The Accidental Mistress Page 5

  She’d checked out of the first hotel after only one night, deciding she had better not chance returning to “Jack Bain’s” room dressed as a woman after her return from Petticoat Lane. And although last night’s new lodging had proven adequate, she’d felt distinctly uncomfortable at breakfast this morning when a pair of male lodgers decided to join her at table over plates of toast and eggs. She’d paid her tab with relief and departed.

  “Here we are,” Mr. Pennyroyal declared. Smiling at her over the pair of half-glasses perched on the end of his long nose, he passed her a cup and saucer, the Darjeeling’s sweet fragrance drifting upward like a rare perfume.

  Taking a sip, she gave herself a moment to enjoy the small luxury after days of privation. Of course, there had been a few bright spots during her journey to London. The delicious meal at the inn with Lord Vessey and the ride in his luxuriously appointed coach. And, of course, his kisses and the dangerous yet glorious touch of his hands.

  Warmth shot into her cheeks, turning them an incriminating shade of pink she hoped the solicitor would ascribe to the temperature of her tea.

  I must stop thinking about the marquis, she warned herself. He is out of my life and I have to forget him. An objective that had so far proven impossible, her dreams filled with nothing but the man.

  Silently she ordered herself to concentrate on her future. To focus on the freedom that was so nearly at hand, courtesy of her mother’s last loving gift.

  Lily would never know why, but when her mother married Gordon Chaulk, she had failed to inform him of the inheritance her own father had set aside for Lily. Ten thousand pounds, or so her mother had told her only five months ago. Perhaps even then, her mother had realized she would not survive the year, and that she’d kept the secret as long as she dared.

  After one of Chaulk’s far too frequent beatings, Lily had tended to her mother’s wounds as she always did, cleaning the blood from her swollen face, binding the broken ribs she’d received from crashing into a wall when he’d hit her. Lily had imagined her asleep, and was about to tiptoe from the room, when her mother reached up and grasped her wrist.

  “There’s money from your grandfather,” she had whispered. “It’s in London at Pennyroyal and Sons. Use it and get away while there’s still time. Go now. Save yourself, Lily.”

  Of course she hadn’t left. How could she while her mother was alive and in need of her? But as fiercely as Lily had fought to convince her mother to live, Louisa Bainbridge Chaulk had withered away. A winter pneumonia, the doctor said, but Lily knew the truth. Her mother had given up on life, her heart crushed by the two men who should have cherished her the most.

  Without question, Chaulk was a vile human being, but at least his brand of cruelty was straightforward, predictable even, in a horrific kind of way. The misery inflicted by Lily’s father, however, had been of a far more insidious nature. Although he’d never laid a rough hand upon his wife, he’d done far worse—taking her love and devotion, then using it, however unintentionally, to slowly break her heart one piece at a time.

  As dashing and handsome as the prince in a fairy story, Timothy Bainbridge was the fourth son of an earl. A devil-may-care sort, he could charm the gold from a leprechaun and leave him smiling for his loss. When her father set you in his sights, his focus was absolute, his attention mesmerizing in a way that left you feeling, for that brief span of time, as if you were the most special person on earth.

  Lily remembered the feeling, knew the giddy, almost druglike rush of having his unique and undivided attention—yet knew as well the soul-crushing agony of wanting his love and approbation so badly she would have given anything in order to attain it.

  But as she and her mother had discovered, Timothy Bainbridge bored easily, needing constant novelty in his life, as well as ever-increasing doses of excitement and adventure in order to be happy.

  Instead of settling him down as many had imagined marriage would, the commitment had only driven him to take more chances, to chase more unknowns, to face bigger, ever greater dangers and risks. And in the meantime, while he’d been off hunting tigers in India, climbing mountain peaks in the Alps, and sailing the wide China seas, she and her mother had been left to fend for themselves.

  Money would arrive, but only when he remembered to send it, which was sometimes as often as every month but at others as seldom as once a year. There would be a flurry of letters and gifts, strange and beautiful objects that arrived from all over the world, then suddenly all communication would cease.

