Chapter Two

L ondon —the center of the world, for all intents and purposes. Or so it was said to be. The Honorable Reginald Taverston, third son of the Earl of Iversley, thought otherwise.

After four months rusticating at the family country estate and spending two more months in Bath visiting his great aunts (well, one great aunt and one great aunt’s long-time companion), Reginald had returned to the city where all fashionable gentlemen belonged, for some reason that escaped him.

He ducked his head into the wet wind and willed his feet to press on, puddles be damned.

The obligatory teasing that Jasper, his eldest brother had subjected him to— What! Newly arrived? Why are you HERE? —would have turned to frank mockery if Jasper had guessed that it was not only filial duty bringing Reginald directly to the Earl’s London townhouse, but also a lack of enthusiasm for the visit upon which he was now embarked. Any other red-blooded young man would have hied off to his neglected mistress first.

Thank God Crispin had been absent for the taunting. Their middle brother was a wild card. One never knew whose side he would take, but if he had taken Reginald’s, it would have been out of pity, not fellow feeling.

Upon arriving in the city, Reginald, being himself rather than Jasper or Crispin, had gone directly to see their mother. He went to report on Father, the Earl, who had been sickly for a while, recuperating in the country. And to reassure Mother that the aunts were still well.

Also, admittedly, he’d been looking forward to a quiet homecoming. He’d arrived the day after Mrs. Preston’s annual pre-Season rout by pure serendipity—a little rude-seeming, perhaps, since the whole family had missed it last year. But Jasper’s teasing struck a chord, so Reginald merely answered his mother’s most pressing inquiries, then took himself off for a bit of entertainment, as young men were expected to do.

The walk was not far. He made his way to Baker Street, an out-of-the-way but still toney address where well-acquainted gentlemen were likely to pass one another without acknowledgment, giving no offense. This was what passed for being discreet. Mistresses resided here.

Being twenty-three, unmarried, and possessed of an adequate allowance, his own presence on Baker Street was hardly scandalous. It was no secret that he kept company with the sought-after Miss Annie DeBelle—not her true name—who had, for a short time, been an opera singer. At least, he had been keeping company with her, beginning a year prior to his departure from London. He continued paying her bills, which were not exorbitant, even though he’d been absent for the last six months. Granted, it was a rather one-sided arrangement, but keeping a mistress on retainer, as it were, kept him from having to go through the process of finding another.

Besides, he was fond of Annie. He should be impatient to reacquaint himself with her. After all, he had not availed himself of any alternatives—a rather embarrassing fact that he would never admit to Jasper or Crispin. True, there was little opportunity in Iversley, but one would not have had to look very hard in Bath.

He hadn’t bothered. Was that strange? It seemed to him it was.

Annie had been very little bother. Thankfully. And she was lovely, which made Reginald feel more…credible. And there were other obvious benefits besides.

He crossed the narrow street and ascended the steps to the door. The house was narrow, squeezed into too small a lot, but neatly built and comfortable. Annie had chosen it with the help of her previous protector. When the gossips reported that the man’s attentions had shifted to a young actress, Miss DeBelle let it be known she would welcome a new benefactor. That had caught Reginald’s interest. He’d heard her sing once. At a private party, not on stage. After a few inquiries and an interview of sorts, Reginald signed a few papers, took over the lease, and it was done.

Thinking back, it had all been pleasantly uncomplicated, although it did surprise him that she’d accepted his offer over those of other bidders. Jasper had claimed to be flabbergasted, but Crispin elbowed their brother roughly and said Annie was said to be a shrewd judge. That comment, Reginald had felt, was even more mocking than Jasper’s feigned shock. Thank God he’d been savvy enough not to ask: judge of what?

Although he possessed a key, he rang the bell. She must have heard that he was back in London, but he wouldn’t barge in unannounced.

Dolores, Annie’s girl, opened the door. “Girl” was a misnomer. The woman may well have started out as Annie’s nursemaid from the look of her.

“My lord!” She bobbed a curtsy, frowning. “Come in. I’ll tell Miss DeBelle that you’re here.”

“She may not be expecting me.”

“Don’t be silly.” Annie’s silken voice pulled his attention to the stairway in the hall. “Of course I expected you.”

