Chapter Six
Nicholas Algernon looked around the small, crowded flat just two blocks from the river’s wharf with obvious distaste.
Brushing a spot on the threadbare sofa, he sat before the splintered coffee table with its uneven legs and grimaced.
“Je suis. I am surprised, Monsieur. Pourquoi such squalid conditions?”
Wesley looked at the boy with barely concealed contempt. The little bastard had no idea how truly squalid his living conditions had become because that damn Highlander had stolen Jillian from him along with the Newburn lands. He clenched his fists. The b?tard would pay, and pay very well.
Wesley studied his offspring. The boy had grown in the two or three years since he had last seen him, making him slightly taller than Wesley. Although slender, his once lanky frame had filled out. Dressed in French fashion, his blond hair cropped close, the boy could pass as an English dandy.
“Unfortunately, dire circumstances have forced me to withdraw from Society for a time. Where are you staying?”
“I have taken rooms near Covent Garden,” Nicholas answered. “Close enough to Mayfair, but also convenient for other purposes, if you understand my meaning.”
“I do. Keep your nose clean though. I want nothing to interfere with my plans.”
Nicholas looked around again skeptically. “What happened? Maman said you came to England to reclaim the family estate.”
The family estate? Had the whore-mother hoped Wesley would send for her? The other bitch—Richard’s mother—probably would think the same thing. Well, let them eat cake, as Marie Antoinette once said. Wesley assumed a martyr’s face.
“The fates have conspired against me. I offered to give my father’s widow luxurious living accommodations and a very generous allowance, but the bitter woman was greedy and wanted more.
She fabricated a story of me attempting to rape her—although why I would have wanted to is unfathomable.
By law, she was my step-mother. The barbaric Highlander who inherited the earldom of Cantford collaborated her story.
Complete lies. Unfortunately, about the same time, false accusations were made against me by two ex-patriots who claimed I aided Napoleon instead of actually helping Wellington at Vitoria.
Again, complete lies, but alas, I was stripped of my title and now have a price on my head.
I am using the name Walter Avery as an alias. ”
Nicholas was watching him, his green eyes calculating. Perhaps the boy was shrewder than Wesley had given him credit for. The trait would be advantageous as long as he believed Wesley’s lies.
“If you have no title or lands, why did you send for me?”
Wesley smiled. At least Nicholas went straight to the point. “I have no desire to remain in England, but I do require a nice sum of money to establish myself comfortably in France.”
“I am to help you achieve this?”
“Yes. I believe you have developed some talent as a portrait painter?” Nicholas’s mother had sent frequent missives over the past several years expounding her son’s talents.
Those letters always ended in a request for funds so Nicholas could study with the masters.
Wesley ignored them, but word had gotten to him that de Steuben had taken Nicholas under his tutelage.
“Oui. J’ai talent.”
And little modesty. Another good trait. Wesley smiled again. “The ladies of the haute ton are very vain. I am sure they would be willing to pay well for you to paint them.”
Both of Nicholas’s brows lifted. “They would pay well enough to provide you—and myself—a comfortable lifestyle in France?”
“Of course not.” Was the boy an idiot? “The pretentious creatures not only want their portraits done, they would compete to have your attendance at their silly social parties. Artistes are quite in mode these days.”
“You want me to act a personal cavalier?”
“Not quite. While a great number of the matrons would no doubt find it tempting to take you to their beds, I have only one female in mind.”
“She would have to be très belle if you want me to refrain from visiting the beds of willing women.”
“She’s pretty enough. Marissa Barclay is also the sister of the bitch who now holds my lands and the sister-in-law of the Highlander who married her. I want you to woo the girl this season.”
Nicholas frowned. “What if I do not wish to marry?”
Wesley reined in his temper. “Woo the chit, gain her trust—either we gain a large dowry and leave her at the altar or we arrange an abduction. The Cantford and Newburn estates are worth hundreds of thousands of pounds—a ransom would be quite enough to settle me comfortably and allow you a rather expansive lifestyle.”
Nicholas smirked. “Do I get her maidenhead as a bonus?”
Wesley laughed outright. The boy had inherited at least one of his tendencies. “You can rut with her as many times as you wish. She will be ruined with either plan, and we will be very, very rich.”
His son held out his hand. “When do I start?”
