Lord of Deceit (Heiress Games Book 2) Page 5

  “Were the diamonds a show of your gratitude?” she asked.

  He flushed.

  Somerville never flushed.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “I truly am. But you surely understand. You know the ton as well as I do. If I marry, it will keep other rumors at bay. And it will reinforce the belief that I am an appropriate leader.”

  “Fox had a mistress forever. He even married her. No one ran him out of the government,” she pointed out. Waspishly, perhaps. A self-respecting courtesan wouldn’t have begged Somerville to keep her…but Octavia wasn’t playing a role tonight.

  “Yes, but Fox led the House of Commons without campaigning on a platform of morality,” Somerville said. “And you know that whatever his secrets and scandals were, they weren’t the same as mine.”

  She knew that. Still, she wasn’t quite ready to forgive him. “When do you expect me to leave? Shall I call Agnes and have her pack my dresses tonight?”

  “Tonight isn’t necessary,” he said quickly.

  He didn’t say anything else for a long moment. She narrowed her eyes. “You were the one who did this. Do you expect me to volunteer to leave?”

  He winced. “That would make everything easier.”

  “Easier?” Her temper was beyond anything she’d felt in years. Possibly not since the moment when she’d realized that Lucy had told Julian about Lord Chapman’s kiss — and that rage had been muted by shock, happening as it had over her brother’s still-dying body. “You want to make things easier? You should have thought of that before you turned me out on my ear. Would you like to wait until morning, then publicly toss me into the street so your precious Castlereagh knows I’m gone?”

  He held up his hands again. “I’ve found another option for you,” he said. “One that could be as convenient as ours has been. I have a friend. A…good friend. He’s in rather urgent need of a mistress.”

  Octavia frowned, straining to hear through the pulse beat of anger. “Are you becoming a procurer? Doesn’t that go against all of your anti-vice preaching?”

  Somerville adjusted his cravat. “You know it’s not like that. It would be the same agreement we had. You would be his mistress in name only, hosting parties and attending events to which women of your status are welcome. No, er…no favors required.”

  “You mean that I wouldn’t share his bed,” she said.

  Somerville nodded.

  “And how long would this arrangement last? Until he needs a wife? Until I become inconvenient to him?”

  Somerville sidestepped the accusation in her voice. “He doesn’t wish to marry. But a long-standing mistress would prevent rumors. He could pass you off as a love match, one he might have married if the circumstances were correct. He suggested that the arrangement might, perhaps, become permanent.”

  Octavia’s frown deepened.

  “If, of course, you tolerate each other well enough,” Somerville added quickly. “But you and I got along famously. I expect you would like him just as well.”

  “You’ve been planning this, haven’t you?” she asked.

  He paused for a long time, speechless as she had never known him to be.

  Then he nodded, once.

  She had no romantic feelings for him at all. But that moment of betrayal was enough to break her heart.

  She took a deep breath. She’d been betrayed before. She could survive it. And her Briarley heart was focused, now, entirely on survival. “May I ask the name of your friend?”

  “No. He shared his need with me in confidence. I won’t break his trust until you are ready to sign the contracts.”

  “How do I know we’ll suit?”

  “You’ll suit,” Somerville said. “I’ve heard you say that you like him well enough. But you understand why I cannot tell you his name.”

  She understood. And she didn’t blame Somerville, or his mysterious friend, for their caution.

  She hadn’t understood when she had made her agreement with Somerville. He had offered her the same terms that he offered now — mistress in name only, no need to fuck him in exchange for a bed to sleep in.

  Not that he’d ever used that word with her. He always treated her like the lady she used to be. She’d heard it from others, whispered in shadowed gardens or drunken masquerades, when Somerville wasn’t next to her and others wanted to lure her away. There was something heady and dangerous about that word, a word she never should have heard spoken in her presence — would never have heard, perhaps, if she had remained Miss Briarley.

