Regency Society
He grabbed her wrist and her eyes snapped open at the shock of the unwelcome contact. ‘Not so fast, my dear. I understand it is fully furnished. There is an attached inventory. If you can assure me that everything is in its proper place, we can dispense with the tour.’
She wet her lips. He knew that her furniture had gone the way of her jewels. There was no point in pretending it had not.
‘There is an easier way, you know. You stay in the house. You keep the servants and I give you enough money to replace all that you have taken, even the stones in the rest of your jewellery. But you accept the fact that it is my house that you live in, and I will come and go, and do as I please when here. And no door will be barred to me.’
The hand on her wrist relaxed into a gentle grip. ‘It is not an unpleasant proposition I am making, I assure you. I am not a cruel man. My mistresses have always found me to be generous and they assure me I am good company. But I do not like to be opposed.’
‘And I do not like to be forced.’
‘You are not being forced. You have options. You can leave the house and its contents intact. Then there will be no reason for me to call the law to retrieve my property. Or you can accept that you are my guest here, and treat me with the gratitude I deserve for solving so many of your problems. I will give you two days to consider the matter. That should be enough time to put your house in order.’
He snapped his fingers. ‘Correction. My house in order. I will return on Monday, Constance. At that time, you will give me the keys. Whether you stay or go is completely up to you. Until then.’ And he bent his head to hers and kissed her.
She wished that it had been a repellent kiss, and that she had fought it, as one would fight untimely death. But instead, she closed her eyes and leaned into him, opening her mouth and trying to remember what it had been like to kiss Robert so.
She had to admit the truth to herself: Barton was not unskilled at kissing. If it were not Barton holding her, the experience would not be unpleasant. He did a creditable job of trying to arouse her passions.
She imagined she was in Tony’s arms, and she did a creditable job of pretending to be aroused. And so it was likely to be from now on.
‘That was not so very bad, was it?’
Her voice quavered as she spoke, and she could feel a flush of shame on her face. ‘We are not finished here, Jack. Do not think that you have won.’
‘We can discuss my chances of victory on Monday, Constance. Until then.’
And he left her there, trembling with rage. It was one thing to sell one’s dreams to get a husband. If there was no promise of love, then at least there was a guarantee of security until such time as the fool man had to go and die, leaving one’s future in the hands of his idiot nephew…
She shook her head. She would not let Barton use her at his will, and cast her off when he tired of her. There had to be another way. If she had the deed and the inventory, then the house would be hers. She would put it somewhere safe, out of the hands of Freddy and all others, as she should have done from the first. There would be no further discussion.
But Barton was not likely to give it to her just because she wanted it. He would make her earn it. If she wanted it, then she must find a way to take it from him. She imagined sneaking into his house in the night, and rifling his desk. He would keep it somewhere he could look at it and admire his cleverness, much as he planned to keep her on display in her own house.
All she need do was go to his house under cover of darkness, find the deed, and steal away with it without anyone noticing. An impossibility. Even if she could get past the locked door, she doubted she would have the nerve necessary to take the thing.
But she knew someone with nerve enough for both of them. Her heart skipped at the memory of him climbing boldly out of her window and down to the ground as silently as a shadow. And he had been in the study before. He might even know where to look.
If she could make him do it for her. She had done what he wished at the previous night’s ball. He had said that would clear any debt she might owe, with regards to the money he had left her. And she had allowed him to kiss her in the garden. But she had hurt him, too, in the circulating library. What reason could he possibly have to help her, after that?
The same reason everyone else had to offer her assistance. He, at least, had made a more interesting proposition when he’d made her pay him back. And he’d left her with hard currency to trade.
And, she had to admit it, a certain willingness to barter. Did she seriously plan to sell her honour so cheaply?
She thought of the single kiss in the moonlight, and the way her body had responded as they’d danced. She was hardly selling herself cheap if it was a house she gained. And it was not as if she would need feign too hard, when the moment came to give all. It might be quite pleasant to lie back and let him have his way.