Wesley shook it. “The patronesses of Almack’s need to be your first clients. Once they have their likenesses done, the rest of the ton will follow suit. I will have Louis, my former solicitor, represent you in arranging a meeting with Lady Jersey.”
“Très bien.”
Wesley almost rubbed his hands together in glee. Things were going to work out just fine.
Several days passed before Lady Jersey sent word to Jamie granting an audience.
He nearly snorted at the wording on the handwritten note embossed with a gold-leaf J on the front but held his contempt about its snobbishness His mission was to make sure Mari got invitations to all these doings that went on.
Not that Jamie saw much value in such. If the soiree the week before had been any indication, these things consisted of young girls in fancy dresses prancing around, waving their fans and batting their lashes not so subtly at whichever eligible bachelor wandered into their line of sight.
Ever-vigilant she-wolves in even fancier gowns prowled behind them in hopes of pouncing on the prey.
Jamie sighed as he looked at the door of the Jersey townhouse, and then he rang the door pull. He would do what he needed to do.
“Thank ye for seeing me,” he said to Lady Jersey after the butler had shown him into a sitting room with rose wallpaper, pink silk drapes at the French window and brocaded chairs done in a darker shade of pink.
He much preferred the muted blues and ivory of the Barclay’s parlor.
The spindly, curved legs on these chairs looked even less solid than the ones at Mari’s.
He doubted they could hold the weight of a man.
“Do sit down,” Lady Jersey said, gesturing to the sofa as she took one of the fragile chairs.
The sofa, covered in some cream-colored fabric, looked sturdy enough, but Jamie sat down gingerly, testing it.
Once assured he would not fall through to the floor, he studied the woman in front of him.
He was surprised at how young she appeared.
She couldn’t be over thirty. When Miss Winslow had told him this woman was the most influential of all the patronesses, he had expected to find someone in her middle years, at least.
“It is considered quite rude to stare,” Lady Jersey said, giving him a direct look.
Jamie blinked. “Where am I supposed to look then?”
Her eyes widened in surprise, and then the corner of her mouth twitched. “Point taken. Would you care for tea?”
Jamie looked at the fragile china cups with their curvy, delicate handles and declined politely.
Lady Jersey appraised him and leaned back in her chair. “What brings you here this afternoon?”
At least she wasn’t expecting him to make idle conversation. “Miss Marissa Barclay, Lady Newburn’s sister. I gave my oath to her sister and my brother—her husband—that I would take care of Miss Barclay.”
“How does this concern me?”
Jamie took a deep breath and hoped he could explain it right, since he didn’t really understand it himself. “She was sent an invitation last week to Lady Tindale’s party. When she got there, everyone ignored her because of something I did earlier in the week. ’Twas not her fault.”
A tiny crease formed between Lady Jersey’s brows. “I had to decline Lady Tindale’s invitation due to unforeseen circumstances, but I did hear an on-dit about some girl being given the cut direct due to unseemly behavior on Bond Street. I had no idea it was Jillian’s sister.”
“’Twas my fault, nae Mari’s—Miss Barclay’s. How can people blame a lass who had nae defense?”
One of Lady Jersey’s eyebrows arched. “Just what did you do?”
Jamie felt his face warm, although whether it was embarrassment or the sudden recall of how very well Mari’s soft curves had felt against him or how nicely her bottom fit into the palm of his hand.
“I told the lass to nae leave the house without me since we had news that Wesley Alton had escaped. The lass disobeyed and when I found her, I picked the wee thing up and tossed her over my shoulder.”
Lady Jersey’s eyes rounded and her mouth twitched again. “I see.”
“I set her down before we went to the street, but two ladies were standing nearby and must have spread the rumors.” Jamie leaned forward, his hands on his thighs, intent on making this woman understand. “Mayhap I should nae have done it, but why would the lass be blamed?”
“Society expects its young ladies to behave properly and with decorum.” She frowned slightly. “We expect gentlemen to behave in a proper manner as well. Picking a lady up is simply not done.”
“She didnae want to come along.” Jamie set his jaw. “The lass is stubborn.”
Lady Jersey’s lips twitched once more, and then she tilted her head to one side, eyeing him. “I find your view rather refreshing, if not entirely civilized. What would you have me do?”
“Her friend, Miss Winslow, said if Mari—Miss Barclay—would receive a…voucher…to this Almack’s place, the other matrons would make sure she gets invitations to their parties as well. Can ye see it gets done?”