Of course, she would. He felt a jolt, seeing her. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Voluptuous. Black hair. Those almond-shaped eyes and plump lips. He was suddenly quite glad he had come. She wore a pale green dress of a fabric so thin it might well have been translucent. A swath of darker green silk draped across her shoulders and around her upper arms, a pretense of modesty likely performed for his sake; he possessed an awkward streak of prudishness that he knew amused her.

“Good evening, Miss DeBelle.”

“Mr. Taverston, won’t you come into the parlor?” She turned to the maid. “Dolores, please take Mr. Taverston’s coat and hat.”

After removing the small box from the pocket of his coat and slipping it inside his jacket, he handed his outer things to the maid and followed Annie up the stairs.

A fire warmed the parlor. Light floral wallpaper made the cozy room appear larger than it was. The furnishings were unchanged except for new plush pillows decorating the davenport and chairs. The drapes were drawn, and the lamps burned low. Perhaps the flue on the fireplace wasn’t drawing properly because he caught a faint whiff of smoke. He sank onto the davenport while Annie went to a sideboard displaying glasses and a decanter.

“You still prefer sherry?” she asked.

He wondered if “still” was an admonishment.

“Sherry is fine.” His preference was to drink sparingly of whatever was set before him. He hated the outside-of-himself sensation of being foxed. That was another thing Jasper mocked him for. Of course, Crispin drank no spirits at all, yet he was not mocked. Even Jasper’s so-called humor had limits.

She brought him a glass. He trailed his fingertips over the back of her hand as he took it from her. She smiled but stepped away rather than sitting beside him. Which was odd. She might be angry with him. As if to confirm his suspicion, she took a seat halfway across the room.

They sat a moment in silence. It occurred to him, as he struggled for opening words, that he had always relied upon her to find topics for light conversation. As if it were her responsibility to ensure his comfort. Not as if. It was her responsibility . Her job. Part of it anyway. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. She was not his lover, but his employee.

Still. They were fond of one another. They could converse companionably about something. His six months away, perhaps? But she would not be interested in his aunts, funny though he found them, and it was inappropriate to discuss his father’s illness with her.

Then he remembered with relief that he’d brought her a gift, a gold bracelet set with gemstones. He’d give it to her. They’d exchange pleasant stories about Bath. He’d take her to bed and this awkwardness would dissipate.

He cleared his throat and set his drink on the end table. “Come, sit by me.” He gestured. “I have something for you.”

She rose and came to sit close. Her perfume was new. Something heavy. Foreign. Alluring. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, but she held herself so stiffly he retreated. The pillows bunched behind him. Her perfume mingled with the odd, smokey odor he’d noted before, apparently emanating from the davenport.

He ignored the nagging feeling that he was missing something important. Taking the box from his jacket and handing it to her, he imagined, or hoped, it would right what had slipped askew.

Rather than open it, she set it down on the cushion. “I shouldn’t accept.”

“No?” Annie had never been one to demand extravagances, but she’d never before refused a present he’d brought her. So he had offended her. “Should I have…?”

What? He didn’t know what was correct in these situations. How was a man supposed to return to his mistress after a six-month absence?

“Should I have written?”

Her eyes widened. “Darling.” She laughed a little. “You are such a dear. Of course, it would have been sweet of you to write to me, but I didn’t expect it. Whatever would you have said?”

“I don’t know.” He took a stab at it. “That I missed you.”

“Ah.” She shook her head, smiling, but her eyes were shiny, a bit sad. “Did you?”

He nodded, yet didn’t say the words. In truth, he’d given her so little thought it was a miracle he’d remembered to buy her a gift.

“Darling, look at me.”

He did.

“How do I look to you?”

His answer was automatic. “Beautiful.”

“Look closer.” She leaned her face close to his, but when he bent to kiss her, she put a finger to his lips. “Do you know how you appear to me?”

He drew back sharply, confused. As his back slapped against the pillows, the smoke scent wafted out and he recognized it: Stale tobacco.

He didn’t smoke.

“You look to me like a man growing bored. A man who has outgrown his mistress.”

“That isn’t true.” How could she surmise that from how he “looked?” He felt a bit panicked. He hadn’t anticipated this. How could he have? “Let’s go to bed.” He’d prove he wasn’t bored with her .

She shook her head and laid her hand on his. “I need to tell you something first.”