She flushed. Her current fantasy of what might happen when next she was alone with Anthony Smythe had very little to do with passive submission to his advances. She must take care or her response, when the moment came, was likely to be aggressive to an unladylike degree.
But to the matter at hand, how did one go about offering oneself in exchange for services?
She shuddered. That was what she was planning to do. And it did no good to paint the act in romantic fantasies, even if the experience proved as pleasant as it was likely to. Any relationship they might have after tonight would be in fulfilment of a transaction and not the passionate idyll she’d created in her imagination.
She sighed. If life were dreams, it would not be as it had been in the library, today. She would have come upon Mr Smythe when she was alone, and he would ply her with poetry and promises of discretion. They would meet in secret, and he would grow bolder with each meeting. She would put up a token display of resistance before succumbing to his considerable romantic skills. Their inevitable parting would be bittersweet, but she would have a memory that she could carry into whatever cold future awaited her.
But now, she must forgo romance and throw herself on the mercy of the thief, or she would be spending her immediate future in the company of Lord John Barton. Nothing was lost, she reminded herself. Neither path led to a likelihood of slow seduction by Anthony Smythe, but one was infinitely more pleasant, once she got over the initial distaste of being so forward as to make the first move.
And if she was to move, there was no time to waste. She hurried up the stairs to her room and called for her maid. ‘Susan?’
‘Yes, your Grace.’
‘I am going out. The gold dress, I think.’ It was attractive on her, she thought. And she wished to look her best. Susan helped her into the gown and Constance appraised herself in the pier glass.
She had always thought this her most lovely gown, but now she was not so sure. It was grand, certainly. The gold threads caught the candlelight, and tiny beads glittered in the poufs of white satin that trimmed it, and weighted the skirt. But it seemed too stiff and formal for what she had in mind this particular evening.
She wanted to be beautiful for him. A prize worthy of any risk he might take to achieve it. But she did not want to seem unapproachable. How best to make the point clear? She took a deep breath to steady herself, and then she said, ‘Susan, help me out of these stays.’
Her maid’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘You are not going to see Lord Barton again, are you, your Grace?’
‘I should think not, Susan. I know someone who might be willing to help on that account, if I ask him nicely.’ And with no stays, she would not have to ask aloud.
The maid nodded. ‘Very good, ma’am.’ Susan removed the dress, helped her out of her corset and tossed the dress back over her head.
The effect was startling. While the fabric was not sheer, it clung to her body, heavy with the weight of the beads. She could almost see the outline of her breasts inside the dress.
And if she could see them, so could he.
She swallowed. Very well. At least there would be no misunderstanding. It needed but one thing to complete the effect. She closed her eyes in embarrassment. ‘Susan? How does one damp one’s skirts?’
‘Your Grace?’ Her maid gave an incredulous giggle.
‘I’ve heard of it’s being done, but I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen it…’
Chapter Eight
The evening found her shivering inside her cloak, waiting for Mr Smythe to enter his study. Constance had discovered the reason, firsthand, why the practice of dampened petticoats had never caught on. She had thought it was the extreme immodesty that prevented popularity. But now that she had tried it, she suspected it had as much to do with the discomfort involved. The fabric was cold and wet against her body, and she thought she was as likely to catch her death as catch a man because of it.
But the image presented when she saw herself in the mirror might be most effective, if the object of the evening was seduction. The thin fabric of the skirt clung to her legs and outlined her hips and belly. Without the troublesome stays, her breasts rested soft and full in the bodice of her dress, and tightened in response to the chill of the skirts. The rouge on her cheeks and lips was subtle, but made her mouth look kissable in the candlelight. There was no trace left of the aloof duchess to obscure the vulnerable and desirable woman she saw there.
When she’d arrived at Smythe’s rooms, she’d almost lost her nerve, and had clung to the cloak as her last line of protection when the servant had offered to take it. It would be hard enough to shed, once the object of her mission was in sight, and she meant to keep it as long as she could.