  She was supposed to have married some perfect prince of a man, one who would have swept her off her feet. One who would never say anything inappropriate to her.

  One who would have left her in their townhouse, with their babies, too perfectly behaved for a word like “fuck,” while he pursued his real pleasures elsewhere.

  Octavia was losing her composure. She fought to rein herself in. Wasn’t it better if she found a protector who didn’t want to use her body?

  If Somerville’s friend shared his inclinations, she knew she’d never have to fear that the man would change his mind. She hadn’t entirely believed Somerville when he had said that he wouldn’t take her to bed — even at eighteen, she hadn’t been naïve enough to think that anyone would pay her way without demanding something in return. But what he used her for was exactly what he had said he wanted. He only required that she dress well, speak appropriately, and host grand parties for his political connections. He had never asked for anything more than that.

  She chose not to dwell on that one night, six months into their arrangement, when she had tried to seduce him. She had worn the filmiest chemise she owned, dampened to translucence. She had waited for him, knowing he would come to her room after the party to compare notes on what their guests had said.

  But he hadn’t kissed her. He had looked at her, disbelieving.

  She had wanted to die from mortification.

  He’d been sweet about it — almost painfully kind, telling her that she was the most beautiful woman in creation, and one of the smartest besides. She hadn’t believed any of it. Her flush had spread from her toes to her hair. Gooseflesh had raised against the dampened chemise and shame had burned through her veins until she’d wanted to cry. She had held back her tears and ordered him to leave.

  He’d hugged her then. Hugged her, as though she were a child, not a woman he might have made love to.

  And then he had whispered in her ear that there was no woman for him. That she would be it, if he were capable. But….

  Here he had drawn a breath, hugging her tighter, until she wasn’t sure whether he was still comforting her, or whether he was comforting himself. And he’d whispered, even more quietly, so low that she wasn’t sure she’d heard it correctly, that he didn’t wish to sleep with a woman.

  They had never spoken of that night again.

  That memory stretched between them now as she met his gaze. Her love had softened, faded, until it was something a sister might feel for a brother. And she had pitied him, to some extent, when she thought about it. Somerville was entirely too consumed with his political career, but he had been kind to her when no one else was. His preferences in the bedroom had shocked her at first, but at least she understood why he never tried to kiss her.

  She would likely never find someone to love, or at least not someone who would be able to marry her.

  But then, neither would he.

  But for all that she was grateful for what he had given her, she had never quite forgiven him for what he could not.

  “I do not know if I can do this again,” she said.

  Somerville blinked. “My friend will be a perfect gentleman.”

  “That is what worries me,” Octavia said.

  For some reason she thought of Lord Rafael. Of the kiss he had brushed over her knuckles and the gleam in his eyes. The way he had seemed to notice her as a woman, not just as a decorative companion.

  And she was angry again. Angry at Somerville, wh
o could abandon her without more than a fare-thee-well, because it suited him. Angry at her grandfather, who should have guaranteed that she had as much of a chance as Lucy at inheriting Maidenstone. Angry at Lucy, as she always was — both for what she had done, and for the loneliness caused by losing her.

  And angry at herself, for finding herself back in exactly the same position that she had been in four years before. Ruined, penniless, dependent on men for security….

  And entirely without affection. Irrationally, what angered her the most was that she had turned down Lord Rafael. If she’d known Somerville was going to abandon her, she never would have let Lord Rafael go.

  She stood. Somerville stood when she did, ever the gentleman. “You should leave,” she said. “I need to sleep if I’m to pack in the morning.”

  “Do you want to move to my friend’s house? He might need a few days to prepare….”

  “No,” she said, cutting him off. “Your friend can hang. So can you, for that matter. I’m going to Devonshire.”

  “What is there for you in Devonshire?” he asked, sounding bewildered.

  Nothing. But she didn’t say it. She had saved her pin money and might survive on it for a few months. The jewels he had given her would set her up comfortably for at least a year beyond that — perhaps longer, depending on her needs.

