The Scandalous Life of a True Lady (31 page)

“Please, we are ladies and gentlemen. At least some of us.”

Alice opened the bible and apologized for being out of season. Then she read the story of another babe, another birth to another surprised mother. Sir Chauncey wept loudly, and Simone felt tears well in her own eyes. Harry handed her his handkerchief.

The story did not take long. Alice did not read all of Luke before shutting the bible and curtsying to polite applause. She wasn’t finished, though. She pulled a deck of cards from her pocket and started to shuffle them in an arc in the air.

Claire leaped to her feet. “Miss Morrow, that is not suitable fare for a Sunday.”

Alice kept the cards flying through the air above her head. “Why not? We are all sinners here anyway, trying to pretend we’re better than we are. And who are you to talk, with a married man’s hand up your skirt and your dugs hanging out like a cow’s udders? I may have been raised in a gaming hell, but you were the one who tried to cheat at half the events. If you think that makes you any kind of lady, you are far off the mark. Asides, my mum always said the good lord had to have a sense of humor. Else why would he create a man? And, Miss Hoity-toity Hope, I am still reading the bible, only in my own way.”

She shuffled the deck again, sifting the pasteboards into a face-down fan. Then, without looking at the cards, she pulled out three kings. “The magi.”

Alice cut the deck, and showed the amazed audience that she had exactly twelve cards in her top hand. “The apostles.”

She flipped the deck again and held up the bottom card, a three. “The Trinity.”

When she shuffled the cards the next time, the jack of spades was sticking out. “The knave, Judas.”

In quick succession, she pulled out a seven, for the day of rest after the creation, and a five, for the books of the Old Testament.

Everyone sat forward on their seats.

“Now that’s more like it!” Sir Chauncey called.

Alice walked toward him and told him to select a card, without looking at it. “The commandments.”

He looked. “By George, it is a ten. I’ll be damned. Well, I’ll be damned anyway, ’cause I’ve broken more than half of them.”

They all applauded, astounded at what they’d seen.

Claire wanted a rematch of the piquet game. Anyone who could handle cards like that, she insisted, must have cheated.

Alice just laughed. She fanned the cards and pretended to study them. Then she pulled one out. “Ah yes, the queen of hearts. The queen of the courtesans.” She tucked it down her cleavage and curtsied. Comden rushed forward to help her back to her feet.

During the pause everyone wondered how Alice did that, how they could learn, and how many card games they could win if they had her skill. Then Sandaree came forward, wearing her new woolen cape. Two footmen followed her, carrying a folding screen and a large basket to the front of the room.

Sandaree stepped behind the screen while the audience was still marveling at the card tricks, and Lord Comden made much of Alice. Then they all fell silent when Sandaree came out from behind the screen.

Claire gasped. “No, no, no. That is absolutely pagan. Not edifying at all. Not fitting for a Sunday.”

“Oh, put a sock in it,” Gorham told her, eyes glued to the Indian slave girl.

Sandaree wore her gauze pantaloons, a short vest, and nothing under either but a jewel in her navel. She had bells on her ankles and wrists, no shoes, and a veil hiding the lower part of her face. A gold cord held the veil in place, ending in a tassel that trailed down her nearly bare back. She held a tambourine-like instrument, and began to shake it and beat on it softly while her feet started to move. Her belly moved in a different direction. Her hips moved in five different directions at once.

“Is that possible? Sir Chauncey asked no one in particular.

“Sshh” came from all sides.

Sandaree lifted a long silk scarf out of the basket and danced with it like a lover, draping it around herself, then sending it swirling in the air to settle over her again, while she kept gyrating and twirling until the tassel flew in circles. She took the veil off her face and let it float down so she could pick it up from the floor, showing that her posterior was as fluid as her front. She replaced the tambourine with tiny finger cymbals so the tempo was sharper, her feet and her muscles moving faster. With a gazelle-like leap she vaulted over the basket, pulling out a carved wooden flute. She began to play toward the basket as if she were an Indian snake charmer, only she was the snake, coiling, writhing, swaying. The men were charmed, her captives. The women cooled themselves with their fans.

