A Wicked Liaison Page 12

  And what was she to do about Anthony Smythe? It was all so much more complicated in daylight than in moonlight. She wanted to see him again. As soon as possible. The pull on her heart was undeniable.

  And he could help her against Barton. She pushed the note to the side, hiding it under her copy of The Times. Tony had helped her before, and proven a powerful ally. She needed help again. He was attracted to her, and knew she was attracted to him, but he showed no intention of forcing her to take action.

  She knew what action she wished to take. But in the morning, she could remember why it was wrong of her to want him as she did.

  She listed the reasons against it. She knew nothing of his family or his life. He was a criminal, albeit a charming one. And he loved elsewhere.

  And on her side, if she took one lover, it would be easier to take a second, once the first lost interest. And then a third. And some day, she would awake to find she had no lover, no husband and no reputation. If she wished for marriage, she must not begin by settling for less.

  Yet it was hard to think beyond the moment. She could have his help and his affection, should she but ask. He might leave some day. But she remembered the feel of his hands upon her, and the rushing in her that was unlike anything she had ever felt for Robert. He might leave and she might find another. But who was to say that her next husband could arouse such passion in her? If she did not give in to him now, she might never know that feeling again.

  Her teacup trembled in her hand. Very well, then. She would ask him to be careful of her reputation, but she would yield to him as soon as he asked. And no one need ever know of it, but the two of them.

  And then she stared down at the front page of her paper. A hanging. She stared down at the article, reading with horrible fascination. The man had been a burglar, stealing purses from a rooming house. The gallows mechanism had failed, and his body had dropped scant inches, leaving him to dance out the last of his life for nearly an hour. And the whole time his wife and children had stood, at the foot of the gibbet, pleading for leniency, or at least a quick death. The crowd had not wanted their fun spoiled and had mocked them, laughing and pelting them with offal until they had run from the scene. And the woman had lacked even the money necessary to retrieve the body for burial.

  She imagined the man, spasming out the last of his life in front of a cheering throng while his family stood by, helpless. And then she imagined Tony, dancing for the hangman, and standing below him, crying her heart out and unable to help.

  But if she kept to her current plan, it would be even worse. Then, she would hide in her house, afraid for her precious reputation, leaving him to die alone and friendless. And she could read in The Times, the next day, how he had suffered for the amusement of the crowd. She would hate herself, to her last breath, knowing that the man she loved had suffered, and she had done nothing to help.

  Her hand jerked as a shudder racked her, and the tea spilled on to the paper, blurring the words.

  ‘Your Grace, there is a gentleman come to call.’ Her maid was holding a salver.

  ‘I am not at home to Lord Barton.’

  ‘Not Barton, your Grace. Mr Smythe.’ Susan had guessed the identity of her visitor, and was grinning in anticipation.

  Constance stared in fascination at the card upon the tray. She wanted to go to the parlour, grab the man by the hand and pull him upstairs with her. If she asked him, he could help her forget Barton, Freddy and the horrible thing she had just read. For a few hours. And then she would have to come downstairs and face reality again. A tryst with Mr Smythe would be lovely while it lasted. But what future could there be in it?

  Only the one she had just seen.

  ‘I am not at home. Not to anyone. If you need me, I shall be in the garden, but whoever else may call, I am not at home.’

  She tried not to rush as she took the back stairs, far away from where anyone at the front of the house might see or hear her. Stopping in the tiny still room by the kitchen, she found a bonnet and basket, and her pruning scissors. It would all be easier in the garden, surrounded by her flowers and herbs. The sights, the smells, the taste. Everything made more sense there.

  She stepped out into the sunlight, feeling the protection of the high brick walls on all sides that muffled the sound of the city. Here, there was only birdsong, the faint trickle of a fountain, and the fragrances of the plants. She ran down the path that led to the wrought-iron gate and the street, to the small bench hidden in the shade of a tree.