  And occasionally—usually when life at home had taken on an almost normal rhythm—he would appear on the doorstep unannounced. Once again he would dazzle them with his charm, making them want him to stay when, of course, they both knew he never would.

  Lily had hated him. She’d been resentful of his absences, angry at him for causing her mother to sob hysterically each time he left, and then to grow pale with worry when he failed to write and let them know he was alive and well.

  His death had been almost a relief when it had come—the letter from an official in one of the Canadian colonial provinces explaining that Mr. Bainbridge had met his end after being severely mauled by a bear. Yet despite her animosity toward her father, Lily had wept just as hard as her mother, an emptiness and grief lodging inside her that she knew would never completely go away.

  Unlike other girls, who dreamt of a perfect man who would one day arrive to sweep them off their feet, she’d known that spring of her thirteenth year that she never wished to love, never wished to marry. When a woman wed, she became the property of her husband, her physical and emotional safety his to decide. Better to be alone, she reasoned, than to risk the promise of betrayal and pain. Better a lonely heart than one shattered by despair.

  Her father had taught her one lesson: never trust a man. Her mother’s second husband had only reinforced that belief.

  “How is the tea, Mrs. Smythe?”

  Lily startled, frowning as she took a moment to remember that she was Mrs. Smythe. At least that’s what she had decided to inform the solicitor upon her arrival.

  As an unmarried woman of only twenty years of age, Lily knew it would be greatly frowned upon for her to apply for use of her inheritance, even for funds legally set aside for her use. Custom called for her guardian to make the request—in her case, Gordon Chaulk. Obviously, that option was out of the question.

  And although she didn’t believe Mr. Pennyroyal knew anything about her mother’s remarriage, she couldn’t take the chance of him contacting her stepfather about the transaction. So, to give herself a measure of credible autonomy, she had decided to invent a husband. Then, in a subsequent flash of inspiration, she had just as quickly killed him off.

  She smiled to herself, still rather proud of having thought of the ploy. Now she had only to act the part of a young, grieving widow and let matters play out as they would.

  “The tea is delicious, thank you.” She took another sip, then sent him a demure smile.

  He set his own cup aside. “My sincere condolences on your losses. What a dreadful time you must have had, with first the death of your husband and then your mother. The passing of loved ones is never an easy matter.”

  “No, indeed.” Thinking of her mother, she had no difficulty coaxing an expression of genuine sorrow. “It is one of the reasons I decided to come to London. Too many sad memories at home.”

  “Where did he fall, if I might ask?”

  For a second she didn’t know what he meant. Where did who fall?

  She nearly blurted out the question before realizing he meant her “husband.”

  Dear heavens, she mused, I am going to have to do better than this if I am not to be caught! And gracious, I suppose he expects me to name a battle. Think, Lily, and be quick about it.

  Taking another sip of her tea, she gave herself a minute to compose her answer. Her cup clinked as she set it onto its saucer.

  “Vittoria,” she said in a somber tone, “not quite a year ago.
” She was glad now that she had always made time to read the news reports about the war.

  “Ah, Vittoria. A great victory for the British and Portuguese. Helped us topple the little emperor off his throne and put him on a tiny one in Elba, where he belongs. Seems fitting, I think. You must be very proud of your husband’s noble sacrifice.”

  She nodded. “Of course, and relieved to be at peace once again.”

  Will that clerk never return?

  As if he’d heard her wish, a tap came at the door only moments later, one of Mr. Pennyroyal’s four assistants rushing in to place a thick set of bound papers before his employer. Once the young man had departed and closed the door, the solicitor reached out and untied the ribbon that held the file shut. He shuffled through a couple of pages before pulling one free.

  “Ah, here we are. Already drawn up in anticipation of your one day claiming the funds.” He paused briefly to scan the document. “Everything seems in order, although your maiden name is still listed for the signature.” His gray brows drew together. “Perhaps I should have this redrawn?”

