Those Scandalous Ravenhursts Volume Two: The Shocking Lord Standon

‘Of course. Of the finest water, naturally, although, with your eyes, emeralds should be your stone. But only a limited number of pieces.’ Without thinking she raised her eyebrows in enquiry, surprised at his sudden lack of liberality. ‘To be in keeping with your cover story. The late Mr Carleton would have earned good money from his royal service, but not so much that he could shower his wife with jewels. And perhaps you have already sold a few pieces to finance your London adventure.’

‘Oh, I see.’ She tried another sip of port, beginning to enjoy the warm slide of the wine down her throat. ‘I am, perhaps, just a little bit desperate to find a new protector?’

‘Not desperate yet, but certainly a trifle concerned. This London adventure is a big gamble for you.’

‘And yet I am retaining the good will of the Grand Duchess?’ Jessica took the fresh walnut that Gareth cracked for her, frowning over the intricacies of her new character. She seemed as convoluted as the whorls of the nut.

‘Eva is a continental—London society will expect her court to be a touch more…relaxed. And I am sure she will let it be known that the family owed your late husband a debt of gratitude for some service. Given the intrigues of her late husband, the exact nature of the service is naturally something we do not speak about. It would explain a little indulgence on her part.’

‘May I ask a personal question?’ What was making her so bold? Perhaps the port, perhaps the intimacy of sitting like this with a man with the curtains drawn tight against the cold, damp night and the candlelight flickering. Or perhaps it was just this man

‘You may, although I cannot promise I will answer.’ He smiled at her, a look heavy-lidded and amused. ‘In return I will ask you again about your family.’

‘Very well.’ She did not have to tell him everything, after all. ‘If you met this Mrs Carleton in real life, would you pursue her, attempt to become her protector?’

Would he answer? ‘I don’t know,’ Gareth replied, his expression becoming speculative. ‘I haven’t met her yet.’

Very clever, my lord, Jessica thought, determined not to let him escape with word play. ‘But in principle?’

‘In principle, possibly.’

‘Even if you were not trying to shock Lord Pangbourne?’

‘Possibly.’ He watched her face. ‘Now have I shocked you?’

‘No.’ Jessica shrugged, hiding the fact that, yes, she was a little shocked. Which was foolish. Did she think this man was different from all the rest in some way? ‘It is the way of the world. Or at least, of so-called polite society.’

‘And not-so-polite society, I can assure you. Enough of my moral deficiencies—where do you come from, Miss Jessica Gifford?’

She had thought about this moment and what she could safely reply. ‘My father was a military man. And a gamester. He and my mother eloped and both families cut them off. He was killed in an argument over cards when I was twelve.’ She paused, wondering how much more she might tell him.

‘Twelve? Were you the only child?’ She nodded. ‘How did your mother support you?’

Tell him the truth, the shocking truth I only realised when I was sixteen? Tell him that I was raised and sent to a good school in Bath on the proceeds of Mama’s great charm and thanks to the liberality of her protectors? No.

‘Mama had many good friends. I was well educated and able to take all those expensive additional lessons that have equipped me for life as a superior governess. I can play the harp as well as the pianoforte, speak three languages, paint in watercolour. Mama died of a fever when I was in my final year at school in Bath.’

The protector of the moment had disappeared before his paramour was even laid in her coffin. She fought back the memories of those days when she could not allow herself to give way to her grief, days while she sold every piece of jewellery, every pretty trinket, every length of lace, buried her mother decently and bought herself the good, but sombre, wardrobe befitting her new role in life.

‘And those good friends could not support you?’ Gareth asked, the concern in his voice almost upsetting her careful control.

‘One—a vicar—did offer to take me into his home, but I do not care to be beholden.’ And certainly not to a pious hypocrite who preached virtue to his flock while visiting Mama every Saturday night! And there was always the fear that those men might expect her to carry on in her mother’s footsteps.

Mama had done the shocking, the unthinkable thing and had sacrificed her virtue and her reputation to give her daughter a future. Jessica could only guess at what that had meant for a woman who had loved her husband, with all his faults, and who had been brought up in the strictest respectability.

