When Marrying a Scoundrel (10 page)

Stiffly, she rose naked from her bed and moved across the floor to the full-length mirror near the vanity. She examined herself in the glass: bite marks on her breasts and bruising on her thighs—nothing she couldn’t conceal. Nothing that would leave a lasting mark.

Jack Friday wouldn’t feel the need to mark a woman in such a manner—like he was a wild animal and she the prey. She looked down at her knuckles and rubbed them absently, wincing at the soreness of the swollen tissues. At this point she should know better than to fight back. It only excited him more.

She met her own gaze in the mirror. She had come willingly to this life, just as she had every decision in the seven and twenty years she’d been upon this earth. She would not become some weepy female wailing over her regrets now. Not ever.

Six years she’d been married to Baxter Gant, Baron Gosling. He’d found her trodding the boards at Covent Garden—one of the many actresses used as background scenery. Uneducated and poor, she had her looks and a
talent for lying that translated well into work on stage. She taught herself different accents, taught herself to speak like an aristo by mimicking those who frequented the theater. If the opportunity arose to take a rich lover, she did so; but she was never indiscriminate. There had to be a good reason to let a man have use of her body—and that reason was whatever benefit he could be to her.

So when Lord Gosling came backstage, she put on her poshest voice, best manners, and a low-cut gown. She’d been barely one and twenty and that night he’d sucked her nipples so hard she cried. But she let him into her bed again. When he offered her a house she refused, but she slept with him again, gritting her teeth through the indignities and hurt. When he offered marriage—provided she left her old life behind and agreed to live a lie—she took it, even though she wondered if she’d survive the wedding night.

Shrugging into a wrapper of the sleekest emerald silk that she knew made her eyes look unnaturally green, Theone moved gingerly to the bellpull for her maid and gave the cord a hard tug. She would take breakfast in the bath. A nice, hot bath to soak the sting out and relax her. She went to her bathroom and turned on the taps herself. Even after all these years, it was difficult to let the maids do everything for her. Being waited on hand and foot wasn’t as amusing as she thought it would be. Sometimes it was damned faster to do it herself.

By the time the tub was filled with hot, jasmine-scented water, her maid had arrived with breakfast on a tray, as she did every morning. Theone never ate with her
husband; she would be far too tempted to stab him in the eye with a fork.

The only thing that kept her from killing him was the hope that someone else would save her the bother and the mess.

“Will you be needing anything else, mum?” the girl asked, averting her gaze.

Theone looked down. Her wrapper had gaped a little, revealing a red welt in the shape of teeth on the inside of her left breast. She didn’t bother to pull the fabric closed. Let the servants know what he did to her. Let them talk. She might be a bitch, but she was fair to them, and if she could incite their sympathy, she would.

“Not now,” she responded. “Come back in an hour to help me dress.”

The girl bobbed a curtsey, cast another furtive glance at her mistress’s abused flesh, and scurried out the door.

Alone again, Theone dropped her robe on the bathroom floor and stepped into the bath. As soon as the hot water lapped against her skin, much of the tension and bad mood left her. She sank down until the water was almost to her chin. Only then did she reach to the tray for the cup of tea and one of the croissants. No, her life wasn’t to be cast aside just because her husband was a prick with abnormal appetites.

This was a stepping stone, and a right good one too. From poverty to Mayfair, she’d gone, and she wasn’t about to give it up. She just needed an out. She couldn’t leave Baxter or he’d cut her off without a farthing. What she needed was a rich man to support her and treat her
nicely. Once, she’d thought the Duke of Ryeton would do, but that had been a colossal miscalculation on her part. And now there he was, married to that little priss. No accounting for taste.

And now life had tossed the scrumptious Jack Friday in her lap. He might not have a title, but he was wealthy enough, and he seemed a good man—a lusty one too. He’d leave a woman exhausted—and he would be nice about it.

She could have landed him last night. She had been prepared to return to his hotel with him after the show. If he’d taken her home with him she might have missed Baxter altogether. He would have been passed out in his study by the time she came in and she wouldn’t have to bathe for an hour to remove the filthy residue of his conjugal rights.