  Her mind was already spinning with all that she would need to do to leave London as quickly as possible. But she spared him another glance. “I shan’t stay here and endure the looks again. Being ruined as a debutante was one thing, but being jilted as a mistress is quite another.”

  “No one will think anything of it,” he said earnestly. “I said it before — you could be the best courtesan in London.”

  She could. She knew it. She knew all the rules. She knew how to converse with men, and how to dress herself, and how to dance even when she would rather be in bed, and how to laugh even when she would rather be reading a novel.

  But Lord Rafael flashed through her mind again. Did she want to flirt, mercilessly, until she found some man who would pay to keep her?

  Was she ready to give her body to whoever bought it?

  Or did she want something else?

  Maybe she was a coward. But that night, all she wanted was to go home. To go home, and to find out why she hadn’t been invited to the Maidenstone party, and to see if there was a way for her to inherit the estate she loved. And maybe, if she could, to find a way to make everything right again.

  “Goodbye, Somerville,” she said. “I wish you very happy with whomever you marry. But it’s time for me to make my own path.”

  Chapter Four

  Somerville’s driver wasted no time in dumping her bags and boxes on the steps leading up to Maidenstone Abbey. The butler hadn’t even opened the door before the driver started unloading her possessions.

  “You might wait until I know whether anyone is at home,” Octavia said to him.

  He grunted and tossed another hatbox to the ground.

  Word of her exile had spread like wildfire through Somerville’s staff. During the two days she’d spent packing, they had all made it abundantly clear what they thought of her position. As Somerville’s mistress, they had tolerated her — had even been kind to her.

  As Somerville’s cast-off mistress, they had no reason to serve her. The driver, who once seemed eager to take her on her errands in Mayfair, had barely acknowledged her during the trip to Devonshire.

  Only Agnes remained loyal. But she had grown up in Devonshire and would be glad to be home. She nudged Octavia toward the door. “I’ll see to your baggage, miss.”

  Octavia looked up at the grand entrance to Maidenstone Abbey. The steps leading up to the door were still familiar to her, even after four years. The weathered divots and cracks in the stones were the same. The double doors had been repainted and the knocker polished to a high sheen. Not that anyone should need to knock — the drive was long enough that a footman would notice any arrival before guests had the chance to climb the steps.

  They had spent the previous night at an inn less than an hour away, which the driver had grumbled about — but Octavia had forced the issue and he had eventually backed down. She had wanted time to freshen herself up this morning before arriving at the abbey. This wasn’t an interview she wanted to conduct while underdressed and short of sleep.

  Not that she had slept the previous night. She took a breath and mounted the stairs. The family motto crossed her mind. Briarley contra mundum — Briarley against the world. It was on the coats of arms in the older wings of the vast house, but it was as applicable to her now as it had ever been to her ancestors.

  There was nowhere else in the world that she wanted to go. And nowhere else in the world where she felt so unsure of her reception.

  The door opened. The butler, Claxton, had seen his share of shocking events in his tenure there. He had been one of the first to arrive at the scene of the horrific crash that had killed Octavia and Lucy’s parents. He had attended to the guests at Julian’s funeral. He had said farewell to her when Somerville had taken her to London without a hint of judgment in his voice.

  But he didn’t look happy to see her. “Miss Ava,” he said, with a bow that was no deeper than absolutely necessary. “We didn’t expect you.”

  “There wasn’t time to send word, Claxton. Can you see to airing my room?”

  He looked beyond her to the growing pile of luggage in the drive. “Are you planning to stay, Miss Ava?”

  She nodded. She wouldn’t explain it to him. Soon, she wouldn’t have to explain it to him. If the London papers hadn’t reached the house ahead of her, they eventually would. News of her dismissal as Somerville’s mistress would be all over England within the week.