‘You do what you have to do, darling,’ she had said once when Jessica had protested that the Honourable Mr Farrington was anything but honourable. The reality of what Mama had been to those men had never been spoken between them, the fiction that Mama was merely keeping them company was always maintained, even when Jessica dabbed arnica on bruised wrists or listened to her mother’s stifled sobs late at night.

You do what you have to do. And now she was all but standing in her mother’s shoes, only she was doing it to gain her own independence, once and for all, and to repay a debt to a man who had rescued her from degradation and shame.

‘I see.’ Gareth poured himself more wine and sat back, loose-limbed, relaxed, in the high-backed chair. ‘I must confess to even more admiration for you than I was already feeling. Your independent career and high standards are to be applauded.’

‘Thank you.’ Jessica felt embarrassed. She knew, without false modesty, that she deserved the praise and yet it was strange to have someone recognise what she had achieved, what it had cost in sheer hard work and determination. ‘Now, tell me about tomorrow.’

He smiled, obviously recognising that she was trying to turn the subject. ‘I will go and buy your jewels and you and Maude can go and have your scent designed.’

‘Designed?’ Jessica stared at him.

‘But of course. When you pass by, men will inhale, entranced, and know it is you, and only you.’

‘Poppycock!’ Jessica retorted roundly. ‘You are teasing me.’

‘Not at all.’ Gareth regarded her for some moments, then stood up. ‘Will you come here, Jessica?’ Wary, she stood and walked towards him. ‘Give me your hands.’

Biting her lip, she placed her palms in his outstretched hands. His fingers meshed with hers then lifted, carrying her inner wrists up to his face. His breath feathered the fragile, exposed skin and her own breath caught in her throat.

‘You have your own, unique, fragrance. I can smell it now, warm and female and Jessica.’ His voice was husky, the words, spoken so close to the sensitised flesh, was like the brush of feathers across her pulse. ‘But it is subtle, a scent only a lover will know and recognise.’ And you, she thought, unsteady on her feet. You will know the scent of me again. ‘We need to give you a scent the hunting male can find and then seek out.’

‘That is a disconcerting thought,’ she murmured.

Gareth’s eyes lifted, met hers across their conjoined hands, and she thought she glimpsed the hunter there, in front of her, dangerous, more of an animal than a man. She drew their hands towards her, pulling down until his knuckles were level with her mouth, then inclining her head until she could inhale the heat from the back of his hands.

‘Warmth and man and Gareth,’ she murmured. His very stillness told her she had startled him, even without the sudden hammering of his pulse against her wrist. She kept her eyes on the clean lines of his tendons, the blue veins under the skin, the healing graze on one big knuckle. A man’s hands engulfing hers, and yet, at this moment, who was the stronger? She rather thought it was she.

‘You learn your lessons well, Miss Gifford,’ Gareth said after a moment, and she admired the control in his voice. ‘You are going to become a very dangerous huntress.’

‘Count upon it, my lord,’ she promised, releasing his fingers and turning on her heel to walk to the door. As she opened it she turned to see him still standing there watching her, a smile of reluctant admiration on his lips.

How I dared, Jessica thought, distracted, as Maude’s carriage drew up in front of a small bow-fronted shop entrance. Todmorton’s it read in spindly gilt lettering above the door. Craftsmen Perfumers. At a gesture from Maude she pulled down her veil and stood to follow her out of the carriage.

It had been keeping her awake all night, tossing and turning. How she had dared turn the tables on Gareth like that, behave like a woman of the demi-monde, how it had felt to hold him in her thrall for those long, shimmering moments while his blood raced in his veins and his skin heated in her clasp.

It was power and it was dangerous power and he was not the man to practise it on. There were no men it was safe to practise such wiles upon and certainly not the one with whom she had to act out this masquerade. She did not need to seduce, only to give the impression of seduction. But it was all becoming too real.

‘What did you say, Jessica?’ Maude turned from her contemplation of a display of giant bath sponges in the shop window. ‘Did you say frightening?’

‘Er, yes. Frightening being out like this, in disguise,’ she extemporised as the footman opened the shop door for her and they entered into fragrant gloom.