  She sank down upon it, and let the tears slide down her cheeks again, now that she was safe where no one could see her. Her shoulders shook with the effort of containing the sobs. She did not want to be alone any more, and there was a man willing and full of life who could take the loneliness away. It was so unfair, that the one thing she wanted could lead to a pain and loneliness greater than anything she had felt before.

  It had been hard to watch Robert die, but he had been older, and they had known the time would come. But Tony was likely to die a young man, suddenly and violently. And despite it all, she wanted him beyond all reason, aching with it.

  And she heard a sigh and a faint rattle of the gate. She looked up to see Smythe, hands wrapped around the bars of the gate, observing her.

  She wiped her face dry on the back of her sleeve. ‘Mr Smythe! What are you doing here?’

  He was nonplussed to be discovered. ‘I beg your pardon, your Grace. I…I…I did not mean to spy on you.’

  The stutter surprised her. When he came to her at night, there was no hesitation, only resolute action. But now, he seemed almost shy when talking to her. He was a different person in daylight. But then, so was she, or she would have opened the door for him when he had come calling.

  She tried a false smile, hoping it did not look too wet around the edges. ‘You did not mean to spy, or you did not mean to be caught spying?’

  He released the gate and held out open hands, and there was a flash of the smile she recognised. ‘I did not expect to find you here. I was told that you were not at home.’ There was the barest hint of censure there.

  ‘And yet you came to the back of my house. Were you looking for something?’

  He leaned his forehead against the iron of the gate. ‘I often walk by on this street. And you must admit, the view of the garden is most restful. I greatly admire it.’ He stared wistfully in at her.

  She gave up. At least, if he were near, she could touch him and reassure herself that the fancy she’d been spinning was not yet reality. She rose. ‘You might as well come in, then, and have a better look.’

  Without further invitation, he took a few steps back, and ran at the gate, catching a bar easily and swinging his body over the spikes at the top with inches to spare, landing on his feet on the other side.

  There was an awkward pause.

  ‘I meant to open that for you, you know.’ She hoped the reproof in her voice hid the thrill of excitement that she felt in watching him move. He was still very much alive, and it did her heart good to see it. She sat back down, arranging her skirts to hide her confusion.

  ‘I am sorry. It was most foolish of me. I am sometimes moved to rash actions. Rather like spying on you in your garden a moment ago, and then lying about my fondness of flowers to gain entrance.’

  There was another awkward pause.

  ‘Not that I am not fond of flowers,’ he amended. ‘And yours are most charmingly arranged.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She patted the seat on the bench beside her, and he came towards her. His stride had the same easy grace she saw in the ballroom and in the bedroom, and she tried not to appear too observant of it. ‘Do you know much of flowers?’

  He smiled. ‘Not a thing. I can recognise a rose, of course. I’m not a total idiot. But I tend to take most notice of the plants that provide cover when I am gaining entrance to a house.’ He touched the bush he was standing beside.

  ‘Rosemary,’ she prompted.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘
The shrub you are touching is rosemary.’

  He plucked a sprig and crushed it between his fingers, and the air around them was full of the scent. ‘For remembrance.’ He held it out to her.

  ‘You know your Shakespeare.’

  ‘If you knew me, you would find me surprisingly well read.’

  ‘Is that important? In your line of work, I mean.’

  He dropped the rosemary and looked away. ‘I am more than my work, you know.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to imply…’

  His eyes were sad when he looked back to her. ‘There was a time when I intended something other than the life I chose. I was the third son, and there was not very much money. I knew that there would be even less, once I was of age and my brothers had families to support. I would need to fend for myself.’

  She felt a rush of sympathy. He had been lonely, even in a large family.

  He continued. ‘What I wanted did not matter, in any case. My oldest brother was killed duelling, and the second took a bullet to the brain at Talavera. And suddenly, there was only me, two widows, two nephews and a niece. My brothers were older, but not necessarily wiser. Their estates were in shambles and they had made no provisions for their deaths. The whole family was bound for the poorhouse, unless I took drastic action.’ He shrugged. ‘There are many who have more than they need.’

