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Bannerby leapt to his feet to kiss her hand and lead her to his recently occupied chair. ‘My dear Lady Smythe, we were only waiting for you before we decided on the entertainment for the day.’
Clever Lord Bannerby elicited a brilliant, if brittle, smile. ‘What did you have in mind?’
As if there had been some unseen signal, the company slowly gathered around her.
Lady Keswick cast her newspaper aside. She’d chosen a blond wig today, with ringlets above the ears and tiny curls across her forehead. ‘Now we will see some liveliness.’ Her smile turned her cheeks into rouge-painted apples. ‘I like to see young people enjoying themselves.’
‘Why don’t we put on a play? Daniel has several he is working on.’ Mrs Phillips, a buxom brunette just past her first bloom, looked adoringly at her aesthetic playwright husband. For all his severe appearance, he was a nice man, if rather led around by the nose by his wife. He was always courteous to Rosa, who would have liked to have talked to him more about the theatre. His wife’s glares kept her at bay.
‘Charades is better,’ Fitzwilliam said. ‘A play requires the learning of lines and will take more than a week of hard work.’ He smothered a yawn behind his hand. ‘Who knows, it might be fine tomorrow and then all the work will be for naught.’
Several of the men muttered agreement with the sentiment and voices were raised on each side of the question.
‘Good day, Lady Keswick, Mrs Travenor.’ Rosa jumped, instantly recognising Stanford’s deep rich voice. Heat rushed through her body. She closed her eyes against the invading warmth as the image of his mouth close to hers danced in her vision. She took a deep calming breath and attempted a serene smile.
Lady Keswick gave him her hand. ‘Stanford. I see you are not among the early risers.’ Her gaze darted to Lady Smythe. ‘Made a late night of it, I suppose.’
Stanford grinned good-naturedly, his eyes finding Rosa with a gleam of wickedness. ‘I like to walk before retiring as an aid to sleep, though the rain last night was not conducive to long ramblings.’ His gaze rested upon Rosa’s face. ‘How about you, Mrs Travenor? Did you sleep well?’
A breath caught in Rosa’s throat. There was no doubt in her mind he was threatening exposure as he looked at her, his eyes issuing a challenge.
She raised her chin. ‘I always take a short walk every evening, rain or no, Lord Stanford.’
He blinked at her intimation that only a weakling would let rain keep him indoors. With a triumphant smile at his obvious surprise, she gestured to the dog at her feet. ‘I usually take Digger for his nightly perambulation. But, like you, he preferred to remain indoors last evening.’
Stanford hunkered down at her feet and scratched behind the pug’s ear. The dog opened one eye and wriggled with pleasure as the strong long fingers moved with assurance over its flanks. The dog grunted its bliss and rolled on its back.
Stanford tickled the dog’s underside and tipped his face up to meet her gaze. The individual lashes around his eyes were long and thick and veiled his thoughts, but not his mocking smile. ‘He’s a lucky fellow to have such a considerate attendant, but you really should not wander the grounds alone at night, Mrs Travenor. Anything might happen. I beg you allow me to accompany you in future.’
A warning. He was not going to say anything this time. A spurt of relief left her feeling weak. She really didn’t want to make up any more lies. Nor did she want to have to explain to her employer.
Lady Keswick’s plucked eyebrows drew sharply together. ‘Are you implying Mrs Travenor is not safe in my grounds, Stanford?’
His smile turned cynical. He straightened to his full height and once more she was aware of just how large he was, despite his sparseness of frame. ‘I am sure she is as safe here as anywhere, Lady Keswick.’
Not safe at all with men like Stanford on the prowl.
‘Hmmph,’ the old lady said, eyeing her guests, who had devolved into a heated discussion about the relative merits of a play or charades. She picked up the cane beside her chair and rapped it sharply on the floor. Silence descended as all eyes turned on their hostess. Rosa shrank into the shadows of her corner.
Not that she need have bothered. None of them were looking at her. They were all looking at Lady Keswick.
A wicked grin spread over Stanford’s face. He kept his eyes fixed on Rosa’s face as he spoke, though he raised his voice to include the whole company. ‘I suggest a game of hide and go seek. The gentlemen will find, while the ladies hide. Ladies, if you are caught, you will forfeit a kiss.’
One of the women squealed her excitement. Mrs Mallow, Rosa thought.