At last, Smythe stepped into the room, and she turned to greet him.
He smiled politely. ‘Your Grace? To what do I owe the honour of this visit?’
She let the cloak slip from her shoulders and drop to the floor around her.
There was a long pause, as he took in her appearance. And then, he said, ‘Oh.’ And his face went blank.
She waited, but no response was forthcoming. He stood, rooted to the spot, silent and staring at her as though he did not quite understand what he was seeing.
Dear God, what had she done? She had assumed that she recognised his interest. And he had kissed her. Twice. But perhaps he was thus with all women when he was alone with them.
It had been the servant who had given her the direction to this place, not Mr Smythe. She had not thought, before coming here, to question whether he wished to entertain her in his home. He had certainly never invited her to it. After the afternoon in the library, he might not wish to see her at all, much less see her nearly naked in his study.
He might have other plans for the evening. He might not be alone. Worse yet, he might be married, although there was nothing about the rooms to indicate the fact. And she had blundered forward, dressed like a courtesan and expecting a warm greeting.
She stared down at the cloak on the floor, willing it to jump back into place around her shoulders, and then she looked back at Mr Smythe.
He was still staring at her, taking in every detail. He forgot himself and sat down. And then sprang from his chair, and motioned to her. ‘Please, sit. May I offer you a drink? Tea?’
She sank gratefully on to a nearby settee. ‘Sherry?’
‘Of course.’ She noted the speed with which he summoned a servant, and the eagerness of his voice. He did not let his man come fully into the room, blocking the entrance with his body and taking the tray from him at the door. Then he returned to her, busying himself with the pouring of wine as though he did not know what to do with his hands.
Did this mean he was still interested in her? Or had she embarrassed him in some way? Until he spoke, it was difficult to tell. But whatever he felt, it wasn’t anger, for he showed no sign of turning her out, and he’d have done it by now, surely.
He offered her a glass, but still said nothing. She took her sherry and sipped, crossing her legs, and watching as he watched the movement of her skirt and swallowed some of his own wine.
At last she could stand the silence no longer. All the witty conversational gambits she’d imagined had involved two people who were capable of speech. There would be no clever sparring around the truth, or coy avoidance if she could not get Tony to respond beyond a monosyllable. Finally she gave up and went directly to the reason for her visit, without preamble. ‘I need your help.’
‘Anything,’ he breathed. And then he remembered to look into her eyes. He cleared his throat, and his face went blank again, as he pretended that he had not just been trying to stare through her clothes. When he spoke, his voice had returned to its normal tone. ‘How may I assist you? I am at your service.’
Very well. He wished to pretend that there was nothing unusual about her appearance? Then so would she. She stared unflinchingly into his eyes. ‘I need something taken. Stolen, from another person.’ Her nerve began to falter. ‘It was mine to begin with, so in a sense, it is not stealing at all.’
His voice hardened, as he responded. ‘Do not justify. I trust that you would never ask this of me if the reason were not a good one. You need something taken? Then I am your man. Direct me to it.’
‘Jack Barton has the deed to my house. My house, mind you. Not my husband’s or my nephew’s. It was promised to me.’ She heard the whine in her voice, and took a deep breath. ‘I assume you can guess the reason why he might wish to keep it. It is very economical on his part to allow me to remain in my own house, in exchange for my hospitality when he visits me there. He needn’t even let some rooms.’
She was pleased to see the murderous look on the face of Mr Smythe as the situation sunk in.
‘And I would like to have it back. But I am not sure where he might be keeping it.’
‘That is all right,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I have a pretty good idea of its location. It was a rum trick to play on you, and I have no objection to settling the score. I’ll fix the bastard so that he’s ill inclined to try it again.’ He seemed almost relieved not to have to think about her, and his eyes lost focus as he began to plan the job. ‘The thing will take several days, but you must be patient and allow me to know what is best in this matter. I will bring the deed to you as soon as I have it safely away.’
‘I need it before Monday. That is when he means to…take occupancy.’