  ‘But surely, an honest profession. You could have read for divinity.’ She looked at his politely incredulous expression and tried to imagine him a vicar. ‘Perhaps not.’

  He sat down at her side. ‘It was my plan, once. And I went to interview for a living, hoping that I would be able to send some small monies home. But the lord met me at a public house to tell me that it had gone to another.

  ‘And when he got up to leave, he forgot his purse. I was halfway out the door to return it, when it occurred to me that he had money enough to fill many such purses, and my family had no food on the table and no prospects for the future. I put the purse in my pocket, and brought the money home to my family. And that was the end of that.’ He smiled, obviously happier thinking of theft than he had been thinking of life as a clergyman. ‘And what of you? Did you always plan on the life you got?’

  She frowned. ‘Yes. I suppose I did. My mother raised me so that I might be an asset to any man that might offer for me. And she encouraged me, when offers were made, to choose carefully in return so that I might never want. Until Robert died, things had gone very much as I would have hoped. I would have liked children, of course.’

  ‘It is not too late,’ Smythe responded.

  She resisted the urge to explain matters to him plainly. ‘I fear it is not on the cards for me. But beside that one small thing, my life was everything I might have hoped for. I made a most advantageous marriage.’

  ‘You were happy, then?’

  She answered as if by rote, ‘I had money, social position and a husband who treated me well. I had no right to complain.’

  ‘That did not answer the question.’

  ‘Of course I was happy,’ she said in frustration.

  ‘And yet, when you say it thus, I wonder if you were.’

  She sighed. ‘It is different for men than for women. If you have a talent for something, you can proceed in a way that will develop it and find a career that will make the best use of your abilities. There are options open. You might study law, or go into the military, or become a vicar.’

  ‘Or a thief,’ he reminded her.

  She nodded. ‘But because I was born female, it was my fate to marry. It is not as if I could expect another future. Fortunately, I had no talent to speak of, or any other natural ability than to be beautiful, or I might have felt some disappointment about that fact.’

  He looked at her in surprise. ‘No natural talent? I’ll grant you, you are a beauty, a nonpareil. But you are wrong to think you have no other virtues. You are intelligent, well read, and you have a sharp and agile wit.’

  She laughed. ‘You base these fine compliments on an acquaintance of several days. My dear Mr Smythe, I would be a fool to be flattered by one with such a shallow understanding of me. There was nothing about my character, my wealth or my family that would have led Robert to want me, had I not been a beauty. I assure you, it was a great weight off my parents to know, before they died, that I was to be well taken care of.’

  Tony shook his head. ‘That sounds as if you were a burden to your family. But your parents spoke often of your fine character, although your mother was most proud of her only child being so well placed.’

  She glanced at him sharply. ‘You speak as if you knew her.’

  ‘We were acquainted,’ he replied. ‘I knew your father, as well. I sympathise with your loss of them.’

  ‘You knew them both?’ She started. ‘They never mentioned you.’

  ‘It was a long time ago. You had been gone from the house for several years when last I met them. And they never knew of this.’ He made a vague gesture, meant to encompass his life. ‘Believe me, I never visited them in my professional capacity.’

  ‘I never suspected that you would.’ And it was strange, but she trusted his word on the matter.

  ‘You are being unfair to yourself, if you think you are without talent, or suspect that you might have no value to a husband other than to beautify his home.’

  But the one thing that Robert had most wanted from her, she had been unable to give him, and she held her tongue.

  ‘I know for a fact that you are much more intelligent than you appear, even if you pretend it is not so in the presence of the Endsteds of the world. I saw the books he was carrying for you, and the ones you keep in your room. Philosophy, Latin, French. Not the reading of a simple mind.’