‘Stanford,’ Lady Smythe said in objecting tones. ‘How can we hide if we do not know our way around the house?’
‘Don’t worry, Lady Smythe,’ Mrs Mallow said. ‘Stay with me. I am good at this.’
A flicker of something passed across Stanford’s face. Dismay? How could that be? This was all his idea. He turned to Mrs Mallow, his smile turning wolfish. ‘Have no doubt, I will find you.’
And he would. His kind knew such things by instinct.
Lady Smythe cast him an anxious glance, which seemed a little odd. Unless she worried that Stanford might not find her.
Rosa bit her lip until it hurt. Better that than feel envy for Lady Smythe. Envy? Surely not? What had got into her head? The kind of fun proposed by Lord Stanford would keep the guests busy for the rest of the afternoon. A good thing, from her perspective.
Stanford glanced down at her. ‘Would you care to join us, Mrs Travenor?’
Dear Lord, had he read her thoughts? She really must be more careful around him. He was far too observant for a man so apparently indolent.
‘Certainly not,’ Lady Keswick put in. ‘Mrs Travenor has other duties.’
Rescued. She lifted her chin, shooting Stanford a look of triumph.
He shrugged. His dark eyes gleamed wicked encouragement. ‘Too bad.’
Lady Keswick’s eyes lit up. ‘And before you ask me, I am far too old, but it sounds like just the right sort of thing for a rainy day. Feel free to use the whole of this floor, but do not go upsetting my servants.’ She reached out a hand. ‘Come, Rose, you shall help me to my chamber. I have correspondence to write.’
Lady Keswick heaved herself to her feet with Rosa’s help. Digger, tongue lolling, got his short legs beneath him. ‘Dinner will be served at six in the dining room,’ the countess announced and headed for the door.
Hapton strolled to her side and offered his arm. ‘May I escort you, Lady Keswick?’
She beamed. ‘Now you are what in my day we called a cavalier.’ She took his arm. ‘You can see me as far as the stairs. Clarence will take me the rest of the way.’
Rosa trailed in their wake, oddly aware of Stanford’s gaze on her back. The very thought of it made her legs feel wooden and her movements stiff. It was only by practising a great feat of will that she did not turn around to ask him to stop.
The footman stationed at the foot of the stairs took over escort duties from Mr Hapton, whose granite-grey eyes ran over Rosa for a moment. ‘I keep thinking we have met before, Mrs Travenor,’ he said as she passed him to climb the stairs.
Rosa shook her head. ‘I don’t believe so.’
‘Then you remind me of someone.’
A cold feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. Everyone said she looked like her mother. An Italian opera singer famous in Rome and London before she married, she had been much admired for her voice and her opulent figure. Many painters had daubed her likeness, some showing her in the scandalous costumes of the opera house. One reason Grandfather had been so opposed to her parents’ marriage. The reason for their years of estrangement.
Hapton must have seen one of her mother’s likenesses somewhere. The thought he might put two and two together made her queasy. Not because she was ashamed of her mother, but because she did not want word of her presence in the area to reach her grandfather. Not yet. Not until she found the will. ‘I can’t think who it might be, Mr Hapton,’ she said coolly and followed Lady Keswick and Clarence up the stairs.
At the door to his mistress’s chamber, the footman waited while Rosa fetched the wheeled chair. Lady Keswick collapsed into it with a deep sigh as Rosa wheeled her inside.
Stone-faced, but with beads of sweat on his upper lip and forehead, Clarence closed the door from the other side.
‘You should really think about a bedroom on the ground floor,’ Rosa said gently.
‘Pshaw. I’m not dead yet, girl. Nor yet an invalid.’
‘Indeed no,’ Rosa said. ‘I was thinking more of your footman. Didn’t you see how red Clarence’s face was by the time he reached the top of the stairs?’
Lady Keswick grinned. ‘Naughty puss. Trying to appeal to my soft heart.’ She sighed. ‘Very well, I will consider it. But not until these guests of ours are gone. Time was when I would be playing hide and go seek with the best of them. Are you sure you don’t wish to join in the fun? An amorous adventure might be just the thing to cheer you up. You can’t remain in mourning forever. Fitz is a nice young man and without a brain in his handsome head. You’d twist him round your little finger in a trice. I’d be wary of the rest, though. Bad men, the lot of them.’
