Lady Rosabella's Ruse

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 t?te-?-t?te, 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.