But Jack Friday, who had seemed so promising earlier in the evening, hadn’t offered to take her to bed. In fact, he hadn’t said much of anything during the second half of the magic demonstration.

His disinterestedness had started right after his conversation with Sadie Moon.

Theone first met the flamboyant Madame Moon a few years ago—when she became a regular entertainment at Vienne La Rieux’s charitable events. She didn’t know either Moon or La Rieux all that well, but she recognized a woman who had clawed her way up when she saw one. She didn’t make friends easily—in fact she tried to not make them at all—but if she were to pick a woman with whom she might be friendly, it would be
Vienne La Rieux. At least she could be her friend until a man got in the way.

But she wouldn’t tolerate Sadie Moon jeopardizing her chances with Jack Friday. She had to get out of this marriage. Soon, or she’d do something she’d regret. Jack was her chance to do just that.

Once in a while she had the niggling thought that Sadie Moon was familiar to her somehow. And last night, seeing the fortune-teller standing next to Jack, she’d had that feeling again. She knew Sadie Moon from somewhere, but where?

And more importantly, did Moon know her? Immediately she would assume no, because the woman had never mentioned it. But that didn’t mean anything. In Theone’s experience that only meant the other person hadn’t found a need for such information. No, she couldn’t be complacent about this. She had to find out as much about Sadie Moon as she could, and soon.

And while she was at it, she’d see what she could dig up on Jack Friday as well. Maybe there was some little tidbit in his past she might use to keep his interest from straying. He had to help her.

Because she didn’t know what she was going to do if he didn’t.

Jack Friday was not a happy man. And he blamed his wife who wasn’t his wife for his black mood. Were it not for their brief truce, followed by her impassioned bashing of him the night before, he might have spent the remainder of the evening having a delightful knock
with Lady Gosling, but his libido had gone the way of a tree branch laden with too much snow, and no amount of warm thoughts could bring it up again. So he’d taken the sweet missus home and left her without so much as a kiss.

For the millionth time that morning he wished he had never come back to England. He wished Trystan had taken care of this bit of business himself.

Trystan. That was another thorn in his side, wasn’t it? The telegram had arrived that morning—a so short and not-very-sweet note—telling Jack that his partner didn’t share his misgivings. Saying that Trystan thought the venture sound and that Jack could remove himself from the project if he felt he couldn’t “handle” it.

Handle it
. Meaning if he couldn’t find the bollocks to deal with Sadie. Obviously Trystan knew more than Jack first thought. Or maybe he didn’t and was just being a git about the whole thing. Regardless, it was out of Jack’s hands. The only thing left to do was tell Sadie she could have her damn shop and wipe his hands of it. It would be Trystan’s problem if there was trouble. And maybe she could continue to tell the right people what they wanted to hear and trouble would never find her. He’d hope for that.

“Coffee,” he barked at the waiter who’d been brave enough to approach him before he even sat down at his private table in the hotel dining room. “A pot of it.”

Then he hooked the leg of the chair with his foot, jerked it out from beneath the table, and fell into it with all the humor and grace of an angry bull.

“Rough night?” asked a familiar voice.

Jack glanced—
glared
—up. Archer Kane stood over him, a sympathetic yet wholly amused smile on his face. “Oh, it’s you.”

“In the flesh,” came the jovial reply. “Care for some company or are you the sort who, like my dear brother the duke, prefers to brood in private?”

Jack gestured to the chair across from him. “Have a seat.” Perhaps a little company was what he needed to shake off this thundercloud above his head.

Kane was all affability and grace as he slid into the empty chair. Within seconds the waiter had returned with a pot of coffee and set it on the table between them. Archer requested a stupid amount of food for breakfast. Jack asked for crispy fried potatoes and sausage with eggs. He’d eat until he was stuffed and then he’d go to the boxing club and fight until someone knocked him down hard enough that he couldn’t get back up.

And then he was going to find Sadie and tell her that she’d won, that she’d managed to totally unman him. After that maybe he’d have someone kick him repeatedly in the bollocks.