Again Sandaree danced with her midriff, the jewel flashing, then slower and lower until she concluded with a salaam in front of Lord Danforth’s feet.

Ruby asked no one in particular: “Do you realize how much money a girl can make like that?”

Miss Hanson wanted to know if Sandaree could teach her to dance that way, if she taught Sandaree to waltz.

The ballet dancer wrinkled her nose and walked out. None of the men did.

“Lud,” Mr. Anthony said, “voting for best talent is an impossible task.”

Claire did not see why. “This performance was not proper or ladylike. Neither was that card nonsense.”

“But a courtesan is supposed to amuse, and damn if I didn’t enjoy both of them.” Gorham quickly added, “And your singing, of course, my dear.”

“What did you think, Harry?” Simone asked.

“I think that was an incredibly erotic dance, and Danforth does not appreciate what he has.”

“Look at him, barely telling poor Sandaree how good she was. He almost looks angry that she’s half naked in front of the other men.”

“No, he is embarrassed that he’s aroused by the dance. A British lord does not show emotion, you know.”

A lot of British lords were showing plenty, in their tight trousers and their rush to bring Sandaree a glass of wine, a lemonade, a diamond bracelet if she’d come to their rooms later.

But Mr. Anthony was correct: judging arias and oranges was not going to be easy. Sleight of hand was no ladylike accomplishment, and heaven knew Sandaree’s dance was no debutante’s cotillion. They both had talent and they both had kept the audience entranced. What Simone proposed was just as unlikely to be seen at Almack’s, but she’d keep to her plan, if she could get Harry to help.

She was ready to convince him to go to bed early that night when he said, “I need you.”

“You do?” That was just what she wanted to hear. Now she could get him into her bed, for another taste of what he’d shown her before. Then she thought about it. Who wanted a man who was stirred to passion by another woman’s seductive dance? Sandaree’s performance was suddenly not quite as amusing. “I do not see why every man here is so affected. It was only a dance, after all.”

“Only a dance? Claire’s voice is only a warble by that standard. But you sound jealous, my love.” He lowered his voice. “How can that be, when ours is no more than a business arrangement?”

Was that all he thought of her, an employee? Was that all they had? Simone pounded on his chest, right over where his heart would be, if the bounder had one. “Feelings do not have to make sense. They just are.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

“I do have feelings, my dear Noma. And I do understand that not everything makes sense. Heaven knows I’ve had to live with that fact my entire life. Right now I need you, not a woman whose parts revolve as if they’re not connected to each other. I’m not saying your friend can’t make a man want to drown in the whirlpool her fascinating movements create, but that’s what a man does. He feels lust for a beautiful woman doing beautiful things with her body. Hell, that was a mating dance to put a peacock’s display to shame. But right now, you are all I want.”

Finally! Simone felt like dancing herself, to hear Harry confess his desire. It was no declaration of love, not even of fondness, and no promise of a future after the house party was over, but it was something. Something she wanted.

She knew Harry wanted it too, although he was full of excuses and evasions. He’d been running from the attraction between them, afraid she’d want more than he was willing to offer. Or afraid he’d want more. If Sandaree’s dancing had shown him how foolish it was to waste the time they did have, to deny them both the pleasure, she’d get Sandaree to teach her to charm snakes.

Lust and caring were better than nothing, she decided. If she couldn’t have his love, she’d take his lovemaking. Harry’s code of honor dictated that he save her for a husband, which he did not intend to be. But how could she go to another man, knowing her heart was lost to Harry? That would be far more dishonest than to wed missing her maidenhead.

Simone supposed Harry’s irregular birth fostered his honor and his devotion to the truth. He was baseborn, so he must feel he had to act with nobility to rise above the ridicule, disdain and shame of his birth. Not that she wished Harry to be less honorable, of course, except now. She took his hand in hers and started to lead him toward the stairs before he could change his mind.

He pulled her in the opposite direction down the hall, toward Gorham’s library.

“Aren’t we going to our room?”

“Zeus, no. I can’t trust myself there.”

She wanted to shout out that he could trust her to know what was best for herself, but her disappointment made her ask: “Then we aren’t going to…?”