First. All right. He turned his hand over, so they were palm to palm. He didn’t claim to understand women, but suspected if one wanted to talk, it was best to listen. Then he would ask if she had begun smoking cigars.

No, of course, he wouldn’t.

“Go on.”

She hesitated a moment before squeezing his hand. Then she said, “How old do you suppose I am?”

“What?” Where on earth was she going with all of this?

“How old?”

He didn’t know, but he knew better than to guess. “Not very. Older than I am. Not enough to matter.”

“How much older would matter?”

He tried to joke. “Older than you are.”

“I’m thirty-three.”

He blinked. Good Lord. She was older than Jasper. He had the presence of mind to say, “That isn’t old.” But his voice sounded rattled, even to himself. He added, “You don’t look it.”

She laughed. “That is not as reassuring to hear as I’m sure you meant it to be.”

“You’re beautiful to me,” he insisted.

“Darling, I am a beautiful woman. That is my stock-in-trade.”

“Well then?” He wasn’t understanding. She wasn’t making sense. The room began to feel overly warm.

“But I’m also practical. Beauty fades. I have to face the fact that my value can only wane.”

“Don’t talk like that.” It was distasteful. Sordid, even. “I’m drawn to you for more than your looks.”

She waved off his clumsy attempt to reassure her. Thankfully. If she’d asked him to elaborate, he would have drawn a blank. He didn’t have a facility for pretty compliments and would stumble over what to say. Perhaps she wouldn’t have listened anyway. She seemed hellbent on pressing a point. “So I ask myself: am I to remain with a handsome young gentleman, who pleases me very much and brings me lovely gifts, until he abandons me for—”

“I’m not that shallow,” he interrupted, impatient with her pique. He should have jotted off a few notes. Six months was a long time. Though she was correct; he couldn’t imagine what he would have said.

“—a wife,” she finished, giving him a long look. “Or, do I move on while I can?”

He nearly choked. “A wife ? That’s ludicrous.”

Not all men put aside their mistresses when they wed. Probably most didn’t. He might, prude that he was. But it was a silly thing to worry over. It was not even a given that he would take a wife. Jasper was heir to the earldom. He needed to marry and likely soon. But Reginald was twenty-three, not twenty-nine. And then it would be Crispin’s turn. Third sons were not badgered to wed and set up nurseries. Why was Annie bringing up such a concern now?

“I am years from marrying.”

“But that’s worse, don’t you see? Who will clamor for my company in five years? God forbid, in ten?”

So. It occurred to him what she was trying to tell him, and suddenly the tobacco odor made sense. Someone was clamoring for her company now .

“Who is it?” he asked.

Slow as he’d been, Annie evidently hadn’t expected him to catch on quite yet. She tried out a succession of expressions. Confusion. Timidity. Regret. She settled on mutinous.

“Sir Plodgett.”

“Gad.” Plodgett was one of Annie’s disappointed “suitors” a year ago. He hadn’t given up. Rather, he’d waited until Reginald’s back was turned. Bad ton. Poaching a man’s mistress was out of bounds.

“Mr. Taverston, darling—”

“You’ve been with him, haven’t you? Here?” Ridiculously, his jaw clenched, and his voice hitched as if he were angry. More ridiculously, he was angry. Annie would trade him for a baronet who was fifty years old if he was a day. Plodgett? He could hear Jasper’s laughter already.

She bit her lip as if considering what to say, then she nodded. “He is not likely to tire of me.”

“No. More likely you’ll be wheeling him about in a chair, wrapping a shawl over his shoulders, and fetching him possets.”

That was crueler than he meant to be. She eyed him, disappointed, then continued levelly. “I am prepared for that eventuality. He said he would provide me a lifetime pension. If I don’t take this offer, I am unlikely to receive another so favorable.”

“But you were entertaining such offers while living under my…” Protection? What a misleading euphemism. “Roof,” he finished, lowering his gaze. And now he hated himself.

He cared less that she was leaving him than that she was making him look like a fool. Weak. Practically cuckolded.

Yet bubbling up alongside his humiliation was a light feeling of relief. He would have needed to disentangle himself from her eventually. Now he wouldn’t have to.

She cocked her head and regarded him steadily, and he had the uncomfortable feeling she sensed his relief.

“I am sorry,” she said.