Christ, could he leave London soon? He’d rather go back to Ireland and face the old man than stay here any longer.

“You look fairly murderous,” Kane commented as he helped himself to the coffee. “Anything I can help with?”

Jack glanced up and managed a small, tight smile. “Murder?”

His companion laughed and added a dollop of cream
to his cup. “Depends on the victim, I suppose. Might be a bit of a diversion.”

Even Jack had to smile at that. “Nothing so heinous. I have to swallow my pride and tell Mrs. Moon she can have her little shop despite my protests to your brother.”

Archer regarded him over the rim of his cup. “You are against the venture?”

“I’m against having my business attached to anything that might bring trouble down upon my head,” Jack responded.

His companion laughed in response. “Not much of a businessman, then, are you?”

He deserved that one, he supposed. “Let me ask you, do you believe that our fate can be divined from the dregs at the bottom of a cup? Might as well base your future on the shape of a cloud, or a turd in the bottom of a chamber pot.”

Icy blue eyes sparkled. “How eloquent you are, Mr. Friday.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “You understand what I’m saying, right?”

“Of course I do. But there are a great many people in this city who would disagree with you—people who swear by the woman’s talents.”

“There are people who actually believe that Lot’s wife turned to salt too. People who believe in dragons and who think women are inferior simply because of what’s between their legs. That doesn’t mean they’re right.”

“I believe you’re a bit of a radical.” It was said without malice, only Kane’s seemingly perpetual amusement.

“I could be,” Jack replied with a careless shrug. “But I don’t believe Sadie O—” He cleared his throat, “Moon has the power to see the future—mine or anyone else’s. The future isn’t set in stone.”

Archer tilted his head. “This really has you fired up. Hmm, I wonder if you’re not protesting too much, old man. What’s the real reason for this? An unpleasant encounter with a fortune-teller in your youth, or did Mrs. Moon reject you?”

Both were too close to the truth for Jack’s liking. He was given a brief reprieve from answering by the arrival of their breakfasts.

“While I think you might be making Mrs. Moon out to be more of a threat than she actually is,” Archer began, clearly not done with the subject, “you must know that the simple fact of being a friend to Vienne La Rieux is enough for my brother to keep her close.”

Jack frowned. “I’m beginning to think your brother is obsessed with that woman.” Wasn’t he a fine one to talk? Then again, he knew all about obsession and having a woman so far under your skin you couldn’t dig her out with a scalpel.

“Just beginning?” Archer’s lips tilted sardonically. “You remember about, oh, six or seven years ago? When Tryst decided commerce was his life and he started taking risks and learning all he could about economics and such rot?”

Jack nodded, scooping up a forkful of runny yolk with the sausage and potato already speared on his fork.
That was when things really started to take off for the two of them.

“Well, that was Vienne La Rieux’s doing. Shagged my baby brother senseless and then dismissed him because he wasn’t enough of a ‘man.’ Tryst took that badly, as you can imagine. Personally I think the tart did him a favor.”

“How so?”

“She had a few years on him and he was infatuated—fancied himself in love with her, but I think he was in love with what she did to him, you understand?”

Christ, did he ever. “By tossing him aside she saved him from making a fool of himself over her.”

Archer nodded. “Quite. However, Tryst’s been proving himself ever since, and if he gets a chance to shove that in La Rieux’s face, then he will.” He took a drink of coffee. “So, you see, by doing business with Mrs. Moon, he gets to feel as though he’s flaunting his success in Frenchie’s face. It’s worked you know. I see the look on La Rieux’s face when Tryst’s name is mentioned.”

Jack smiled—a little bitterly. “A woman scorned is but a trifle compared to a man rejected.”

Archer raised his cup in salute. “Well said, my friend. Well said.”

Jack took a drink of his coffee as Archer launched into another subject. A man rejected, that’s what he was. Instead of wallowing in the fact that Sadie had left him, perhaps he should follow Trystan’s example.

And make her regret that she had.

