Panic coiled her belly. “Why didn’t Jean-Louis simply tell me you were the one who would meet me?”
So I could arrange to be where you wouldn’t find me!
“Because, ma petite, you don’t need to know everything.”
Fernand swept her into an embrace with the assurance common to handsome men. She’d found his pale eyes beneath blond brows uniquely enchanting once. Now they seemed reptilian. She tried the firmness of his grip and decided a struggle would be pointless.
“As much as I would love to stay and renew our oh-so-pleasant acquaintance, I have some rather pressing matters to attend.” His voice was a silky bass, but there was an underlying tone of menace she hadn’t recognized when she first met him years ago. Now it was all she could hear. “I’ll take what I’ve come for and be gone.”
For a moment, she considered telling him that the Duke of Winterhaven was in possession of the wretched envelope and that he could be found at The Peacock’s Tail.
But that would put an innocent bystander in Fernand de Lisle’s path.
Not that Winterhaven was innocent. No man who kissed as he did could be considered such. But Arabella knew what Fernand was capable of.
Winterhaven didn’t.
She forced a musical laugh as she extricated herself from his arms. “Honestly, Fernand, you don’t think I keep it here, do you? Anyone could come into my dressing room.”
“And no doubt anyone has. You have no secrets from me, remember.”
She made herself smile at him. “The point is I don’t have it with me at present.”
“Then let us go collect it.”
“I can’t,” she said, trying to keep her voice even, as if her heart weren’t pounding hard enough to leap from her chest. “I’m . . . dining with the Duke of Winterhaven this evening.”
“He is rather—what is the word?—‘high-in-the-instep’ for you, non?”
She shrugged. Perhaps the Winterhaven name projected enough power to protect her for as long as it took for her to retrieve the envelope. “His Grace left his coach and driver for me and he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“Neither do I, chérie.” Fernand grabbed her forearm, twisted it painfully and pulled her close enough to whisper in her ear. “It was a mistake for you to move your family from the townhouse on Bent Street. It shows a lack of trust I find most troubling.”
“This is between you and me, Fernand. Leave them out of it.” She stomped on his foot and wrenched herself away from him, knocking the vase with Winterhaven’s roses to the floor with a crash. It shattered into hundreds of shards and the perfume of dying roses filled the room afresh.
A rap sounded on the door. “Everything all right, Bella?” the stage manager called out.
Fernand’s eyes flashed a warning.
“Fine, Will. Just a little clumsiness.” William was a nice man. He had a family. The last thing she wanted was to put him in danger. “You’ll have to send in the dustman after I leave.”
“Right-o.” Will’s footsteps retreated.
“You know the difference between you and me, Bella?” Fernand popped his top hat back on his head. “You have a care for what happens to others. That, my dear, is a weakness you can ill afford.”
“I mean it. Leave my family alone.”
“Certainly. So long as you and I deal well with each other, there’s no reason to involve them. I will be back tomorrow. Disappoint me at your peril.” He paused at the door. “I found the child once. Do not imagine I can’t find her again.”
* * * * *
“Arabella St. George is otherwise engaged this evening,” Sebastian admitted.
“She turned you down?” Neville plopped into one of the two wing chairs that flanked the fireplace. A grin brightened his face. “Oh, my friend, you cannot imagine how my heart bleeds for you.”
“Oddly enough, all I have to show for my trip to the opera is a new libretto, courtesy of Miss St. George.” Sebastian took the Don Giovanni libretto from his waistcoat pocket and laid it on the stack of books he’d brought for Neville from his library. Then he settled into the other wing chair with a snifter of brandy for each of them. He’d break out the cigars later. He kept a townhouse in London, but since his aunt and younger sister were in residence there, he preferred to confine his personal pleasures to the suite he leased at the Peacock’s Tail.
“She’ll come round,” Sebastian assured his friend. “This is but a momentary set-back.”
“And Waterloo was but a lost wager for the French.” Neville took a sip of his brandy. “Admit it. Have you ever been turned down before?”
“You’re enjoying yourself at my expense.”
“Not at all, Winterhaven,” Neville said with a laugh. “Once I claim that case of port, then I’ll be enjoying myself at your expense.”
“You are far too consumed with my private affairs.”
“Because I wish you to see you settled,” Neville said. “You devote a great deal of time and energy to securing four women a year. If instead you found one you could love for the rest of your life, you'd be a much happier man.”
“Granger, I’m delighted you’ve found your Christine, but just because you've decided to marry, it doesn't signify that all men should.” Sebastian sipped his brandy. His father had devoted himself to one woman and died a disappointed wretch. "Besides, what makes you think I'm not happy?"
“You haven’t got an heir.”