“Well, no.” He tried to be magnanimous. “You’re in a difficult situation.”

She smiled a lightly mocking smile. Once again, he’d amused her when that was not his intention. “As are you. Believe me, I understand.” Her eyes danced, making her seem more like herself. “Sir Plodgett has said that, naturally, he will see to reimbursing you for your expenses.”

“God!” The oath exploded from his lips. “That mercenary blackguard.”

“Yes, he is crass,” she admitted.

“And a coward.” Reginald saw that with a sudden clarity, and it made him feel better. “He left this whole business to you to tell me?”

“I think perhaps he was leery of facing you.” She shrugged, excusing Plodgett’s poor behavior. It was a habit she would have to acquire. “He didn’t know what to expect. You’re rather a mystery, you know, compared to your brothers.”

Jasper would say it was beneath him to pummel an old man. Crispin would say to hell with it and pummel him anyway. But Reginald?

“Did he think I would take his money then? Third son? Pockets to let?” Was that how Plodgett had wooed her? Implying Reginald could not afford such a desirable courtesan?

“I believe he heard a rumor you were a crack shot.” Her eyebrows arched in question as if she, too, found him a bit of a mystery. Crack shot was not out of the question, but it was out of character. He was, after all, a man who wore spectacles at the theater.

“Where would he have heard that?”

She paused before saying, “At White’s. He overheard it. Lord Taverston let it slip.”

So Jasper knew. And he’d entertained himself by terrorizing the old sod. Well, it was a revenge of a sort. And Reginald would have had to face Jasper anyway. It wasn’t as if such choice gossip could be muzzled.

But, the deuce. He sank against the cushion. He would never have thought he could be the subject of the ton’s latest on dit . Certainly, no one would ever imagine such a thing. He grimaced ruefully.

“You may reassure him that I won’t shoot him.”

Her smile grew. She peeled the silk wrap from her shoulders and set it to her side.

“Now that’s settled, shall we go to bed before we part ways?”

He flinched. She wasn’t joking. That bothered him—how little she knew him. He picked up his sherry and drained the glass.

“No. You owe me nothing.”

Her expression flattened. Just there, about her eyes, he could see the start of fine worry lines. Until now, her age had never concerned him enough to notice the evidence of it. Unfortunately, that had been na?ve of him.

“I am not offering out of obligation,” she said, peeved. “I’d like to go to bed with you.”

Scratching the itch, as Crispin would put it, in his indecorous way. Reginald supposed she did want him to take her to bed. Annie had taught him how to give her pleasure, and he was nothing if not a careful student.

Still, he shook his head. His face felt hot, and he wondered if he was reddening.

“I see,” she said quietly. Gently. Her expression reminded him of the look she’d given him the first time they’d lain together. She hadn’t been his first, but close enough to it. She hadn’t said anything, but she’d known.

That first time—he wished he could forget. He’d been home on break during his first year at Cambridge. His brothers had divvied up the chore of “growing him up”. Jasper got him drunk. Crispin took him to a brothel, disappearing at once with a favorite—a buxom redhead who acted delighted to see him—leaving Reginald to choose between two brunettes of indeterminate age whose faces he was too embarrassed to note. That night, and the morning after, he’d sorely wished he did not have brothers.

And now he wished he’d never involved himself with Annie.

“I feel like an idiot,” he admitted. How was it that he couldn’t bring himself to touch Plodgett’s mistress?

“Don’t. Reginald Taverston, you are a good man.” The worry lines appeared again. “I wish I were less practical. Or ten years younger. I’ll miss you.”

He leaned to kiss her cheek. Now the strong scent of her perfume—and the tobacco smoke—made him feel a bit ill. He stood. “I’ll miss you, too.” He suspected he might be lying. “You needn’t see me out. I’ll have Dolores fetch my things.”

She plucked the jewelry box from the davenport and held it up for him to take.

He shook his head. “You keep it. What in God’s name would I do with it?”

“No. It wouldn’t feel right.”

He laughed and said a Crispin-like thing. “Are you serious? That is what doesn’t feel right?” Then he softened it. “A goodbye gift.” He stepped to the door; as he moved through it he tossed over his shoulder, “Tell Plodgett I stomped out to clean my pistols.”

He thought it a fair approximation of a dignified exit.