  Claxton frowned. “You should talk to Miss Lucy, Miss Ava. She is with Lady Maidenstone in the orangerie.”

  Lady Maidenstone. Octavia had never met her grandfather’s absurdly young second wife. Octavia had seen her grandfather in London several times before his last illness had confined him to the country, but he had never brought his young wife with him. And Octavia hadn’t returned to Maidenstone for her grandfather’s funeral. Her grandfather had always been happy to see her, but Octavia had never wanted to see Lucy again.

  Perhaps she could appeal to Lady Maidenstone instead. But from the way Claxton spoke, she guessed that it was Lucy who ran the house, no matter what the order of precedence should have been.

  “I’ll find her,” Octavia said. “Agnes can direct the footmen to take my things.”

  He didn’t look like he wanted to agree with that, but he didn’t stop her as she swept past him into the foyer. The main entrance to Maidenstone Abbey was in one of the newer wings of the house, added in the last few decades. Her ancestors had a penchant for building, but did not feel similarly about tearing down — and so the abbey that the estate was named for, built for monks during the Gothic period, was surrounded and nearly entirely subsumed by the Tudor, Jacobean, Palladian, and now Georgian wings. From a distance, the house looked like something out of a mad fairy tale, with spires and crenellations rising behind the stately symmetry of the newest rooms. It was all surrounded by gardens and outbuildings, follies and fountains, stretching from the house back to the last remaining scrap of the ancient Maidenstone Wood.

  Octavia had known every room, every shrub, and every rock. She had no trouble making her way through the passageways and connecting rooms to the library, which gave out onto a terrace overlooking the gardens. There was an odor of fresh paint and the furniture was as perfectly polished as she had ever seen it. But nothing else had changed in any of those rooms — no artwork had been moved, no carpets replaced. Lucy and Lady Maidenstone had lived there for almost a year since the earl’s death, but it appeared that they hadn’t changed anything at all about their surroundings.

  “Lucy never dared to change anything,” she muttered to herself.

  It was uncharitable to think that. But Octavia wasn’t feeling cha
ritable. It didn’t help that the servants she encountered eyed her with what appeared to be a mix of surprise and unhappiness. She hadn’t expected delight, exactly, but she had thought they might be at least a little warmer toward her than Somerville’s servants had been.

  She raised her chin and marched through the library, opening the French doors to the terrace. She gathered her skirts and took her time going down the steps into the garden. By the time she reached the orangerie two minutes later, her steps had slowed to almost nothing.

  One of the doors was open. She paused outside it, not quite ready for whatever confrontation awaited her. Coming to Devonshire had seemed like a good idea when Somerville had tossed her out. But sitting silent in a carriage for three days gave her ample time to reconsider. She might have turned the carriage around if she had thought of anywhere else that she might have gone.

  But Somerville had already canceled the lease on her townhouse. The furnishings, which were rented, would be gone by now. She didn’t have any friends within the demimondaine who could take her in. Her former friends in the ton wouldn’t look her in the eye, let alone invite her into their homes. She had enough money to survive for a few months, but it wouldn’t last long, especially if she had to pay for lodging. And she wasn’t ready to take a new protector.

  That left Maidenstone.

  And Lucy.

  She stepped over the threshold of the orangerie. Inside, she saw the first evidence of change. Her grandfather hadn’t cared much for horticulture. When Octavia had last seen it, the orangerie had been slightly decrepit, although still functional. Orange trees were planted against the thick brick wall along the north side, shielded from the Devonshire winter and heated from underneath the floors. Sunlight came through the large windows on the south, east, and west.

  But someone had added new enameled stoves on either end of the building that could produce ample heat when necessary. And there were more trees and plants — not just oranges, but lemons and pomegranates, along with smaller, more exotic flowers on long tables down the center of the room. A formerly unused space in the far corner had been transformed into a seating area, lit by tall windows on bright days and a small but charming chandelier on gloomy ones.