‘Not to worry, no one will know you veiled, and afterwards, no one could make any connection with you wearing that frightful stuff gown,’ Maude reassured her, blissfully unconscious of the fact that such dreadful gowns were Jessica’s everyday uniform. ‘Mr Todmorton, good morning. Yes, I am in the best of health, thank you. Now, this is the friend of mine for whom we require a scent. Something unique, something tantalising, yet discreet. Can you help us?’

‘Lady Maude, an honour to assist a friend of yours. Clarence, a chair for her ladyship and show her our new range of triple-milled soaps while she waits.’ The man who bustled forwards, stirring the air into a swirling rainbow of scents as his long apron swished across the floor, was of an indeterminate age. His bald pate gleamed, his white hands were clasped across his rotund belly and his smile was wide and ingenuous.

‘Madam, please, come into my workshop.’

* * *

Jessica felt awkward, sitting disguised by her heavy veil in front of the neat, professional figure of the perfumer in his workroom. She looked round, curious at its ordered rows of labelled drawers from floor to ceiling, its racks of bottles and phials and its clean, bare surfaces. She had expected to smell a riot of perfumes like the fragrant shop outside, then realised he must need to work with nothing to distract his sensitive nostrils.

‘Would you mind removing your glove, madam?’ With the coolly impersonal tone it was like going to the doctor. Jessica stripped off her right glove. ‘And holding out your hand, palm upwards?’

It was like the encounter with Gareth last night, and yet utterly unlike. This man made no attempt to touch her, merely leaning forward until his nose was above her bared wrist and inhaling. He might, she thought with an inward chuckle, be a cook smelling the soup to adjust the chervil.

‘Hmm.’ Mr Todmorton sat back, nodded sharply and reached for a notebook. ‘You wish for a scent for evening and for day, madam?’

‘Yes.’ She supposed she did, although a daring dab of lavender water, or essence of violets on her handkerchief was the sum total of Jessica’s experience with perfume.

‘And the impression you wish to create?’

She stared at him, failing to understand, then realised he could not see her expression for her veil. ‘I am sorry, I do not quite comprehend.’

Again, she might have been with a medical man, she embarrassed to discuss some feminine problem, he entirely at his professional ease.

‘Do you wish to be seductive and subtle or flamboyant? Do you wish to be unique and memorable, or merely sweetly feminine?’

‘Subtle,’ Jessica said hastily. ‘But seductive, memorable. Definitively unique.’

He nodded, apparently unsurprised by her requests, which seemed to her contradictory. ‘Now, which family? That is our first question. Florals as a main group are insufficiently memorable, and besides, will not last well on your type of skin. The woody, leather and fougère groups are too heavy and perhaps too masculine.’ He jotted another note and frowned. ‘Chypre or amber?’ It was apparently a rhetorical question, as he shook his head in thought. ‘Chypre. Mystery, warmth, natural depth. Floral undertones rather than moss, perhaps? Yes, I see it clearly now. I will prepare something in a parfum, an eau de toilette and a very light dilution for scenting linen.’

Jessica, who had been expecting to be offered samples to sniff and choose between, found herself being escorted to the workroom door, a decision made without the slightest involvement on her part. It was a relief, she decided, buttoning her glove again; how she would have recognised a suitable scent she had no idea, although it would have been amusing to have sniffed her way along the array of intriguing bottles.

Maude was perched on a stool in front of the counter, a predictably large stack of packages in front of her. The assistant was folding white paper crisply around what appeared to be the final box, although Maude’s gaze was roving the shadowed interior with all the concentration of a huntress in search of prey.

The assistant knotted string and reached for the sealing wax as she saw Jessica. ‘Well? Mr Todmorton, have you found just the thing?’

‘I will create just the thing,’ he corrected in gentle reproof. ‘If you and madam return in three days, Lady Maude, I will have the first bottles ready.’

‘Oh, look at these lovely little things!’ Maude jumped down and went to rummage in a basin of miniature, fine-grained sponges.

‘From Corfu, my lady.’ The assistant knew his trade, Jessica thought, amused. ‘Young girls dive for them; each is selected with great care to be perfect for cleansing the face…’

‘We must have some, see how fine they are. Catch!’ Maude tossed one to Jessica across the width of the little shop. A featherlight ball, it wavered in the air and she reached for it just as the door opened.

The sponge bounced off the broad chest of the gentleman who entered and he reached up and caught it one handed.