Despite the horrid feeling in the pit of her stomach each time Lady Keswick mentioned her widowhood, Rosa laughed at the old lady’s character assassination of her guests. ‘A man would interfere with my plans.’
Lady Keswick shook her head. ‘You gels today, so independent minded. Very well, I will write again to my friend with connections at the Haymarket. Meanwhile, you can practise on my guests tonight. It would be to your advantage to gain the Phillipses’ approval, if nothing else.’
Mr Phillips had lots of connections with the theatrical community in London. He would be useful, if she did not find the will. But she had so much hope in her heart, she really didn’t want to think about her option of last resort. Not today.
Yet, it was wise to be prepared. ‘I will look forward to singing tonight.’ She just hoped the nerves that always assailed her when singing to an audience would not change Lady Keswick’s view of her talent.
Rosa tied the length of cord attached to the bell pull around the arm of Lady Keswick’s chair. ‘Ring if you need anything.’
‘There is one thing. Tell Jonas I want the best burgundy served tonight. I can’t abide the dreadful stuff he served last evening.’
Rosa sighed. Lady Keswick’s servants could be a little slack sometimes and she had a feeling the butler watered the wine, but the old lady wouldn’t hear a word against him, so all she could do was pass along the message.
Leaving Lady Keswick scratching away with her pen, Rosa ran down the nearest servants’ staircase and along the corridor on the first floor, only to find the pantry empty. He must be below. She headed for the cellars.
An arm shot out from a cupboard, jerked her inside, up against a man’s body.
Rosa screamed.
A hand covered her mouth, the palm damp and smelling of snuff. ‘Hush, you little fool.’ Hapton.
He swung her around to face him, pushing her deeper into the small space lined with shelves full of table linen and lit by a small window high on one wall.
She pulled free and stared at his sly grin. ‘Mr Hapton, you know very well I am not playing your game.’
He leaned against the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest with a rather chilling smile. ‘You are now.’
‘Let me pass. I am on an errand for Lady Keswick.’ She stepped towards him, but he remained blocking the doorway.
‘The price of release is a kiss,’ he said.
Her heart thundered. She felt as if all the air had been squeezed from her lungs. Another man who wanted to kiss her. But unlike last night, she felt not the slightest bit tempted. What she felt was disgust. She backed away until a shelf prevented further retreat. ‘You should not be here. Her ladyship offered you the second floor for your game.’
‘I play to win,’ he murmured. ‘And today you are the prize.’
‘Is there something wrong with your intellect? I made it quite clear in the library that I did not intend to join your festivities this morning. Now, please excuse me.’
‘Not without my kiss.’ He lunged at her. She dodged his pursed lips and ended up jammed in the corner.
Now what was she to do? Men like Hapton saw anyone in the servant class as an easy target.
‘You will let me pass, sir,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Or Lady Keswick will hear about your ungentlemanly conduct.’
He crooked a finger beneath her chin. Forced to look up, she glared into his cold grey eyes and repressed a shudder. Showing fear would only make things worse.
‘Come now, Mrs Travenor, we both know her ladyship cares nothing for convention. And I’ve remembered where I’ve seen your face. On a theatrical broadsheet. Does Lady Keswick know your true calling?’
The idiot had mistaken her for her mother. Her chest tightened. If he thought her an actress, would he refuse to listen to her objections? ‘You are mistaken, sir. And you will unhand me.’
‘Now here’s a pretty picture,’ a darkly dangerous voice said from the doorway. ‘Plaguing the hired help now, Hapton? Not getting anywhere with Mrs Mallow?’
Hapton cursed softly and turned to greet the newcomer. ‘Am I treading on your turf, Stanford? Sorry, old chap, the last I saw you were hard on the heels of Lady Smythe. A little greedy, even for you.’
Stanford merely cocked a brow. ‘Lady Smythe is in the library along with Bannerby, Mrs Mallow and Mrs De Lacy. It appears you have wandered off course. Unless I am mistaken and Mrs Travenor has changed her mind about joining us?’ He cocked a questioning brow in her direction.
Rosa glared at him. ‘As I told Mr Hapton, I am not a participant, Lord Stanford.’
A cool smile curled his lips and made him look darker and less friendly than she could have imagined. ‘If that is the case, do feel free to be about your business, Mrs Travenor.’ His ice-cold stare moved to Hapton and he stepped back with a gesture inviting them both to depart.