“I
really don’t reckon that’s a penis, Mrs. Carbunkle.” Sadie bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

Her companion obviously wanted her to laugh as well, because the old lady peered up at her with sparkling blue eyes and a be-dentured grin as she lifted her teacup for inspection. “Do you not, dear? Perhaps you do not see it because you are so young—you haven’t perceived as many of them as I have.”

Sadie allowed herself a smile. There was no getting around it. “What do you suppose it means that you have a penis in your cup?” she asked softly. It was just the two of them at the table, Sadie having been hired for a private party, but there were still people nearby who might overhear.

The old girl squished her face up—all wrinkles and impish humor. “Well, I hope it means that I’ll see one or two more before I leave this earth.”

She could no longer hold back; Sadie laughed. It felt
good to laugh, even though some of the ladies present would no doubt look down their noses at her, and call her common for having the gall to enjoy herself when she was here to entertain
them
.

She wiped at her eyes as Mrs. Carbunkle looked pleased with herself, holding the delicate china up in both her arthritic hands. Her large round knuckles were so swollen and disfigured they were actually raised above her fingers, each of which turned outward, giving her hands the appearance of tiny wings. They reminded Sadie of her grandmother’s hands.

Maybe that was why she liked the old girl so much.

“Look,” Sadie said, leaning closer to point at a clump of leaves near the inner rim of the cup. Mrs. Carbunkle smelled of sweet, powdery roses. “There’s your wish. That means it’s going to come true soon.”

“I knew I could bring Thomas Saybrook up to snuff,” the older woman replied gleefully. She set her hand on Sadie’s forearm. “Thank you, my dear, for taking the time to entertain an old woman.”

Sadie placed her fingers over the gnarled ones and gently squeezed. “Thank
you
, Mrs. Carbunkle.”

The elderly woman was to be her last session of the day, so Sadie rose from her chair, stiff from having sat so long, and gathered up her gloves and bag. She made her way across the busy Morris carpet, nodding at the odd lady who deigned to acknowledge her, toward her hostess. She thanked the lady for having her and was demurely thanked in return, and told to see the butler on her way out—no doubt he was to pay her. The lady
of the house couldn’t be bothered with such vulgarity as the exchange of money.

Sadie didn’t need to hold court at these small parties, but she did so because she considered it good advertising. Usually she met one or two ladies—or gentlemen—who had never had their leaves read before, at least not by her. If she impressed them, perhaps they’d tell other people about her or, better yet, bring people to her to have their fortunes told.

God, she couldn’t wait until she had her own shop. Then she could set defined hours for readings, keep time free for her private life, and she wouldn’t do public readings unless she wanted to. She’d continue to assist Vienne, but that would be it.

Oh, it was going to be lovely to answer to no one but herself. Bloody wonderful.

Having sat for so long, with an endless supply of tea, necessitated that she visit the loo before taking her leave. She stopped a maid and asked for directions and smiled her thanks when given the information. She hurried down the corridor, her knees pressed together in urgency.

She burst through the door to the loo and found herself not alone. “Oh, I beg your pardon.”

It was Lady Gosling. She stood in front of the mirror with the collar of her blouse open. She quickly closed the garment, but not before Sadie glimpsed what she’d been examining—a bite mark.

Made by
human
teeth. Had Jack done that? The notion startled her. He had never done such a thing to her—oh, the odd love bite was one thing, but this…

Whoever did that had to be very passionate or very cruel. Whatever else his faults, Jack Friday was not cruel, not physically.

“No need to apologize, Madame Moon,” the lady replied smoothly, buttoning her collar. “I should have bolted the door. Are you leaving?”

“I am, yes.”

“Pity. I wanted to have a visit with you.”

“I doubt I’d have anything new to tell you since your last reading.” It had only been a few days ago, after all. But that was overstating the obvious, so Sadie didn’t say it.

The lady shrugged her slender shoulders. “Perhaps my life has changed since then.”

She referred to Jack, of course. That was why Sadie had seen him in Lady Gosling’s cup. The two of them were destined to become lovers. And why not? They were both pretty, if not slightly tarnished, people. Sadie had no claim on Jack, nor did she want one. She only wished he had less of an effect on her. If not for him she might have done more than kiss Mason last night when he came home with her. He might not have looked at her with a wry smile, touched his fingers to her temple and asked, “Are you somewhere else?” And when she said no, then asked, “Are you with someone else?”