His attention snapped back to the present, and he was aware of her again. There was a long pause, and for a moment, she feared that he was about to retract his offer of help. Then he said, ‘Monday? This is not an easy thing you are asking. But I understand that your need is urgent. I will adjust my own plans so that I may help you. You will have it by Monday.’
‘Thank you.’
There was another long silence. She had expected that this was where he would explain to her the cost of the service, and she took another sip of the sherry, wetting her lips to agree, when he asked.
But he said nothing. He just continued to gaze at her, watching her lips as she drank the sherry, scanning slowly down to admire her breasts, making no effort to clarify her position. She could feel her skin grow warm under his gaze, and her nipples tightening.
At last she could no longer stand the silence. She stared down into her wine glass and said, ‘If you were to do this for me, I would be very grateful. Once it is done, of course. Once the item is returned to me, there is nothing that you would ask that I would refuse.’
‘Nothing,’ he said flatly.
‘Nothing,’ she affirmed.
‘Anything I might think to ask in payment, any request I might make, you would be willing to comply?’
She ignored the heat rising in her. ‘Yes.’
His voice dropped to a sensuous murmur, and she could feel the words dancing along her nerves. ‘Be warned, I have an extremely vivid imagination.’
Suddenly, so did she. She closed her eyes tight and the fantasies that rose at the sound of his voice became more intense. Her blood sizzled as she imagined what it might be like to submit to the whims of a man who was little more than a stranger—a hardened criminal, accustomed to taking what he wanted. ‘Anything you wish.’
‘But what will you say in the morning, I wonder?’ His voice had returned to normal again.
‘I have no idea what you mean,’ she responded, a little too easily.
‘I should think it’s obvious. It was to me, at least. I am not good enough to be seen with, when you are in the presence of your friends. It is much safer here, is it not, where there is no one you know?’
The words stung her. ‘And how could I have introduced you to Endsted?’ she retorted. ‘This is Mr Smythe. We met in my bedroom, when he was stealing my jewellery. Really, Tony, you ask the impossible of me.’
‘Tony, is it, now? I had no idea, your Grace, that we had progressed to that level of familiarity. I suppose I should be flattered. When you meet me in the future, you may call me whatever you choose. You need not mention knowing me in my professional capacity at all. We have been introduced at a formal gathering, although you did not pay a great deal of attention at the time. You have danced with me. We have made polite conversation. I had hoped that you might be able to treat me as you treat others. And as I have treated you: with courtesy and respect.’
‘Courtesy and respect? That is beyond enough. You have taken liberties with my person.’
‘I apologise,’ he responded stiffly. ‘I rather thought, at the time, that you enjoyed them. And if I do not miss my guess, you just invited to do as I pleased with you. But if I was mistaken, and have been taking unwelcome liberties, then I humbly apologise. It will not happen again.’
Her anger faded, as she remembered how he’d looked in the library. She had hurt him with her snub. And now she had come to his rooms to hurt him again. She could feel the cool air passing through her gown, fighting back the heat in her skin. She was being utterly shameless, trying to trap Tony into helping her. And yet she was berating him for his behaviour. She looked down at the designs her toe was tracing in the rug. ‘I mis-spoke. You have not taken anything from me that was not freely offered. But Barton came to my rooms after we spoke this afternoon. And in my panic, I could not think where else to turn. I thought, after the kiss in the garden, you would not be averse to my offer tonight.’
He laughed. ‘Oh, your Grace, I’m not averse. Not in the slightest. Especially with you dressed like that.’ He stared at her body, making no effort to hide his interest. Finally, he gave a deep sigh of satisfaction. ‘Say the word and I’ll have you on the hearthrug, right now, and make sure you don’t regret the offer. But understand, if I wished to be compensated for my services, I would request payment in full, up front of the job.’ He stared into her eyes and his smile faded. ‘With the risks I’m taking, I never withhold pleasure or payment for tomorrow. One can not guarantee the outcome. If they catch me and hang me, your gratitude is worthless.’