“There’s time for that.” A duchess was on his horizon, but her shadowy figure was the far in the distance. A woman might be trusted to bear a man’s heir with careful watching, but he knew better than to trust one with his heart. “And even once I marry, there’s nothing to prevent me from continuing to order my personal life to suit me. A wife should have no cause for complaint so long as a man is discreet.”
Heaven knew his mother hadn’t been.
There was a rap on the door. Neville hopped up to open it and Arabella St. George stepped into the elegant suite with the same alluring presence she projected on the operatic stage. She was a diva to her bones.
“Good evening, Lord Granger.” She offered Neville her hand. “Lovely to see you again. Are you joining His Grace and me for supper?”
Sebastian saw him fight the urge to swear.
“Unfortunately, no,” Neville said as he dropped a kiss on her gloved knuckles. "However, I hope you'll consider another recital for my mother and her friends very soon."
“Please tell the countess I'd be delighted,” Miss St. George said.
Even her speaking voice was musical and sultry. Sebastian was stirred by the mere sound of her.
“The opera company's season will soon be over. We might arrange something then. An evening of liebeslieder to celebrate your engagement, perhaps?”
“Enchanting. My fiancée adores German love songs.” Neville scooped up the stack of books Sebastian had brought him, including the Don Giovanni libretto, and made a hasty exit. “Goodnight, Winterhaven. I trust you’ll think about what I said.”
Not bloody likely. Why should he settle on one woman when the world was filled with the gorgeous creatures? Sebastian sent his friend silent thanks for leaving so quickly and closed the door behind him.
“May I take your wrap?” Not waiting for her answer, he stepped behind her and slid the velvet cloak down her silken arms. A few tendrils escaped the chignon at her nape and a whiff of violets tickled his nostrils. Anticipation clenched his gut.
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“Call me Winterhaven.” He crossed to the sideboard and poured two glasses of the best French vintage The Peacock Tail’s cellar boasted.
“Winterhaven.” She rolled the syllables around on her tongue as if she were tasting them. “Is that your name?”
“For all normal purposes.”
“Dining with me is not normal for you,” she said as she accepted a glass. “My friends call me Bella. What do you think? Shall you and I be friends?”
“I sincerely hope so.” Sebastian felt himself tumbling into her dark eyes.
“Then what is your name?”
Against his better judgment, he gave her the name only his mother had ever used for him.
“Sebastian. I like it. It suits you.” She touched the rim of her glass to his. “To a lovely dinner.”
He smiled down at her. “And to dessert.”
“Selecting a mistress involves more than finding a pleasing bed companion. A gentleman must be sure the woman is an ornament to his arm and a credit to his reputation as a man of discriminating taste.”
~ A Gentleman’s Guide to Keeping a Mistress
Chapter 3
“And when the second act began, the tenor and mezzo-soprano were nowhere to be found, so William, our stage manager, had to send in their understudies.” Arabella took a sip of her wine.
Sebastian couldn’t tear his gaze from her lips. Even though it felt like something a callow youth might claim, he truly did envy the glass because it touched her red ribbon of a mouth.
“Well, the principal singers were furious of course,” she went on, “but the maestro told them that if the rest of the company had to wait till after the final curtain to seek their lover’s couch, they could too.”
Sebastian smiled indulgently. It had been a while since he met a woman who was so frank about matters of the flesh.
“Of course, the mezzo was just covering for the tenor,” Arabella said before she popped a bite of orange into her mouth. “He was actually in the property mistress’s closet with one of the baritones from the chorus.”
Sebastian laughed. Arabella St. George told such engagingly ribald stories. They tripped off her tongue as easily as her high notes. She regaled Sebastian with naughty tales of the backstage doings at the opera company and sly little tidbits about heads of state for whom she'd sung private recitals. He easily envisioned her moving smoothly among his peers as they made the rounds of demimonde haunts, charming everyone as she went.
The only problem was that she seemed a bit distracted sometimes. He caught her gaze flitting about the room now and then as if she were looking for something in particular. It seemed out of character—as if the lady were in actuality a cutpurse looking for a likely victim. But then she’d flash him such a beguiling smile, he decided he’d imagined the whole thing.
By the time they reached the main course, he was thoroughly convinced he’d made the correct choice for his next mistress. Then she stumbled badly.
“But I’ve occupied the conversation for far too long,” she said. “Tell me about yourself, Sebastian.”
He shrugged. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
That was far too wide a net. He decided to limit it. “I am a Whig in matters political.”
She laughed. “Our costume mistress has a parrot that claims to be a Whig if you offer him a cracker, a Tory if you give him cake! Rather like a real politician, I should think. You’ve told me nothing.”