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Lady Belton’s masquerade seemed a distant memory, but the pain of what Cressida had learned the previous Saturday—four long days ago—was like a niggling boil that tonight, must be lanced.
Regardless of the truth, people were talking. Catherine had said so. Cressida must resign herself to being an object of gossip, her cousin had said.
Her hands felt cold and clammy in their York tan gloves as she fought for the courage to raise the polished brass door knocker in front of her. Everything seemed so alien, so frightening, without her husband or the children, or even a maid, beside her.
But Cressida was not going to become an object of gossip or remain a miserable wife without first trying to discover the truth for herself. Initially, she’d thought to confront her husband directly. However, when she’d opened her mouth to ask Justin if it were true that—
She closed her eyes and shuddered at the horror of ending that sentence. If she couldn’t even think it, then how could she say it to Justin? No, it couldn’t be true. And she did not have the fortitude for how disappointed Justin would be in her if he knew she seriously doubted his constancy.
That was what she’d come to verify tonight—and didn’t it make her feel a thief in the night? Justin’s love, she knew she had in abundance, but his constancy…? If he had strayed, she had only herself to blame.
Staring up at the unassuming, three-story residence in a part of town where no self- respecting woman would be seen dead, she reflected on a boldness she’d not dreamed she possessed. After first exhorting Cressida to learn the truth for herself, Catherine’s attitude had become sneering and disdainful as she’d gone on to advise Cressida to accept the inevitable as she had done years ago. It was true that Cressida was timid by nature, and certainly compared with Cousin Catherine, but she could not allow Catherine to brand Justin complacently as no better than any other man.
The ring of the horses’ hooves as the hackney disappeared around the corner was the loneliest, most frightening noise she had ever heard. In her whole life, she’d never been alone or unaccompanied after dark. Nannies, governesses, Justin and then children had accompanied her everywhere.
Adjusting the thick gauze veil over her face, Cressida took three deep breaths for courage as she picked up the brass door knocker. She was trembling so much she thought she’d crumple upon the spot.
She took a shaky breath. She had to do this. Succumbing to her usual fear
was not an option. She had to be able to inform Catherine that her husband had never set foot within the notorious—as she’d now learned Mrs. Plumb’s salon definitely was—den of vice and iniquity. Regardless of what she discovered, she’d tell Catherine that, anyway. No, Cressida had to know for herself.
Within seconds of her knock, she was admitted into a dim, quiet passage lined with paintings of women in various states of undress, the heavy atmosphere overlaid by a strong scent of musk. She felt the thickness of her veil for reassurance as she battled to combat the nausea caused by the sudden surge of fear before pressing her hands briefly against the passage wall to steady herself.
She could do this. She had to do this.
Her courage was bolstered by the sound of a confident contralto issuing through the door that had been opened for her by a slip of a parlor maid. Italian opera… Excitement mingled with trepidation as the girl took her cloak. She trembled at the distant sound of clapping.
However, by the time Cressida had settled herself on a blue brocade chair, she was dismayed to find a tall, balding young man offering the company—of about thirty, altogether—a passionate recitation of a passage from Ivanhoe. If only she had timed her arrival a few minutes earlier, but Thomas had been fractious, and— She stopped mid-thought. The truth was that, although Justin was out, she had searched for just about every excuse not to come this evening and face her terrors.
Now her usual prevarication, if not cowardice, had resulted in the loss of her prime opportunity for seeing for herself this Madame Zirelli, whom Catherine claimed had ensnared her husband, before deciding how best to act.
Casting around the room for a woman who fitted the vague description Catherine had given her of a dark-haired woman nearing forty, she decided Madame Zirelli had quit the scene of her rousing performance.
Of course, no one with pretensions to respectability would be seen dead at Mrs. Plumb’s, which was why more than half those assembled were in masquerade while another handful were, like herself, heavily veiled.
Smoothing the skirts of her black silk gown, Cressida tried to swallow down her nervousness at seeing several gentlemen whom she knew were acquaintances of Justin. Of Justin, however, there was no sign, which made her vague, desperate plan seem all the more ill-conceived and not properly thought out. Was it any wonder her husband had grown tired of a wife who seemed capable of little more than nursing his children?
Clapping dutifully as the current performer, the dome-headed orator, came to the end of his repertoire, her mind focused on her next move. What if someone addressed her? Asked her name? She had no idea how matters were conducted in a place like this, or indeed what went on other than music and conversation, though she could not plead complete ignorance. Catherine had taken such delight in telling Cressida about what kind of salon Mrs. Plumb ran. Cressida knew most wives would believe they had no choice but to turn a blind eye. They certainly wouldn’t venture out to visit such a salon as Cressida was doing right now. Perhaps most wives would consider Mrs. Plumb was doing a service, providing a meeting place for nefarious assignations in the dim chambers beyond if their husbands considered their amatory needs were not being met by their wives. Perhaps most wives considered that such discretion shown by their husbands, in avoiding bawdy houses or more public carte blanches, was acceptable. The idea sickened Cressida. It made her feel physically ill to think of what Catherine had said. That people like Justin—and even apparently well-connected, irreproachable women like herself—came here to meet a lover. If Catherine were with her, her cousin would no doubt claim that Justin and the Italian warbler she had heard on her arrival were closeted together at this moment, engaged in the very activities Cressida had once enjoyed so greatly but that now terrified her.
Covering her face with her hands, she recalled Catherine’s gleeful revelations. She must not dwell on them. After all, it was only gossip, and Catherine thrived on gossip. It was to settle her doubts that she had come here.
Even as she tried to bolster herself with this, she acknowledged that as Justin was rarely home these days, she must assume he was seeking company more diverting than her own.
She was only half aware of the emptying of the drawing room—the withdrawal of patrons into chambers beyond while those remaining made small talk around a table of glazed ham and plover’s eggs.
Her misery enveloped her like a cloak of heavy, green slime. Could it be true? Could Justin be amongst those who’d silently slid into the shadows? Oh, she was certain she retained her husband’s heart and his regard, but what was a man to do when denied his physical needs? Cressida had barely let him do more than caress her in ten months.
“Would you care for some refreshment, madam?”
It was Mrs. Plumb, judging by the description Catherine had given her. Coarse, plump Mrs. Plumb, dressed like Cressida in respectable widow’s weeds, smiling unctuously at her as she offered her a fizzing champagne coupe. Glancing about her, Cressida realized she was alone amidst a sea of empty blue brocade chairs.
The women leaned closer, and her smile was conspiratorial. “Or perhaps there is a certain gentleman, known or otherwise, to whom you seek an introduction. Madame Plumb prides herself on ensuring the pleasure of her patrons.” She thrust out her hand and gripped Cressida’s wrist. “Madam, are you all right?”
The woman’s vulgar words brought the bile rushing up Cressida’s throat. Pushing away, she hurried toward the door, past a knot of people gathered near the supper table, to find herself in a darkened passage. What on earth had possessed her to come to such a place? She was out of her mind. Without doubt, she was out of her depth.
In the gloom, she observed a gentleman walking down the corridor, head bent, but when he raised it, as he drew almost level, he was smiling at her. And there was invitation implicit in the sweep of his speculative gaze.
Fear and horror spiraled through Cressida as she gripped the first doorknob that came to hand, hoping wildly it would yield escape. She had to get as far away as she could from Mrs. Plumb, her patrons and their odious assumptions. Who knew what the woman was going to suggest for Cressida’s entertainment? A quick fumble with that man who looked like he was treading the corridors in search of conquest? He’d been young and handsome enough, so surely he had someone at home waiting for him?