‘Very well, then.’ Here and now? He would not even lead her to his bed? She felt her knees turn to water and a tremor of excitement go through her at the thought of what was about to happen. She reached to undo her bodice, trying not to rush in her eagerness.
‘I did not request payment.’
Her hand stopped.
‘When did I ever demand anything of you?’ he asked softly. ‘I said I would do this for you, and I shall. I do not wish to—how did you put it?—“take liberties”. From you, I do not wish to take anything at all. I will take care of your problem.’ He waved his hand as though dealing with Barton were no more difficult than shooing a fly. ‘Tonight, all you needed to do was ask and I would have offered to do all in my power to aid you. And as a gentleman, I do not require your gratitude afterwards. Do not mention it again.’
‘Thank you.’ But she did not feel like thanking him. She felt like shouting at him. And the flush in her cheeks was from shame, not excitement.
There was another long pause. And his eyes remained focused on her face, studiously ignoring the rest of her. ‘Is there anything else you wished of me?’
There were many things, none of which she could very well ask for. To begin with, she wanted him to gaze at her as he had done, when she had entered the room, and not with the coldness and disdain he was showing now. ‘No, I think that is all.’
He nodded, and said nothing more. His expression did not change. The silence stretched between them.
‘I should probably be going, then.’
He nodded. ‘I think that’s best. Do you wish me to escort you home?’ And now he showed the same level of concern that any gentleman might show to a lady.
‘No. I am all right. It was not far to walk.’ She could not stand the embarrassment of his respect a moment longer.
‘You walked?’ His voice held disapproval. ‘It is not seemly or safe for a woman to travel alone at night. I will tell Patrick to get you a hackney.’
‘No.’ She had shocked him, by her behaviour, by coming alone to his home, and by her dress, or lack thereof. This was not how the night was to end at all.
‘I insist.’ His voice was emphatic, so she nodded and rose. He reached for her cloak and dropped it on to her shoulders, concealing her body from view before opening the door. She reached to pull it closed in front of her.
He escorted her to the door of his study and out into the hall. He directed his servant to find her transportation. Then he turned his back upon her and returned to his room.
The servant whom she had met the previous night led her down the stairs and left her standing at the front door, as he hailed a cab for her, and she sensed pity in his smile as he helped her into the coach.
Anthony returned to his chair and waited until the door closed behind her, and then waited a little longer. He imagined her progress through the house and out of the front door. Then he drained his wine in a gulp, and called for his valet.
The man appeared like a ghost behind him. ‘Sir?’
‘Patrick, bring me brandy. And plenty of it.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Patrick was resigned to his master’s behaviour, even if he did not approve of it. He left the room and reappeared a short time later, carrying a tray laden with a full bottle of the best brandy in the cellars.
Patrick poured the first glass, and when he seemed to be finished, his master signalled him with a raising of the hand. ‘Eh, eh, eh, a little more, still.’ Tony watched the level rise in the glass. He held up a hand. ‘Stop. That’s the ticket. And keep them coming, Patrick.’ He drank half the brandy and blurted, ‘That woman. I swear, Patrick, she will be the death of me. I cannot countenance what she did, just now.’ He finished the glass, and held it out to be refilled.
‘First she snubs me in public, and makes it known to me that she prefers another. Then she comes to me, soft and willing, just as I’ve always dreamed she would. She is finally here, and wants my help. And at any time, does she recognise me? No.’
‘It has been a long time, sir. Both you and she have changed significantly.’
‘One thing has not changed. She did not want me then, and she does not want me now. Did you see her? Dear God.’ He allowed himself a moment of carnal pleasure at the memory. ‘No stays, thin silk gown, and I swear she’d damped the skirts.’ He shook his head. ‘Like a French woman. Nothing left to imagination, not that my imagination needs any help when it comes to her. But she should not have been out in the streets in that condition. She’d catch her death. She made it quite clear, in the library today, that she wanted no part of me, and that our association was an embarrassment.