  A lump tightened in her stomach. “Is that strictly necessary?”

  Good heavens, what will I do if he insists that I sign my “married name”?

  He placed a finger against his lower lip in consideration before pulling it away. “No, I suppose not strictly.”

  Her stomach pitched like a small boat on a high sea. “You see, I would much rather sign today. As indelicate as it is to say, my…um…husband was an infantry officer, and as much as such things do not matter when one is in love, I must confess that we were never financially well off. Can we not proceed now? I am in rather urgent need of funds, if you must know.”

  The older man pursed his lips and scowled. “Hmm? There is no question that you are the rightful beneficiary, maiden name or married. Yes, I believe it will be all right.” Sliding the paper forward, he handed her a pen. “Sign at the bottom.”

  Fingers trembling, she steadied herself before dipping the nib in ink and affixing her name. Only when the solicitor blotted the ink from the paper and placed it back in the file did the tension ease from her stiff muscles.

  He smiled. “If you do not mind waiting, I will have a voucher drawn for you. We have the funds invested in a very reputable bank. I assume you will not wish to withdraw the entire amount from their accounts?”

  “No, I do not suppose I will have immediate need of all ten thousand pounds.”

  “Ten thousand? Oh, I believe it is far more than that.” Shuffling some more papers, he pulled another one from the stack. “Here is the latest statement of account. Yes, just as I thought. The current balance is forty-eight thousand nine hundred seventy-three pounds, eleven shillings, and six pence. Your grandfather set this money aside nearly two decades ago. It has since grown considerably in value.”

  Lily’s heart thumped. Forty-eight thousand pounds. Stars above, I am rich!

  “Will five hundred do for today?” Mr. Pennyroyal asked.

  Lily couldn’t help the smile that spread like a sunrise over her face. “Mercy, yes!”

  The solicitor laughed, and called again for his clerk.

  “One more thing,” he said, once he’d sent a different young man than the first off to draft Lily’s check. “You said you are new to London. I know of an excellent townhouse that might be of interest to you. Shall I tell you about it?”

  A townhouse? She hadn’t thought that far into the future, but she certainly didn’t wish to continue living in a hotel, even if she could now afford to stay somewhere as elegant as Grillons or Claridge’s.

  A townhouse might indeed be just the thing.

  “Yes,” she agreed, “please do.”

  Conversation and laughter flowed like a meandering river through the Bascoms’ drawing room, the elegant chamber set aside for those who preferred not to dance in the crowded ballroom nor congregate around its equally noisy perimeter.

  “Your play, Vessey,” Tony Black, Duke of Wyvern, said.

  Ethan glanced up to find the other three men at the card table waiting, expectant expressions on their faces.

  “What?” he murmured.

  “It is your turn,” prompted Viscount Howard, an amiable Corinthian who had sought out the card room earlier and agreed to make up a fourth.

  “Oh, right.” Ethan nodded and scowled down at his cards. Relying on instinct alone, he chose a jack of clubs and tossed it down.

  The other men gave soft grunts of dissatisfaction.

  “Count on Ethan to take the trick, even when he’s not paying attention,” Rafe, Baron Pendragon, commented as he reached for his glass of port.

  “Lucky in cards, as they say,” Tony quipped as he waited for Ethan to lead out the next hand.

  Ethan laid down another club. The others played in turn, Ethan again taking the trick. On the next hand, though, his thoughts began to drift once more. By the third, he had to be reminded yet again when his turn came around.

  Tony quirked a brow. “So, who is she?”

  “Who is who?” he countered in a nonchalant tone as he considered which card to play.

  “The woman who has your mind tied up in knots, that’s who.”

  Ethan laid down a heart, the only suit left in his hand. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  The duke rolled his eyes. “Of course you do. Distraction such as yours can only come from two sources, money or women. You’d be drunk and ready to shoot yourself by now had you wagered your massive fortune at some gaming hell last night and lost. Meaning that the source of your current lack of attention is a female. So, who is she?”

