Chapter Eight #2
“Are those for me?”
“Indeed.” Givens gave her a brief smile—or what passed for a smile from a butler—did the English have to be so damn proper? “From a Mr. Algernon. Shall I put them in the parlor, Miss Barclay?”
Christ. That lace-wearing dandy was sending Mari flowers?
“Oooh!” she exclaimed and jumped up, nearly upsetting her tea.
“No. Place them right here where I can see them while I eat.” Mari leaned down to inhale their fragrance and took the card Givens handed her, blushing when she read its contents.
“How kind of Mr. Algernon,” was all she said as she sat back and turned shining eyes to Jamie. “Aren’t they beautiful?”
Jamie found the smell overwhelmingly sweet, but the happy expression on her face stayed him from making the comment. Instead, he pushed his half-eaten bowl of porridge away. The cloying scent diminished his appetite. “I suppose they are, if ye like flowers.”
“Every girl likes flowers. Do you Scots not give them to your ladies?”
A sudden memory of his father presenting his stepmother with handpicked heather and primroses flashed through his mind.
She had looked at the wildflowers in disgust, asking where his father expected her to put those and suggested they build a hothouse to grow…
roses. Jamie had found the bouquet in the trash later.
He had hated the smell of roses ever since.
“Aye, lass,” he said quietly, “some do.”
Mari gave him a quizzical look. “But you do not?”
He shrugged. “I ne’re had a special lass.”
She looked back at the flowers, a pleased expression on her face. “Flowers do make a girl feel special. I have a feeling I will be seeing more of Mr. Algernon.”
Something akin to a dirk pierced Jamie’s stomach at the thought. He did not like the man. The Frenchman had said naught to him, but Jamie had learned a long time ago to trust his instincts.
“Ye need to take care, lass. The mon is a stranger.”
Mari smiled. “You sound just like Maddie.”
He lifted a brow. “And what did yer friend tell ye?”
“That I had just met Nicholas—Mr. Algernon—and not to fall too hard for him.”
“Those are wise words.”
“Perhaps, but the purpose of the Little Season and the regular one is to find a suitable husband.”
The dirk twisted. Jamie knew what all these ridiculous parties were for, but the idea of Mari actually marrying one of the dandies was not appealing—and especially not the Frenchman with his long-fingered pale hands.
“Mr. Algernon is a refined, cultured gentleman,” Mari said. “He may not be titled, but he is quite well known in France for his paintings. Lady Jersey vouched for him. I daresay a lot of debutantes’ fathers would consider Mr. Algernon quite the catch.”
As if that mattered. A woman with as much fire in her soul as Mari had—his groin tightened at the thought of igniting that flame—would be bored silly with a milksop gentleman.
Jamie had tupped enough wenches to recognize sexually fervent passion even if it lurked behind the mask of propriety.
Mari had it—he was sure of it—but he could hardly tell her in words.
Somehow, he would draw those feelings out until she recognized them herself. And when she did, he would take her to heights no gentleman would think to climb.
“From the smirk on your face, I assume your introduction to the ton went well?” Wesley asked Nicholas the next evening as he poured a generous amount of French cognac into a chipped cup from his sparsely furnished flat.
The one good point to Napoleon’s defeat was having French liquor flowing freely across the channel again.
Not that Wesley could walk into whisky shop to purchase such niceties, but Nicholas could.
“Perhaps next time you could bring a proper snifter?”
Nicholas’s lip curled. “I will think about it.” He gave the worn sofa a dubious look before sitting on its edge. “Must you stay in such a sordid place?”
Wesley restrained himself from backhanding the whelp. Did the boy think he had a choice? “Better out of sight than caught. Tell me how the meeting with Lady Jersey went.”
Nicholas waved a hand nonchalantly. “I played le cavalier to perfection. After I presented her with a quick charcoal sketch, she was mine to manipulate as I please.”
“Do not get too cocky. Lady Jersey is much more shrewd than she looks. She would not be able to preside over that nest of venomous vipers from Almack’s if she were not.”
“Perhaps I should take her to bed then. Most women are quite willing to talk afterwards. I could gather information.”
Wesley laughed and took a swig of brandy. “I would not wager a pence on that. The woman has meticulously cultivated propriety since her mother-in-law was not especially given to faithfulness.”
Nicholas shrugged. “I could plough a few other matrons’ rows. I already had offers the other night.”
Wesley put his cup down and leaned forward across the scarred coffee table, well away from the splintered edge that poked out.
“Forget about married women. We do not need to fend off angry, cuckolded husbands at the moment. Slatterns and hussies abound if you must slake your need. Concentrate on the little Barclay bitch. How did you fare with her?”
“The chit is na?ve. A little flattery went a long way. I sent roses the next day just to be sure. I dare say, she is smitten.”
“And the Highlander? Was he at the rout?”
Nicholas frowned. “Like a bloodhound. I no sooner had maneuvered the girl outside—and had not had the opportunity to persuade her friend to leave—when he loomed in the doorway, ordering her to go inside.”
“And you said nothing?”
“I could hardly challenge the man and create a disturbance. The wealthy matrons think I am a charming, suave Frenchman, and it serves my purposes to let them think that. Besides, the chit made it quite clear she favors brains over brawn. I saw no reason to damage my hands.”
Wesley looked at the boy’s slender hands. “Do you even know how to fight?”
“I am quite skilled with both a rapier and a pistol.” Nicholas’s eyes turned glacial blue. “There were times my mother’s friends needed to be persuaded to leave.”
“She still sluts then?”
A mask slipped in place. “She entertains gentleman callers.”
Wesley nearly laughed and reached for his brandy. The woman must be near forty. How attractive could she still be? He managed to keep a straight face. “I can imagine old men would take a while to satisfy.”
Nicholas frowned. “Vous ne comprenez pas. Maman does not receive the callers herself. She employs la bellas for that. She is quite content with her spécial amie, Gabrielle.”
Wesley choked, the amber liquid spilling over his chin.
The whore mother preferred a woman? Briefly, he recalled she had never asked him to stay over.
At the time, he’d felt relieved she demanded no more than coin.
That had changed once Nicholas entered the picture, but the bitch had only wanted more money.
Not once had she ever asked him to visit.
Not that he wanted to, even though he was living in France.
“How long has she had this amie?”
“Always.”
“Always?”
Nicholas shrugged. “Since as long as I can remember.”
Wesley narrowed his eyes as revulsion shot through him. How could the whore have made him feel like such a stud if she preferred women? The bitch could not have been acting, could she? No woman bested him.
Perhaps he would have a score to settle once he was safely back in France.