Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
The visit to Lady Frances was overdue. He ought to have gone the day after the ball, made amends for his distraction, for leaving her on the dance floor.
He’d heard she’d danced with his uncle after he’d left. Beckford had told him. He and Handley had paid a visit when he failed to turn up at the dinner arranged to commemorate the wager’s end.
He was ill, he said, when his friends found him at home, shocked to find him unshaven and pale, in shirt sleeves and banyan.
Beckford had almost choked. Handley had looked pleased, as though this was fair punishment for his success.
Both gentlemen’s reactions might have amused him.
Perhaps they had. He could barely remember the meeting.
It was five days since the ball. Four days since he’d seen her. It had taken him that long to scrape enough of himself together to don a respectable outfit and step out into the street.
Had it always been so damned loud? So blinding? But he was bolstered by brandy, warm in his veins. It was a soothing hand on his shoulder, a numbing draught, laudanum for the nerves.
He began to understand his father. Not that he would ever be weak enough to fall prey to the substance.
No. He used it like medicine. He was entirely in control.
A little in the morning to let him face the day.
A little before dinner to fortify him for company. A little before bed to help him sleep.
There was no harm in that. It was what he needed.
The marquess’s porter admitted him at once, clearly a man who knew how things stood. Sebastian was in the hall, removing his hat and gloves when a footman hurried in, flustered. “I beg pardon, Lord Cotereigh. But…but Lady Frances is not at home.”
Sebastian eyed him for a moment, the lift of his eyebrow sufficient to make colour flood the young man’s face.
“Your porter seemed to believe otherwise.”
“Y-yes, my lord. But…but Lady Frances had to go out. Suddenly.”
“Suddenly,” repeated Lord Cotereigh, making the footman shrink another inch.
Behind him, the porter came over, officious and glaring at the young footman. “What’s this, Frederick? What do you mean by this?”
The poor man, trembling now, was saved by the arrival of the marquess himself, Lady Frances’s father. The footman paled.
“Cotereigh,” the marquess greeted him, smiling and affable, casting a confused look at the collected servants. “Welcome, welcome, how do you do? Here for my daughter, are you? Well, Frederick,” he turned to the terrified footman, “fetch her down, fetch her down.”
“My-my lord, I—”
“Your footman here seems to believe Lady Frances is not at home,” said Sebastian. He had no interest in getting the footman into trouble, but his patience was as thin as the rein he held on his shattered mood. “Perhaps I should call another time.”
“What?” The marquess looked at the footman, brow creased.
“I heard no word of her stepping out. Thought she was in her room. Told me she was, in fact. Had some new dresses to try on or something.” He waved towards the stairs.
“Go up, go up, my friend. Knock on her antechamber door, you know you’re quite at home here.
And I say that with a father’s permission.
Her maid will be up there anyway if she’s got dresses to try. ”
Sebastian wouldn’t have, not normally, though he’d seen Lady Frances’s rooms before.
She’d showed him once, part of her shiny, imperturbable facade, daring him to the impropriety under the guise of showing him the new decorating style she’d chosen.
He’d not been the only member of the party.
A dozen of them had trooped through her rooms, admiring the curtains, the furniture.
She’d put her hand on his elbow, lingering by the canopied bed.
Her initials were embroidered on her silk pillowcases.
Playing the game, he’d duly admired them.
He’d gone to her dressing table and smelt her perfume while she watched, smiling.
Then they’d all been allowed to escape downstairs.
He hadn’t spent a moment thinking of it since.
Now the memory annoyed him, greasy and juvenile. But he was also, seeing the terrified look on the footman’s face, entirely sure it wasn’t the first time she’d had visitors to her rooms.
Who was up there now?
It was brandy, or anger, or just a sick despair to make the rotten world even worse that drove him up the stairs. He didn’t run but walked calmly, quietly, and opened the door without knocking.
Her maid was in the dressing room, guarding the bedroom door. She squawked at his sudden appearance, jumping to her feet and dropping the mending from her lap. He ignored her protests, moving her gently but firmly aside, and opened the bedroom door.
The canopies weren’t even down. Broad sunlight illuminated the scene. Thighs and buttocks and grunting, panting flesh. The lady underneath was pale cream. The man above was broad and scarred and coarse.
