Page 16 of A Sham Engagement

Chapter Seven

Jack Deveril took breakfast at half past eleven in his bedroom, having slept late due to the hour at which he’d returned home to Portland Place from the ball at his parents’ house. Dressed in breeches and shirt under a silk banyan, and with his Turkish slippers on his feet, he ate in silence while considering the events of the night before. Technically, of the early morning. Had he been so drunk as to have agreed to an engagement to the daughter of an impoverished nobody, possibly just because of her combination of a pretty face and an intriguing disregard for matrimony? No, he couldn’t blame it on that because he’d scarcely drunk anything, as was his habit.

So why had he done it? A whim. With just the six of them knowing what had happened, which admittedly was rather a lot, especially when one was Lady Routledge, he could perhaps have smoothed things over, but he hadn’t. Why? He kept coming back to that question. Had he been piqued that the girl so plainly saw him as an unsatisfactory object only good for being refused? Or was it, heaven forbid, that a noble sentiment had arisen in his hardened heart to help this girl who didn’t appear to want to marry anyone.

He’d told her it was her business as to why she didn’t want to marry, but in truth, it wasn’t. Or it wouldn’t be soon, because he wanted to prise that secret from her. Out of curiosity if nothing else. He’d not met a girl yet whose main aim in life hadn’t been to marry, and marry well. That the girl he now found himself engaged to didn’t fit into that mold intrigued him. A mystery. One he intended to solve. Plus, she seemed to have more about her than any other girl he’d encountered, and that included the lovely Lady Raby, whose charms this morning didn’t seem quite so fresh when compared with Miss Wetherby’s.

He pushed aside his plate of deviled kidneys hardly touched, which was most unlike him. Normally, he partook of a hearty breakfast which would be enough to see him through to dinner at six. Instead, he poured himself another cup of treacly, dark coffee, added several spoonfuls of fortifying sugar, and drained it in seconds. Time to go out paying calls on people, and he had one particular person in mind.

A little over an hour later, togged out like a Bond Street Beau in immaculate tailcoat, hat, breeches and topboots, and holding his favorite cane in one gloved hand, he emerged from the front door of his house in Portland Place.

Last night, after he and Miss Wetherby had reached an amicable agreement, Sir Nicholas had provided the address of where he and his wife were staying with his widowed sister, Lady Dandridge. Arlington Street. A less splendid address than Portland Place with its enormous houses and wide views down toward the farms and woodland of Marylebone Park, it lay in a smaller side street down toward the river, but very handily placed for St James’s Street and White’s. No doubt that was why the late Lord Dandridge had chosen it. A mere hop, skip, and a jump to his club. The distance from Portland Place was a little over a mile, which, as it was not raining, he felt inclined to walk. He could use the time to think about what he would say to the attractive stranger to whom he’d so precipitately engaged himself.

The streets thronged with all manner of traffic—coaches, private vehicles, a few people on horseback heading for Hyde Park, and numerous individuals such as girls selling matches, men loitering on street corners chewing tobacco, and women hawking such varied foodstuffs as oysters and gingerbread cakes crowded the pavements. Come to London and see the world, caught in a nutshell. His father had once said that to him and it remained true.

He didn’t hurry. No one rose early on the morning after a ball as they always finished so late, often when the sun was just rising. Not in February though, with the short daylight hours and dark mornings. He glanced up at the cloudy sky. If he arrived too soon to pay a call on his putative future in-laws, he might find them unprepared for his visit. Although they must assume that he would be arriving, as his betrothed’s father would no doubt be keen to draw up the necessary papers detailing the conditions of the engagement. His betrothed’s rather fearsome mother would be slavering at the bit to get that out of the way.

Thoughts of the marriage contract rendered him a little uncomfortable, smacking as it did of something legal and binding. But he’d said he’d do it now, and if both parties eventually withdrew from an engagement, little would be lost, not even face. Hopefully. In the cold light of day, he found he needed more than a little convincing of this.

To his surprise, he found himself more concerned about the effect reneging on their agreement might have on Miss Wetherby’s future prospects, rather than on his own. He wasn’t used to considering others above himself, and he seemed to be doing a lot of that just now. What was happening to him? Was he, perhaps, getting old?

