper monument to the tailor's art.

It was, undoubtedly, the most tedious three hours he'd ever spent. His companion evinced enormous and interminable enthusiasm for the most appalling lot of rubbish: rusty coins, broken pots and—in particular—tiny square tiles in varying shades of dull.

Things looked up a little in the carriage on the way home, when Miss Brotherton subjected him to a minute interrogation into the location, size, and terrain of his various estates. Since he was well versed in the extent of her own very numerous acres, he found this interest encouraging. She must be considering the marriage of their holdings, which would produce a landed fortune surpassed by few in England.

“And in Wiltshire,” he concluded his accounting, “there are about six hundred acres, mostly arable.”

“Have you ever followed a plow, Duke?”

“Are you serious, Miss Brotherton?”

“I would so like to. Mr. Hooke of Wiltshire discovered not one but two Roman villas on his land when the plow threw up tesserae.”

Tesserae, tesserae. He'd heard that word. “Those little tiles you were showing me?” Insisted on showing him. No wonder they were all the color of mud. That's where they'd come from.

“The small tiles from which the Romans made their paved floors. Mr. Hooke found the most elegant mosaic pavement under his fields. How I would like to see it.”

“How fortunate for him. You should visit.” No doubt she was suggesting that after their marriage they might, during a visit to his estate in that county, call on Mr. Hooke. He had no objection.

“Think how marvelous it would be to discover such remains and excavate them. You should order your tenants to look carefully when they plow.”

He could just imagine what his tenants would say to such a command, not to mention the loss of productive land should any Roman ruins be discovered.

“Have you looked on your own lands?” he asked, trying not to sound sharp.

She shook her head regretfully. “My grandfather always said excavations were a waste of productive land. Can you conceive of such an attitude?”

Continuing this conversation could lead to an irreconcilable breakdown in relations. What did it matter if his duchess had eccentric interests? Antiquities, especially the non-naked-statue kind, were perfectly respectable.

Since they were alone in a closed carriage, this would be a good moment to attempt a little wooing. Steal a kiss, perhaps. He looked at Miss Brotherton's well-bred face, hazel eyes gleaming with delight at the thought of acres of tesserae. There was nothing at all to disgust a man in her appearance. Many would even find her pretty enough, regardless of the size of her fortune. A husband would have nothing to complain about bedding her.

Unfortunately, he felt not the slightest enthusiasm about doing so, which was remarkable in that he hadn't enjoyed a woman in months. He'd thought it proper to break with his mistress, a widow residing in Basingstoke, when he wrote to Morrissey proposing his courtship of Miss Brotherton.

He didn't even want to kiss her. He wanted to marry her, but he didn't wish to kiss her. He wondered if he should be concerned.

The discovery in some distant county of an Anglo-Saxon midden, which sounded like an antique dust-heap, rendered her quite lyrical. All the way to Conduit Street, she talked about rubbish.

Naturally, he saw her up the steps and knocked on the door. And naturally, in this chaotic household, the door opened to reveal, not a servant, but the mistress of the house. Caro—Mrs. Townsend—stood in the doorway dressed in her usual white but revealing even more flesh than usual. In fact, her garb appeared to be fashioned from a sheet. The breeze set her curls aflutter and molded the light linen around her delicious figure.

“There you are,” she said.

Her foggy tones were like a physical caress that went straight to his groin and proved that his desire was still functional. Mrs. Townsend he wanted to kiss. And a good deal more.

Not daring to touch her, he bowed.

“You'd better come in. After an afternoon at the British Museum, I imagine you're ready for refreshment, and I don't mean tea. The servants are out, but I expect you can open a bottle of wine.”

A wise man would refuse. He'd made progress that day. A wise man would take leave of the woman he was courting and eschew the company of the woman he ached to bed. Every nerve vibrating, his eyes glued to her slender neck, the uncovered shoulder blades, the sway of her hips, Thomas followed his hostess up the stairs. Miss Brotherton, chatting away about the delights of that infernal museum, took her cousin's arm.

Halfway up, Mrs. Townsend looked over her shoulder at him. The lift of her brow and the mischief on her lips told him why she'd refused to accompany her cousin today. It wasn't that she was a neglectful chaperone—though she was that too—but that nothing short of massive bribery or extreme torture would get her through the doors of Montagu House. A moment of silent communion, over as quick as a wink, told him that, on the subject of the charms of the British Museum, they thought as one.

At the first-floor landing, Miss Brotherton continued upstairs. He followed Mrs. Townsend into the drawing room, which contained, of course, Oliver Bream. Did the man
live
in the house?

“Who was it?” Bream asked, not bothering to rise from his chair, a lack of polite observance in the presence of a lady that Thomas abhorred. “I wish you'd lie down again. The light won't last much longer.”

The artist bent over a sheet of paper resting on a board on his knees and waved a pencil impatiently.

“Oliver's doing a sketch for a new painting of the Rape of Lucrece, and I'm posing for him,” Mrs. Townsend said. “He's right about the light. Would you mind fetching the wine?”

Taken aback at being given such a mundane domestic duty, Thomas nonetheless managed to find his way to the cellar, which contained a good many empty wine racks and a few dozen dusty bottles. His hostess had told him where to find a corkscrew and glasses. He examined the former with some trepidation. He'd never paid any attention to the question of how wine got out of bottles, but how hard could it be?

Quite hard, as it happened. After some experimentation and a wrenched thumb, he managed to extract a rather crumbly cork from a bottle of claret and carried it upstairs in subdued triumph.

Mrs. Townsend lay flat on her back on the chaise longue, her figure displayed in a way that dispelled any doubt about the identity of the model for the naked Venus hanging nearby. The model for that painting had been much fleshier than the live, shapely beauty stretched out before him. The painted woman's waist was thicker, her breasts less firm. Despite arms bent back at the elbows and palms thrust forward to repel the assault of the Roman prince, Mrs. Townsend didn't look at all like a woman about to be raped. As so often, she was laughing merrily, and everything about her pose seemed, to Thomas, to be an invitation.