Chapter 10
Ten
James ordered the footmen to collect mirrors and bring them up to the empty room that had once served as the Dinsmores’ nursery.
The furniture had long ago been sold as a sop to the omnipresent creditors.
He now stood before their reflections, critically assessing the position of his hands and his feet.
He lunged, over and over, until the movement was as fluid as a dancer’s.
There was a time when he’d fenced every day.
In his early twenties, he’d developed a taste for other men’s wives, and thought it prudent to keep his sword and his skills sharp.
And indeed, there’d been a few discreet duels.
James saluted himself in the mirror and lunged.
Though he’d found that most men preferred not to risk life, or at least limb, to salvage the already sunken reputations of their wives.
James parried up, over, and then down, frowning at a weakness he perceived in his grip.
He adjusted his hand. Rafe Harcrest, Earl of Moreham, it appeared, was cut from a different sort of cloth.
Cut…from a different cloth. It was an odd choice of words.
He’d heard the queerest rumor that Moreham had refurbished his fortune by importing textiles from France.
Not just investing, as proper gentlemen might, but setting up a business and overseeing it himself.
Anne had dismissed the rumors, but then, she would have had to.
His sister would never have considered marrying the earl if he’d truly soiled his aristocratic hands with trade.
James parried low. When he’d first heard the rumors, he’d felt a glimmer of admiration for Moreham.
The man hadn’t taken the standard course of action, hadn’t sought to marry money, or win it at the gaming tables, or set his family heirlooms on the block.
He glanced distastefully at the mirrors.
In reflections he could see the emptiness of the room from every angle.
And in the center of the room, in the center of every mirror, was the reflection of an even emptier man.
Perhaps he should allow Rafe Harcrest to kill him.
He’d meant what he’d said to Anne; it might be the best thing for everyone involved.
Rafe would have his satisfaction, Elizabeth would have her honor restored, Anne would have the sympathy of the ton, and he’d simply have an end to things.
No more worrying about his father’s madness or whether it would become his own.
No more wondering about when or if he’d inherit the title and what pathetic little of the Dinsmore fortune would remain when the old man died.
No more fretting about Anne, nor wondering how to protect her from the petty cruelties of the ton.
A bitter smile twisted his handsome face; he had to admit, he wasn’t certain that it was his sister who needed protecting.
James studied his appearance in the mirrors. A tall slender man dressed in the height of fashion stared critically back at him. “Popinjay,” he muttered.
I am what you made me.
“I didn’t have any choice—what else could I have been?”
A man? the arched brows seemed to inquire. A man like Rafe Harcrest? A soldier, an adventurer, a businessman.
“He was a second son; he didn’t have my responsibilities.”
What responsibilities? The eyes swept his silken suit, his Holland linen. Seducing other men’s wives? Drinking till all hours?
“At least I don’t gamble.”
Only because you haven’t the blunt.
“I should have married for money.” He sighed, looking away.
If only he’d settled down with some wealthy heiress, it would have solved so many problems. His face and figure had attracted nearly as many as his future title.
Why had he looked past the eager young things to dally with the safely marrieds?
He’d never touched a well-bred virgin. Not until Elizabeth.
When they’d been discovered, why hadn’t he declared for her, and forced Moreham’s hand?
Elizabeth was wealthy. She was titled. She was beautiful. Lord knew she was exciting. Why had he delayed? Because of Anne. Anne wants Elizabeth destroyed.
Looking again at his reflection, his eyes mocked him. You’ve ignored Anne’s wishes often enough when it suited you. What’s the real reason?
He raised his sword, whirled to his left, slashed up to the right, down to the left, across to the right, then lunged for his reflected heart. Steel tip quivered against polished glass. A scratch appeared.
I’d make a wretched husband.
It lengthened.
Moreham wouldn’t have me.
Stretched from reflected heart to reflected belly.
Elizabeth deserves better.
At the sound of clapping hands, James withdrew his sword. In the mirror, he could see his sister standing a short distance behind him. She looked like a malevolent angel on his shoulder.
“Congratulations, brother dear,” she said. “It appears you’ve bested a shadow of yourself.”