  “Yes, divulge all, Vessey,” Lord Howard encouraged. “Is she a lady or a light o’ love? I’m rather hoping for the latter, since Cyprians provide far more interesting tales.”

  “There is no one and nothing to tell.”

  “Hmm, I wonder what this nothing’s name could be?” Tony mused.

  Lily.

  Her lovely heart-shaped face appeared before his mind’s eye just as it had with regular frequency since he’d watched her drive away three nights ago.

  “Camilla,” Tony suggested.

  “Aurora,” Howard offered, playing a card.

  Rafe took a sip of wine. “Joan, mayhap.”

  Their teasing antics reminded him of his own recent guessing game in the coach, his loins stirring at the heated memory of what had happened between him and Lily. “Her name is of no importance,” he said.

  Especially since that is all of her I know.

  “Ah-ha!” Tony declared. “So there is a woman.”

  “Ignore them,” Rafe said. “Though if you are in a confiding mood, you know you can always tell me,” he added with a good-humored smile.

  Ethan shook his head. “Thank you, but no.”

  Although maybe he should tell Rafe, since the man had a knack for knowing everything worth learning and a little more besides. A wealthy financier who had ascended to the ranks of the aristocracy only last year, Rafe had ways of locating information and people that none of the rest of them could even hope to rival. If anyone could locate Lily, it would be Rafe. Lord knows I’ve certainly had no luck, Ethan mused.

  As soon as her hackney had departed, he’d sent one of his footmen to trail her. When his man returned later that evening, he reported, much to Ethan’s surprise, that the cab had let her out at a hotel, and not a private residence as Ethan had assumed.

  Up at first light the next morning, he’d skipped breakfast and gone to the hotel to inquire after her. The desk clerk said a Jack Bain had stayed the night but had departed less than an hour earlier, leaving no forwarding address.

  Ethan spent the next hour driving his phaeton around the area in the dim hope he might spot her, but to no avail. What he had planned to say or do if he’d found her, he didn’t know.

  Returning to his townhouse, he’d told himself to forget her. Their chance meeting had provided an interesting interlude, but now it was over. She would go on with her li
fe and he with his own.

  Still, he couldn’t stop thinking about her, puzzling over her real identity, worrying about her welfare.

  Is she safe? he kept wondering. Is she well?

  Perhaps he should not have allowed her to leave in that hack, insisting instead that he take her to her home regardless of her wishes. Why had she gone to a hotel? Had it been yet another part of what she’d termed “a lark”? Or was there another explanation? Did she even have a home in London? Or a female friend who made outrageous, irresponsible wagers?

  When it came to Lily, he couldn’t be sure of much. All he knew for certain was that he’d never met a more vibrant, intelligent, independent young woman in all his years. She alternately exasperated, amused, and amazed him. She also made his blood burn like fire, leaving his body stiff and aching with the kind of arousal he hadn’t felt since he’d been a randy youth just discovering the glorious delights to be found inside a woman’s soft embrace.

  Try as he might, he couldn’t get her out of his head—or his senses, it would seem. Three days later and he could still taste the delectable sweetness of her kiss, smell the clean vanilla scent of her skin, feel the beauty of her gentle touch that was both bold and remarkably innocent.

  How could I have lost her already when I barely had her to start?

  “There he goes again. She must indeed be unique.”

  He heard Tony’s remark and glanced up to meet his friend’s interested gaze.

  “Whatever she may or may not be, it scarcely signifies since I will not be seeing her again.” Ethan fanned out the cards in his hand. “Now, are we going to play or not?”

  Three weeks later, Lily alighted from her brand-new landau, her footmen assisting her to the sidewalk while her coachman held her new team of matched bays steady. Subtly adjusting the skirts of her elegantly made black silk day dress, she gazed upward at the townhouse of her friend Davina Finch—or rather Davina Coates since she was now a married woman.

  Despite a friendly exchange of letters over the past week, Lily wasn’t certain what to expect. After all, what did you say to a friend you haven’t seen nor spoken with in the last eight years?