‘Gar—’ No, it was not Gareth, it was quite another man altogether, Jessica realised, puzzled why she had made the mistake. This man was as tall and as broad, but he was far darker, both in hair and eyes, but also in skin tone as though some Mediterranean blood flowed in his veins. She was spending too much time with Gareth, that was the trouble. Thinking about him too much led to seeing him everywhere.

Frowning over why that should be such a very bad thing, it took Jessica a moment to recall the people around her, then she saw Maude’s face. There was a faint rose flush on her cheekbones, her lovely lips were parted as though she had just gasped and her eyes were wide. The gentleman, apparently impervious to this vision of loveliness, turned the sponge over in his fingers for a moment, then handed it to Jessica, his eyes sliding over her veiled face with polite indifference.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Not at all.’ He inclined his head, unsmiling, giving her an opportunity to observe a nose that would have done credit to a Grecian statue, dark brown eyes and severe, well-formed lips.

There was nothing further to be said. Jessica stepped forward and placed the sponge on the counter. Maude was still standing to one side clutching an over-spilling double handful of tiny globes. ‘Here, let me.’ She removed them and dropped them back into the basin, her back firmly to the gentleman. ‘How many do you want?’

Maude blinked at her, a frown of irritation between her arched brows. ‘Move,’ she hissed.

‘What?’ Jessica hissed back. She could almost feel the three men staring at them. ‘More, did you say?’ she added in a clear voice. ‘Shall we take six?’ She stepped to one side before Maude could physically shove her aside as she appeared about to do, and began to select another five sponges, delving amongst them to find the ones of the finest grain. ‘Please,’ she half turned and spoke to the assistant, ‘do serve the gentleman, we may be some time.’

‘Thank you.’ Again, that polite, chilly, inclination of the head. Beside her Jessica heard Maude moan faintly. What on earth is the matter with her?

‘The order for the Unicorn, Mr Hurst?’ Unicorn?

‘Indeed. And two dozen of those small sponges, if you please—send them round later. I will take the main order, madame awaits it.’

‘Certainly.’ The assistant retrieved a package from under the counter and handed it over with reverent care. ‘If you will just keep it this way up, Mr Hurst.’

‘Thank you. Good day.’ He nodded to Mr Todmorton and the assistant and raised his hand to the brim of his hat as he passed the ladies.

The door closed behind him, the bell jangling into silence. Jessica frowned at Maude, who appeared to have been struck dumb. ‘Maude, we need to pay.’

‘What? Oh, put it all on my account, Mr Todmorton. Who was that gentleman?’

‘Mr Hurst, Lady Maude. He owns a number of theatres, including the Unicorn.’

Jessica scooped up their shopping and took Maude firmly by the elbow before she could make any more outrageous enquiries about a strange man. ‘Thank you, Mr Todmorton, I look forward to my new scent. Good day.’

It seemed she had not lost her touch with recalcitrant pupils. Maude was outside on the pavement before she could protest, her mouth open indignantly.

‘Jessica! I wanted to find out more.’

‘You cannot interrogate shopkeepers about gentlemen, Maude, it just is not done.’ She broke off as the footman jumped down from the carriage and hurried to take the parcel. ‘Thank you. We will walk a little. Hyde Park is that way, is it not?’

‘Yes, ma’am, just along there, left into Piccadilly and a short walk and you’ll be there.’

‘How am I going to find out about him if I do not ask?’ Maude said with crushing reasonableness.

‘But why should you want to?’ Jessica snuggled her gloved hands into her wide sleeves and wished she had a large muff like Maude’s. The day was chill and a touch misty, but they could hardly have this conversation in the carriage for the servants to overhear.

‘Why?’ Maude sounded incredulous. ‘Did you not think him the most attractive man you have ever seen?’

‘He was very good looking, if you like icebergs,’ Jessica agreed. ‘But I would hardly call him the most attractive man I have seen. Although when he first walked in, I thought for a moment he was Gareth.’

‘Gareth is a very well-looking man, but nothing to compare with Mr Hurst,’ Maude pronounced reverently. ‘But the name is an odd coincidence, do you not think?’