She had never felt so mortified in her life as she followed Mr Hapton into the corridor. There was something in Stanford’s mocking gaze that made her feel like a scullery maid caught with her skirts over her head, instead of a victim of a man who ought to know better.
But then she could hardly expect him to fight a duel for her honour. He also saw her as ripe for amorous adventure.
Face scalding, she glared at both of them. ‘You were given the run of the second floor by your hostess. Please do not come down here again.’ Shoulders straight, she spun away and marched through the door leading to the basement, slamming it pointedly behind her.
Horrid men. Just because they had the morals of tomcats on the prowl, did they have to assume everyone else was the same?
And if Mr Hapton told his tales to Lady Keswick, he would catch a cold. While she hadn’t given the lady any names, the dowager countess knew about Rosa’s family connections to the opera. It was how she had secured this position. Lady Keswick liked to help those in the theatre down on their luck.
She took a deep breath and realised she was trembling from head to toe. Hapton had made her afraid. And Stanford’s considering gaze had made her angry. Both for the same reason. No matter how drably she dressed or how prim and properly she behaved, men took one look at her foreign appearance and decided the worst.
Luckily, her two younger sisters took after their father, neither of them having their Italian mother’s dark complexion or jet-black hair. Neither of them, as her grandfather was fond of saying, looked like dirty gypsies.
Heart still pounding, face still full of heat, she headed for the kitchen in search of Jonas.
Chapter Three
Restlessness felt like maggots under Garth’s skin. Watching Penelope playing the harpsichord, while a solicitous Bannerby turned the pages of her music, was enough to turn his stomach.
After hours of ridiculous games in the afternoon and a dinner consisting of inane conversation, he really had to wonder if he’d survive the next few days without calling someone out. Someone like Hapton. He glared across the drawing room at the languid dandy and his fingers curled into his palms. He’d wanted to choke the life out of the ageing tulip of fashion this afternoon, and he would have, if he’d been certain Mrs Travenor hadn’t welcomed the man’s advances.
They’d looked very cosy in the linen cupboard. And she’d looked devastatingly flustered. Much as she’d looked the previous evening trapped in the passage. She’d certainly been angry when he interrupted them, but whether it was because he’d disturbed a tête-à-tête, or Hapton’s importunities, he had no way of knowing. Unless he asked.
He glanced her way. As usual she was sitting calmly at her embroidery beside Lady Keswick, looking thoroughly nunnish and utterly desirable. Her tapered, skilful fingers moved with a delicate precision. He imagined those fingers in his hair, or on various parts of his body. Most of all, he wondered how those lush courtesan-lips would feel beneath his own in the throes of passion.
He’d almost found out last night. Yet something, some chivalrous instinct, had held him back. An instinct he now heartily regretted after finding her with Hapton.
A stab of jealously twisted in his gut. For Hapton? Damn it all. What was he? A fifteen-year-old with a crush on his governess? He could have any one of the other women in this room at a snap of his fingers and the promise of a diamond necklace. And if he’d wanted, he could have had Mrs Travenor. He’d seen the longing in her eyes.
She might look like a nun, but his initial instincts had been correct: the woman was like all the others here. Available to the right man.
His gaze swung back to Penelope. Could he have her? Not that he wanted her. He didn’t. He would never touch another man’s wife, not even to prove a point to Mark, who deserved so much better.
No. Her he would chase back to London. Infuriatingly, Maria Mallow was sticking to her like a limpet to a rock and he’d yet to get Penelope alone and convince her to see reason.
Bannerby leaned over to turn the sheet of music. Didn’t the silly chit know he was looking down the front of her gown? Perhaps she didn’t care. Perhaps she wanted him to look.
Mark would be devastated if he learned of her perfidy. Why the hell hadn’t he made sure she stayed at home? Locked her in. Or, better yet, taken her with him wherever he’d gone. That was a man besotted for you. They saw what they wanted to see. Mark had forgotten how easily women gave in to temptation. Either that or the poor sap thought his wife was different.
Which left the field open to men like Bannerby and Hapton. Men who didn’t give a damn if a woman was married or not. They were curs. And the women who succumbed were no better.
He gritted his teeth and forced the thought aside, letting his idle gaze drift to Mrs Mallow. The woman pouted. He pretended not to notice. His gaze once more fell on Hapton, who was lounging, eyes half-closed as if listening to the music, when in reality he was also watching the companion ply her needle.