“Don’t be silly,” she scolded gently. “There’s no one else.” And to an extent it was true. In her head there was no one else she wanted to be with but him, but in her heart, she couldn’t quite bring herself to go to bed with one man when she was so confused over another.

“Anyway,” Lady Gosling said, snapping her back to the here and now, “you look as though you’re about to dance a jig. I’ll leave you to attend to your needs. Good day.” She gave Sadie a long, bewildering look—as though seeing her for the first time and trying to place her face. “By the way, your name—Sadie. It’s unusual. Is it derived from anything?”

“Bronach,” Sadie heard herself confess, surprisingly. “It means ‘sad’ so my grandfather jokingly used to call me ‘Saddie’ as a child. It didn’t take long for Sadie to come from that. After he died, I decided to keep the name.” Why on earth was she telling this woman all of this? Because she’d asked. No one but Jack had ever asked about her name before.

“Hm,” the other woman replied—not much of a reply at all. “How very interesting. Good day, Madame Moon.” And then she swept from the room as though she were the queen herself.

Sadie shook her head, bolted the door, and then relieved herself of all thoughts of the odd Lady Gosling as she also relieved her aching bladder. Letting go of thoughts of Jack, however, proved more difficult. This time of year she always thought of him, for so many reasons. Having him so close only made it worse.

She wanted to hate him but she didn’t—not completely. She wasn’t certain how she felt about him, only that seeing him again had awakened a whole host of feelings, some of which were more pleasant than others. Mostly she was overwhelmed by a great sense of loss and regret.

If only he had taken her with him when he left. How different would their lives be, then? What kind of family would they have had? What kind of adventures? She’d be a wealthy woman—much more than she was now—but Jack wouldn’t allow her to read leaves. Funny, but she couldn’t imagine letting a man boss her at this point in her life. Couldn’t imagine letting anyone boss her about, for that matter.

But then, eleven years ago she couldn’t imagine not having children, or being alone at seven and twenty. And here she was. She had a little help, but she had forged a life for herself. She’d survived losing her husband—losing everything—and gone on to build a new life. A life she enjoyed and was proud of. She would do well to remember that the next time Jack Friday called her a fraud.

She would do well to remember it the next time she felt inferior next to a wealthy lady who hadn’t done a day’s work in her entire life. Or gentleman for that matter. When she first met Jack, he’d bordered on useless. He could hunt to be sure, but if anything needed fixing, it was usually Sadie who knew how to fix it.

But he hadn’t been useless in bed, she thought with unexpected whimsy. In all their years apart she’d never met one man who could come close to making her feel desire like Jack had. Although, she had high hopes for Mason.

When she finally arrived back at her own house, Mrs. Charles informed her that a gentleman waited on her in
the parlor. This was said with such a twinkle in the old girl’s eye, that Sadie’s first thought was that it must be Mason. But surely the housekeeper would have mentioned him by name?

Sadie smoothed her palms over her skirts and hair, smoothing some of the day’s effect on both. She pinched her cheeks to add some color, knowing she looked tired and pale after such a draining afternoon.

She opened the parlor door to find Indara inside, entertaining their guest. Her friend was brightly clad in a paprika-colored day gown with a crimson underskirt. It was a striking clash of color—one Sadie determined to try herself. Indara was smiling, laughing at a joke her companion told. Sadie smiled at the sight of her friend’s joy, but that faded when she realized just who their guest was.

Jack Friday. In her house. Her sanctuary. Looking at Indara as though he’d like to shag her right there on the carpet.

“Who the hell let you in?”

Over the course of their courtship and brief condemnation as man and wife, Jack had, on several occasions, the glorious misfortune of seeing Sadie truly angry. Glorious because she was one of those women who looked both fierce and beautiful when in the midst of a tirade. Misfortunate because often that rage had been directed at him.