Dear Lord Dinsmore…
Too distant. Elizabeth crumpled the paper and pulled another sheet from the box on her desk.
Dear James. Was that too personal? She crumpled the sheet, pulled out another. Her lessons in deportment had never covered the proper address for a man with whom one had disgraced oneself at a ball. Her fingers tightened on her quill.
My dearest Lord Dinsmore. She stared at the neat script. Was he hers? Was he dear? She didn’t know what he was to her, or she to him.
All she knew was that she needed to contact him.
Good manners said she should inquire after his health, ask after his family, comment on the weather.
How absurd! She could almost imagine words forming on the page.
My dearest Lord Dinsmore, it was delightful to see you last evening…
and to kiss you, and to feel your hands caress my skin. She inhaled deeply.
I enjoyed myself immensely…enjoyment, an understatement; she couldn’t begin to describe the sensations that had swept through her body.
I was quite devastated to leave…another understatement.
Was there a word stronger than devastation, one that might describe the unutterable humiliation of being discovered half clad by the matrons of the ton?
Of being forced to leave by the servants’ stairs and then having to face the justifiable fury of your brother?
I hope this letter finds you well. And that my brother doesn’t kill or maim you tomorrow at dawn.
And that you are… What? she wondered. Pining for me?
Wishing you could be with me? At least thinking of me?
Was he thinking of her at all? Or was she just one night’s amusement?
Was he laughing at her, perhaps with his friends, or worse, with Anne? Why hadn’t he come?
I have been out of sorts lately and my doctor has insisted that I remain at home, abed. I’m desperately unhappy, I’ve let everyone around me down, and I dare not show my face abroad for fear of being snubbed.
I should welcome a visit from you. How pathetic. She, who’d been courted by so many eligible young men, was pursuing a completely ineligible one who, for all she knew, didn’t want to see her.
She tore the blank sheet into strips.
What was the point of writing a letter to James?
She needed to talk to him. Not to discuss what had occurred at the ball, she told herself.
Certainly not to try to gauge from his expressions if he had any feelings for her.
Nothing so shallow or selfish, she reassured herself firmly.
She needed to see James Dinsmore on a matter of life and death.
She must convince him to refuse to meet her brother.
Rafe was far too stubborn. He wouldn’t even discuss the duel with her.
Said it was no business of hers. And Alix was no help.
Alix had said it was her duty to stand by her husband’s decision.
Guilt clawed her stomach at the thought of the pain she was causing her sister-in-law.
Of course, she’d known she was taking a chance slipping off with James, but she’d imagined that she’d face any consequences alone.
Not that she’d given it a great deal of thought, she admitted to herself.
She’d never really believed they’d be discovered.
She crumpled the strips of paper and dropped them to the floor.
She checked the clock on her desk. A rosy-cheeked shepherd held the time for a golden-haired shepherdess.
Half past four. She stared out the window at the street beyond the gates.
She could tell her mother she wished to go shopping, but then Louisa would insist she, or Alix, or a groom, or a footman, or a maid accompany her.
And the Dinsmores? How would she get past the butler, the servants, past Anne, and find James? What if he wasn’t there?
She glanced at the clock again, feeling unreasonably annoyed by the smiling shepherd and his insipid mistress.
Two minutes had passed. She needed an idea.
She thought of all the plays she’d seen, the books she’d read.
Stories of women who’d disguised themselves as chambermaids, serving girls, gypsies, soldiers, or footmen.
Absurd fictions. This was real life, and someone she loved might lose theirs if she didn’t figure out a way to reach James Dinsmore—and soon.
“Lord Dinsmore, sir.” Despite his years of strict training, the footman standing at the threshold of James’s dressing room shifted nervously on his feet.
James’s valet frowned. He had reminded the downstairs servants countless times that his master wasn’t to be disturbed at his evening toilet—particularly on a night such as this.
His master was stopping at White’s. He must be perfectly dressed, not a hair out of place.
It must be clear from his master’s appearance that James Dinsmore took his dressing as seriously as his dueling.
“What is it?” the valet demanded.
“There’s a lady at the servants’ entrance, sir.”
“Ladies do not use the servants’ entrance.” The valet gestured with his hand. “Send her away.”