Garth kept his hands relaxed and his gaze moving. Mrs De Lacy and Mrs Phillips had commandeered the window seat furthest from the harpsichord and were exchanging remarks about their dress and yawning copiously.
All the while their plump hostess sat beaming happily.
For a house rumoured to be seething with carnal sin and every kind of vice known to man, he had never been so bored in his life.
He pushed to his feet as Penelope played the closing notes of the piece of music. Applauding loudly, he strolled to her side. Others politely joined him. Penelope blushed, rose to her feet and dipped a curtsy.
Garth took her hand and led her away from the instrument. ‘Let us take a turn about the room. You have been wearing your fingers to the bone, my lady. Perhaps there is someone else who would like to play or sing for us?’
Her gaze when it met his contained resentment. He gave her his most charming smile.
Lady Keswick said something to her companion, too low to be heard, and Mrs Travenor nodded and rose to her feet.
Hapton sat up. ‘Why, I believe Mrs Travenor has been hiding her light under a bushel.’
The lady in question stiffened, but kept walking.
‘How delightful,’ Mrs Mallow said.
‘Mrs Travenor has a beautiful voice,’ Lady Keswick said. ‘Will someone play while she sings?’
‘I will,’ Mrs De Lacy said from the window. She was one of the kindest of the racy females here. The ardent expression on Mrs Phillips’s face indicated a hope that the beautiful widow would sing like the old crow whose feathers she emulated in her dress. Garth found himself wincing. He had no wish to see Mrs Travenor embarrassed.
He guided Penelope to a chair and perched one hip on the arm, blocking her from any possible intrusion. Garth bared his teeth at the approaching Bannerby and the man gave him a sour look and with a huff took the seat vacated by Mrs De Lacy.
Rose—Mrs Travenor, Garth corrected himself—glided to stand beside the instrument. Black suited her. It emphasised the warm tones of her skin, the beauty of her stunningly expressive eyes and the lush ripeness of her lips. Most women looked washed out in black, their skin deadened. She looked dramatic, like an exotic fruit that could taste either gloriously sweet or surprisingly bitter.
Every muscle, every sinew, every blood beat inside him, wanted to taste, to savour, to learn her unique flavour. He curled his lip at his body’s state of arousal. These days most of the thrill lay in the chase, not in the capture.
He doubted this one would be any different.
In which case, why bother?
And yet …
Mrs Travenor gave Mrs De Lacy her music and stood at her right shoulder.
‘Why are you doing this?’ Penelope hissed up at him.
‘Adoring you?’ he murmured back. ‘Isn’t that what you want?’
‘No.’
He raised a brow and for a moment Penelope looked ready to scream. He curbed a smile. Adoring swains did not find the tantrums of their adored ones amusing, though he dearly wanted to laugh at her chagrin.
Mark would not appreciate his being amused. Probably wouldn’t appreciate his methods either. But that was his friend’s fault. He should better guard what was his instead of being so trusting. Had he learned nothing during his years on the town?
The first notes from Mrs Travenor’s throat were low and hoarse. Panic filled her gaze and he winced, expecting the worst. She dragged in another quick breath and her voice steadied; at first barely audible, it grew in volume. Everyone paused mid-breath the better to hear. Even Garth. Then her voice swelled with astonishing depth and strength. The room vibrated with its power.
Not a weak tinny soprano, after all, this dark exotic female. A stunning contralto. She’d chosen Handel’s ‘Ombra Mai Fu’, a distinctly odd choice. Originally composed for a castrato, it was often performed as a female trouser role. Her tones were rich with passion and dark with mystery.
There wasn’t a man in the room who wasn’t wholly focused on her. A feral odour of lust and excitement filled the room, when all she was singing about was sitting beneath the shade of a tree.
As the last notes died away, male applause thundered. Bannerby cried, ‘Bravo.’
Garth rose to his feet. ‘Encore.’
Hapton followed suit, as did Fitz and Phillips.
The women smiled and clapped, any sound deadened by their gloves.
Mrs Travenor curtsied and brought Mrs De Lacy to her feet. Both women curtsied together. Garth narrowed his eyes. So the mysterious young widow was wont to perform. In drawing rooms? Or on the stage? The professional manner, the confidence—hell, the skill—said she was no amateur. What a surprise. An opera singer who left the house in the dead of night.