Just the sight of her flushed cheeks and glittering faerie eyes was enough to make the bounder in his pants raise
its eager noggin. What an article he was, getting horn at the sight of a woman who looked as though she could cheerfully separate his head from his shoulders.

What was she so worked up over? Then it hit him. Aside from hating him, she didn’t like seeing him with her friend. With another woman.

I’ll be damned
. Grinning, Jack rose to his feet and bowed. “Madame Moon. A pleasure to see you again.” Yes, yes it was, especially now that he saw how far under her skin he was.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

The lovely Miss Ferrars, looking confusedly between the two of them, rose to her feet. “I let Mr. Friday in, Sadie. He said you had business to discuss.”

Sadie glanced at her friend, but saved her glare for Jack. “I can’t imagine we have anything to discuss.”

He could. He could imagine plenty, but neither of them would want Miss Ferrars to bear witness. “I thought perhaps I should inquire as to your health since I ruthlessly sawed you in half last night.”

She didn’t crack a smile. “I’ve survived worse, I assure you, sir.”

It was a good dig, he had to admit. Subtle. No one else would know it was aimed so particularly to wound him. “That is good to know.” He glanced at the lovely Miss Ferrars and smiled charmingly. “You missed Sadie’s performance at Saint’s Row last evening. She was very convincing.”

Before the exotic beauty could reply, Sophie intervened, “Indara, would you mind leaving Mr. Friday and me,
so we can discuss this ‘business’ of his?” Her gaze was narrow but no less bright as it locked with Jack’s.

“Ours,” Jack corrected with a grin, just to needle her. And then to Indara, “Thank you for keeping me company, Miss Ferrars. You brightened an otherwise dreary day.”

Indara smiled at him. She really was a beautiful woman, but even her beauty was no match for Sadie’s too-long nose and wide mouth. She left them with a polite farewell.

Sadie pounced the moment the door was closed. “What do you mean coming to my house?”

As her husband, it was technically his house too, was it not? But then they’d already decided that they weren’t really married, so why bring it up?

“I wanted to speak with you. Surely you’ve had callers before?”

“You’re not welcome here,” she retorted hotly. “This is
my
house. Mine!”

Her vehemence destroyed his desire to tease her. In fact, it brought a peculiar ache to his chest, as though she had wrapped the words around a brick and struck him with it.

“Forgive me,” he muttered. “I should have sent a card, but I thought you might appreciate seeing me admit to being wrong in person.” Now he was the one getting angry.

She stilled—froze with her hands on her rounded hips, drawing his attention to her nipped-in waist. She was like an hourglass wrapped in plum cashmere. It
was the most subtle costume he’d seen her wear these past few days.

“Wrong?” Her eyes had lost some of their spark when she looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you have your shop.”

The changes in her expression were startling. She went from elated—“I do?”—to suspicious. “You’re not lying, are you?”

Jack made a face, arms across his chest. “If I was going to lie, it wouldn’t be to announce that I made an error. Nor would I offer an apology as I do now.”

She pondered that one a moment, searching out his face, he could only assume, for any trace of lie. “No, I suppose not. Thank you, Mr. Friday. You’ve quite made my day.”

Yes, he imagined he had. Not only did she get her shop but she got to crow over him for it. Still, it was worth it to see that smile and know that he was the cause of it. “Consider it a gift.”

She arched a fine, high brow. “Now, why would you be giving me a gift?”

“It’s the sixth of July,” he replied, surprised at how easily it rolled off his tongue. “Happy anniversary.”

Her smile and all that wonderful heightened color drained from her cheeks. He supposed he should feel some satisfaction in that, but he didn’t. But it did warm him when she placed a hand over her heart, as though the shriveled thing had given her a little jolt.

“You remembered.”

Jack scowled—hard. “Of course I remember, Sadie.
How could I forget the happiest day of my life?” He hadn’t meant to say that, but her surprise pissed him off. Had her opinion of him sunk so low? What had he done to make her despise him so—other than try to make a better life for both of them?

Her expression was dubious, to say the least. “I would have thought the happiest day was the day you left.”