‘What do you mean?’ Jessica side-stepped to avoid a snapping pug being led along by a liveried footman with his nose in the air.

‘Well, Gareth is a Ravenhurst—at least, his mother is. He and Eva’s husband and Bel, and goodness knows how many others—I lose count, some of them are abroad—are grandchildren of the Duke of Allington. Hurst—Ravenhurst. Perhaps he is a connection.’

‘Hurst is a very common name, especially in the North, I believe,’ Jessica said repressively, rather spoiling the aloof effect by adding, ‘That cock won’t fight, Maude—you are not going to be able to get to know him on account of him being some sort of distant relative of your Ravenhurst friends. And besides, your papa is not going to want you speaking to a theatre owner, however well off.’

‘His clothes were very superior, were they not?’ Maude sighed, walking straight past a shop window containing an array of bonnets labelled Fresh in from Paris without a sideways glance.

‘I did not notice.’ Jessica studied as much of the lovely, determined face as she could while it was screened by a wide-brimmed bonnet. Maude looked uncommonly focused. ‘Maude, I am not going through this masquerade in order to free you from Gareth just for you to commit some indiscretion with a tradesman!’

Her companion stopped dead and glared at her. ‘Mr Hurst is not a tradesman.’

‘Well, he certainly does not have vouchers for Almack’s,’ Jessica retorted. ‘You have glimpsed him for five minutes—you know nothing about him! Maude, what are you planning?’

‘I don’t know.’ Jessica sighed with relief: that sounded genuine. ‘I shall have to think about it. I refuse to give up. Did you see the way he looked at me?’

‘Maude, he looked at both of us as though we were part of the furniture,’ Jessica said repressively. ‘And you were throwing sponges about and then moaning—he probably thought you were slightly about in the head and I was your keeper.’

‘Oh.’ Momentarily cast down, Maude began to walk on and Jessica hid another sigh of relief which rapidly turned to one of exasperation as Maude gave a little skip. ‘I must look through the newspapers and see what is on at the Unicorn. He cannot be made to think of me unless I am very much in his way, now can he?’

Gareth is going to have to sort this out, Jessica decided. It was beyond her. She would write and ask if he would take breakfast with her, then she could be sure of a private word before any of her enthusiastic supporters descended upon her for the day.

Chapter Ten

Gareth lay naked on his back on the bed, looking up into the shadows as the firelight sent them dancing over the ceiling and cornices. It was past one in the morning, but he felt too indolent to get between the sheets, too awake to snuff out the candles and sleep. He turned his head, restless, and saw the light catch the gemstones in the open boxes he had left on the bedside stand.

He had enjoyed choosing jewellery for Jessica, wished that he could see it at once displayed against her white neck, on her slender wrists. He smiled at the thought of her pleasure when she tried each item on for the first time. The smile broadened as he remembered the chill in her eyes when he had first mentioned buying her jewellery and the mischief as a purely feminine desire both to tease him and to wear such baubles overcame her.

It was amusing having Jessica to talk to, he mused, like having an unconventional friend—if one could be friends with a woman. Maude was like a younger sister, a beloved, charming, worrying responsibility. Miss Gifford was his responsibility, too, but in quite a different way. For a start, his feelings for her were not brotherly. He was not quite sure what they were—those of an employer? A guardian? No, neither of those fitted. He would have to settle for friend.

He dragged himself up against the pillows, reached for the boxes and picked out the pieces, one by one. A pair of emerald drop earrings, edged with diamonds. Good stones, but not over-large. Tasteful and appropriate. He dropped them and lifted a thin necklace of diamonds, supple and snakelike as it flowed over his hands. Matching ear bobs. A pearl set. Aquamarines for day wear, two silver gilt wrist clasps and a gold chain.

Yes, a suitable collection of respectable jewellery for a widow with good taste, hinting that she would appreciate something better. And he did have something better.

It had been ridiculous to buy it, Gareth told himself as he reached out for the red morocco case and thumbed the catch. The lid fell back and he blinked at the fire reflected from the diamonds, the almost fierce green glow of the emeralds. It was a full parure: necklace and armlets, rings and earrings, a tiara—the sort of jewellery a nobleman bought for his wife, not what a lady such as the fictitious Mrs Carleton could ever hope to wear.