“Uncle,” Sebastian said, closing the door behind him. “Lady Frances.” He walked over and took a seat, crossing a booted ankle upon his knee as the couple in bed scrambled apart.
Lady Frances made some effort to cover herself, grabbing for the bed clothes. His uncle, unfortunately, only sat back on his heels and laughed.
Sebastian had seen it all before. This very scene, more or less, but it was normally a whore giggling in the bed, beckoning him to join in, not his almost betrothed, staring at him in horror.
But not in guilt.
“Do you pay that poor boy downstairs, your footman, Frederick? Or does he protect you out of love?”
Lady Frances smiled, pulling the covers only as far as her belly and settling to sit back against the covers. “Both, Cote, of course. I like to be sure of my helpers.”
He nodded. He looked at his uncle. “How long?”
The smile his uncle gave him was familiar. Slow and full of malice. He glanced over at Lady Frances, wrapping a possessive finger around one of her curls and giving it a tweak.
Sebastian wasn’t surprised at the displeasure that flickered over her face.
She might be all bravado and feigned unconcern, but he knew this was not what she wanted.
The major was an amusement, a vicious rebellion against him, her father, and the whole world, just to prove that she could.
But he wasn’t the prize. She’d truly wanted to be his countess.
“How long…? Hmm.” His uncle crooned, still playing with that lock of hair, unaware his victory fell short. Only Sebastian knew Lady Frances’s hopes had been over even before he’d stepped foot in this room. “A twelvemonth, is it, Franny? Give or take.”
“No,” she said. “Not that long. Since the autumn.”
Sebastian met her eyes. He was sorry for her, and she saw it, the sympathy causing her courage to crack.
“Cote…”
“I know. I’ll tell no one. I came up here. I found you alone. We spoke in your antechamber, with your maid present. She’s loyal, I presume?”
Lady Frances nodded.
His uncle laughed. “Good Lord, boy, are you still planning to wed the girl?”
He gave his answer to her, as softly as he could. “No. But not because of this.”
How could he object? They’d both known what their marriage would be.
His wife would have been in other men’s beds just as often after their vows as she was before them.
And he would have taken a lover too… Oh, God, how could he have ever thought this sordid farce was good enough for the Thornes? Good enough for any of them?
Lady Frances bowed her head, fidgeting with the covers, perhaps wishing she’d pulled them all the way up. She’d probably wanted to taunt him with what he was missing, but there was only one woman on earth who had any power over him at all.
When he stood up, his joints felt stiff. His muscles ached as though he really had been sick for a week. Exhaustion washed over him, sour as the brandy in his stomach.
He cast one last eye over the scene, Lady Frances cold as marble now, his uncle watching him, still burning with dark wrath, as though he hadn’t quite done enough. The man had never done enough, his appetite for cruelty was never sated.
Which was when Sebastian realised.
He shouldn’t have given the man the satisfaction, but he couldn’t help himself asking. “This wager. I remember now. It was you who started it.”
His uncle’s mouth curled in mocking delight. “Aye. To throw the Pariah in your way. Do you think I didn’t see the way you looked at her at that old Fishbourne goat’s saloon? She was the perfect lure.”
“To stop me marrying Lady Frances? So you could have her all to yourself?”
His uncle shrugged. “To ruffle your feathers. To delay things. I’m far from tired of her yet, you see.” He lay a hand on her shoulder, and she flinched away. Sebastian’s fists clenched.
“I think the lady might be tired of you.”
“That’s for us to decide. Run along, Sebby. Your uncle has business to finish.”
Lady Frances was pale, but her voice was steady. “I can handle this, Cote.”
“I’m sure you can. But I can’t help but feel a degree of responsibility. The man is family, after all. For the time being.”
He smiled at his uncle, and for the first time, the man seemed uncertain.
“Lady Frances,” Sebastian asked, “exactly how loyal are your servants?”
“Very.”
“Excellent.”
It took Frederick the footman’s help, and the maid keeping the coast clear, but a few moments later, the hastily dressed major was frogmarched down to a quiet backstreet. Frederick restrained him on one side, Sebastian on the other, his hand clamped firmly over the man’s mouth.
He held it there a moment longer as the major struggled.
“You are nothing,” Sebastian said into the man’s ear. “You have no one. When I see you next, it will be the cut direct.”
The man stopped struggling, eyes wide, pleading something into the palm of Sebastian’s hand.