He turned and took her shoulders, looking into her eyes with that blue fire of his stare. “We are going to do what we came for: to do our duty and serve our country. We have to solve a crime, destroy a plot, and make a stir here. This is business, and it has to come before any personal desire. Do you understand?”

She understood he was reminding her of their arrangement. She was paid to act as his mistress. That was all. A pretense, with no emotion, no involvement. He might be stirred by Sandaree’s display, but not enough to forget his mission, or her place in it.

“Yes, Harry, I understand.”

He rapped loudly on the library door, then opened it when no one answered. Gorham and Claire were still in the music room, Simone knew, unless they’d left for the late supper Claire always served after the performances. Either way, neither of them could be here in the library.

“Should we be going into the private rooms?”

“What we need is inside.” He led her halfway into the room, which was illuminated only by the fire in the hearth and two oil lamps. Harry blew one out, creating more shadows in the long room.

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Wait. Follow my lead. You’ll know.”

He listened, so she listened, and shortly heard footsteps approaching down the hall. Harry drew her into his arms and pressed his lips to hers. “Now,” he murmured. “Act like you’re enjoying this.”

So she kissed him back and moaned with pleasure and cried, “Oh, Harry.” She’d seldom enjoyed anything more.

The butler came in with a tray. He coughed, backed out, and closed the door behind him.

Simone stepped away from Harry. “That was what you brought me here for, to embarrass the poor butler?”

“He’s seen worse.” Harry’s head was cocked, still listening for sounds in the corridor. He took her back into his arms, this time with one of his hands moving down her back, her waist, her backside, pulling her more firmly against his heat and hardness. His other hand was at her breast, feeling her heat and softness.

“Harry!” she said with a squeak. “Someone is coming.”

He grinned. “That’s the point, sweetings.”

Claire and Gorham opened the door, but stopped in the entry when they saw the entwined couple right in front of them. Simone’s bright red hair was unmistakable, even in the single lamp’s light.

“Dash it, Harry, everyone has the same idea,” Gorham complained while Claire pretended to be studying a nearby bookcase. “I’ve never seen so many young bucks tugging on their trousers or holding their girlfriends’ fans in front of them—or dragging those same women off to dark corners and unoccupied rooms. It was that dance, don’t you know. Claire thought she’d try, that is, we are going to discuss the voting and tomorrow’s ball. The devil take it, this is my library and I don’t have to make excuses. I thought you were using the needlework parlor, anyway.”

“My apologies, Gorham. I do appreciate the use of that room for my correspondence, but the portrait of Lady Gorham hangs there. Your wife doesn’t approve of us either. Her sour look is not conducive to romance, is it?”

“Why do you think I took a mistress in the first place? Ah, well, I suppose we ought to see if anyone wants supper. Come, my dear. We are the hosts and should set a better example. Then again, we could see if the gardens are empty.”

Claire sent one last sneer in Simone’s direction. “You might want to lock the door, Miss Royale. At least pretend to be a proper female.”

Simone was blushing like a schoolboy caught stealing apples but she couldn’t keep a giggle from escaping. She
was
a proper female who was pretending to be a harlot. Now Claire wanted that feigned doxy to act like a lady, while Harry wanted the lady in her to abandon all modesty and decency. “Thank you. I will. Lock the door, that is.”

Harry did it for her when Claire and Gorham left. Then, instead of taking her back into his arms, he gave her a quick kiss on the forehead, crossed the room, and opened the window.

Sir Chauncey Phipps scrambled over the sill. Simone almost shrieked, but Harry hurried back to put his hand over her mouth. “Sh.”

“Do not shush me. Throw that reprobate out!”

Harry pointed to the closed door and whispered, “Keep your voice down before someone comes to see what the commotion is about.”

She did try for an outraged whisper. “That drunkard is going to ruin everything.” Especially her time with Harry now that they were alone again. “Tell him to leave.”

“I am sorry, my love, but I can’t do that. Chappy is a friend of mine. And one of the best cracksman in England. A safe-breaker, if you will.”

“He is a sotted fool!”

Sir Chauncey winked at her. “Excellent disguise, eh? Better than a moustache and dark glasses. No one suspects a souse of anything, and no one watches what they say when he’s slumped over a table.”