  ‘It is a pity, then, that I could not have put all that learning to use, and saved myself from the financial predicament I find myself in.’

  He gazed at her with surprising intensity. ‘You have managed most cleverly with little money or help, where a foolish woman could not have gone on at all. It is not your fault that you put your trust in people who should have protected you, only to have them fail you.’

  She found his comments both flattering and embarrassing, and sought to turn the conversation back to familiar ground. She summoned her most flirtatious look, fixed him with it and said, ‘How strange you are to say so. Most men content themselves, when I am alone with them, to comment on the fineness of my skin or the softness of my hand.’

  He was having none of it, and responded matter of factly, ‘You know as well as I do the quality of your complexion. But I will comment on it, if you insist. Your skin is almost luminous in its clarity. Chinese porcelain cannot compare. But I also know that the skin is nothing to the brightness of the spirit it contains. I know you, your Grace, although you do not believe it. I do.’

  She smiled, overwhelmed by his obvious sincerity. ‘And I do not really know you at all.’

  ‘You know my greatest secret: that I am a thief. It was embarrassing to be caught. But I was glad, when it happened, to find myself in the hands of such a charming captor.’

  She blushed at the notion that she had taken him prisoner, and not the other way around. ‘You really shouldn’t steal, you know. It is wrong.’

  ‘I am familiar with the commandments,’ he said with asperity. ‘And follow nine out of ten to the best of my ability. It is a better average, I think, than the people I steal from, who have no thought to any but themselves. They are greedy, indolent and licentious.’

  ‘Is that why you came to my rooms? To punish me for my sins? Because I am guilty.’ She hung her head. ‘Of pride, and of lust.’

  ‘Serious, of course, but the seven deadly sins are not in the Bible, per se,’ he remarked. ‘But what makes you think you are guilty of them?’

  ‘Barton has been able to manipulate me easily, because he knows how carefully I guard my reputation. If I were willing to admit that I am poor, and that he has gulled me…’

  ‘Then you might ruin any chance
to marry well. You are not guilty of anything, other than being forced to place your trust in one who proved unworthy. Why should you suffer, while the Bartons of the world live in comfort? You could don a cap and remain a poor widow, I suppose. Take in sewing. Do good works. Live off the charity of the church, since your wastrel nephew cannot be bothered to live up to his obligations to you.’ He made a face. ‘It does not sound very pleasant. And it would be a waste of one as young and lovely as yourself, if there is any other alternative.’

  He paused, and then added as an afterthought, ‘You could marry below your station. No one would think you proud, then.’

  ‘I will consider it, if someone asks. But none has. No one offers marriage at all. Men below my station avoid me as unattainable. And men who would be fine catches want nothing more than…’ She shook her head. ‘Barton says that he, and the others, can see that I secretly desire what they offer. That I am too willing, too interested in their company. That I allow too many small liberties, and they are surprised when I refuse to follow through.’

  Smythe sniffed. ‘Men have ever used this, when trying to persuade a woman to do more than she wishes. It is no reflection on you. Ignore them.’

  ‘But look how I behave, when I am alone with you.’ She blurted the words and stopped, embarrassed to have told him the truth. ‘I…I am wanton.’

  He was grinning again. ‘Yes. I noticed. It is most flattering. Tell me, is this how you behave with all the other men of your acquaintance?’

  ‘Of course not. How dare you even think—?’

  He laid a finger on her lips to silence her. ‘I did not think so. But it is even more flattering to hear you admit that I am the only one to move you so.’ He looked down at his feet, and she thought for a moment that she could see a faint blush in his check. Then he said, ‘It is not so bad a thing, to take pleasure in the company of the opposite gender. Of course, I am biased, since I am the man in question. I would have to be made of stone to wish you less willing when in my embrace. And I would have been most put out to find you sighing over Barton’s embrace, and behaving thus with him. But I would not expect that, just because you have lain with one man, that you are game to lie with any that might ask.