Louise would be horrified by his sudden, and unusual, attack of conscience.

Louise.

She wasn’t going to be pleased about this, and he couldn’t risk telling her it was all a ruse. She wasn’t the sort of woman to be snubbed and keep silent.

He stopped in his tracks. Snubbed was definitely how she would see this. How had he not considered what she would think if he became engaged to some previously unknown young woman? An ingenue. His only thought of his mistress this morning had been in passing—and it had been in comparing her appearance to the dewy, flawless skin and fresh-faced beauty of a nineteen-year-old. He’d thoughtlessly condemned Louise as appearing jaded and old. If he was commencing a period of thinking about others, perhaps he’d better start with her. He swiveled on his heel and turned left down Weymouth Street. She must hear the news from him first, before the gossipmongers got hold of it.

Lady Raby owned a house in Upper Wimpole Street, a house she mainly inhabited on her own, as her husband, who was a lot older than her, preferred to remain in the country at Raby Castle in Northamptonshire nursing his gout and, when well enough, riding to hounds.

Her butler, Trevose, opened the door. She’d brought this lugubrious elderly retainer with her when she married, and his unswerving devotion to his mistress enabled her to carry on with whatever member of the nobility, or sometimes someone from the lower echelons of society, she happened to favor that month. She’d been favoring Jack for the last four weeks, and it had been most enjoyable.

“Ah, Trevose, is her ladyship at home?”

“She is, my lord, if you’d care to come in.” Trevose stood back to allow Jack into the sumptuously decorated hallway. Like the rest of the house, only some of which Jack had seen, their interactions having taken place mainly in the bedroom, it reflected her ladyship’s exotic tastes. Her husband had given her free rein to decorate it as she wished when he’d married her twenty years ago. He’d been fifty then, a good twenty five years her senior, and perhaps overindulgent having snared himself so attractive a young wife to replace the one who’d died.

No longer quite so young, Louise’s taste for younger men had grown as she matured. Whether her husband knew of her many dalliances, Jack had no idea, and he didn’t care.

“Her ladyship is in her boudoir.” Trevose led the way up the wide oak staircase and Jack followed, his boots tapping on the richly figured wood.

Opening the boudoir door, through which Jack had entered many times, Trevose stood back in deference. If they wanted anything, a simple tug on the bell rope would bring him.

Feeling as though he had to gather his courage, which was a ridiculous notion, Jack stepped through the doorway.

Louise was seated on a chaise longue by the window, wearing what appeared to be a tawny silk peignoir and nothing else. Her auburn hair, which Jack was certain she used henna on to disguise the increasingly obvious gray hairs, hung in a luscious mane down her back and over her luscious breasts, which the peignoir barely concealed. What a woman. All thoughts of her advancing age vanished as his body responded to the sight of what was on offer.

“Jack, my dear.” She held out an elegant hand to him, the silky fabric slipping back to reveal her softly rounded forearm. “What a pleasure it is to see you at this hour of the morning. I hadn’t expected your company before tonight. We are still going to the opera, are we not?”

Damn it. He’d forgotten all about the opera. His life was getting unexpectedly more complicated by the minute.

He took her hand and pressed his lips to it, his eyes fixed on her face. Better start with a few compliments. “You look ravishing.”

He straightened, still holding her hand, and she laughed, a deep, attractive gurgle that slithered into Jack’s brain down to where his friends swore he kept it—in his trousers. If only she weren’t so damned alluring. Any remaining thoughts of her age vanished.

“And it’s so early, you find me in deshabillée.” She let the peignoir slip from one plump, alabaster shoulder. “Unless you have in mind something that requires less clothing?”

What a temptress she was. But he was now an engaged man and part of that had to include abstinence from the lures of other women. At least for now. Even at his most discreet, he couldn’t keep a dalliance from the hotbed of gossip that was the Ton. His parents would hear about it, and so would Elenora’s, which was worse. For some reason he couldn’t fathom, he didn’t want to cause her anguish or embarrassment. Looking at the scantily clad Louise, it dawned on him how hard this was going to be. But he’d given his word, and even if no one had actually specified that he could have no other liaisons, it would be an assumed part of the contract Elenora’s father was no doubt having drawn up right now.