Part 22 (1/2)

”Too rich for my blood,” Morpeth said, but nevertheless took the seat next to Jack and gestured to the dealer to deal him in.

”Where did you leave my wife?” Jack inquired casually, gathering his winnings from the last hand.

Lord Morpeth decided that in the face of a direct question he was released from his obligation to the d.u.c.h.ess. ”She went home.” He grimaced at his hand. ”She said she had the headache . . . I took her to her boat. Wouldn't let me take her to Cavendish Square,” he added somewhat hastily. ”Did try, but she wasn't having any of it.”

”It's never easy to change my wife's mind,” Jack observed casually. To his knowledge Arabella had never had a headache in her life. He played another couple of hands then rose from the table, shaking his head at the chorused demand that he give his opponents a chance to win back their losses.

”Forgive me, gentlemen, but I'd be here all night,” he said, laughing at the protests. He strolled off, making his way to the river steps. He hailed a boatman plying for trade along the bank, then took a sedan chair to Cavendish Square, where the night porter told him that her grace had returned an hour since.

Jack went upstairs to his bedchamber and softly opened the adjoining door to Arabella's room. It was deserted, a lamp burning low. A line of light shone at the bottom of the door leading into her boudoir. He frowned and softly closed the door again.

”You had a pleasant evening, I trust, your grace?” Louis inquired as he helped his employer out of his evening clothes.

”Pleasant enough,” Jack returned absently. ”Just pa.s.s me my dressing gown, and then you may go to bed.”

After the valet's departure, Jack stood tapping his mouth with his fingertips as he regarded the closed door to Arabella's bedchamber,. It was almost two o'clock in the morning and she'd been home well over an hour, so why was she still up? He went through her bedchamber and opened the door to her boudoir.

Arabella was sitting by the fire, the dogs at her feet, an open book lying in her lap. She had been too distracted to sleep when Becky had left her, and in the time since her distraction had crystallized into anger. A muddled anger certainly but it seemed to come down to two things. Jack had told her nothing of his work in France, nothing of his sister, had instead given her the impression he had no sympathy for the refugees from the Terror, and yet he had risked his own life to save theirs. Why wouldn't he trust her with any of this? Did he consider her so unworthy of his confidences? And yet he considered Lilly Worth a worthy confidante. If he would discuss his wife's conduct with her, why wouldn't he talk with her about his sister, about his failure to save her? Lilly was not only his mistress but probably the recipient of his secrets.

And not only that. Jack had implicitly given his mistress permission to take his wife to task. Why else would she have presumed in Jack's hearing to advise his wife about her behavior with Frances Villiers.

When Jack walked into her boudoir Arabella's headache was very real. She was spoiling for a fight but unsure which ground to choose.

”Morpeth tells me you have the headache,” he said, trying a smile. ”I expected to find you in bed.”

”My headache will not be cured by bed rest,” she stated, jumping to her feet. The ground found itself. ”How dare you, Jack.” Her gaze was as hot as an erupting volcano.

”How dare I what?” He leaned his shoulders against the mantelpiece and regarded her calmly.

”You know perfectly well,” she snapped. ”How dare you discuss my conduct with anyone . . . let alone Lady Worth. And how could you stand there while she presumes to criticize me?” She took a turn around the room, the dogs gazing at her in puzzled anxiety.

She spun around on him, the skirts of her ivory peignoir swirling around her bare feet. ”I tell you, Jack, I'm so angry, I could hit you.”

”I don't advise it,” he warned in a voice as soft as spring rain.

”I said I could, not I would,” she said furiously. ”I'm not a fool.”

An eyebrow flicked upwards as Jack took a step towards her. ”Look . . .” he began pacifically. The dogs growled at him, hackles raised, as they backed against Arabella's legs.

”Oh, finally,” she said sardonically, putting a calming hand on each head. ”I get some loyalty from the pair of you.””Quiet them down or I'll put them out,” Jack demanded, exasperated. ”They'll have your hand off,” she said, but without conviction. ”Hush now,” she said to the dogs. ”Lie down.”They obeyed reluctantly, but didn't take their eyes off the master of the house, who, ignoring them, walked up to his wife. He laid his hands on her shoulders. ”Listen well, Arabella, I did not discuss you with Lady Worth. I do not make a habit of discussing you with anyone. Is that understood?””The countess said you had been discussing me this evening,” she pointed out, wriggling her shoulders, trying to shrug off his hands. He let his hands fall. ”And you believed her?”She moved away from him towards the window, turning her back on him. ”It was what she said. But if you tell me she made it up, then I must accept that.””You must,” he stated. ”Would you please turn around. I don't like talking to your back.”She turned slowly. Her eyes were still volcanic and her face was very pale. ”I don't know how you've managed to put me in the wrong here. I have done nothing. I didn't stand like a dummy while you were insulted.””You were not insulted,” he stated. ”Lady Worth merely expressed an opinion. One held by a good many, I might add.”

She stood very still. ”And by you too?”He shrugged. ”I don't consider it wise to alienate the prince. It's his business when all's said and done.””Oh, certainly it's his business to choose to flaunt his mistress in his wife's face, to insult his wife at every public opportunity . . . and G.o.d alone knows what he does in private. It's his business to encourage his mistress to insult and humiliate his wife.” She gave a short angry laugh and turned to the door leading to her bedchamber. ”Oh, yes, I can quite see why you would take that view, sir.”

”Now, what's that supposed to mean?” His voice was soft and level, but the rapier flicker was in his eyes. Arabella had the door open and the dogs raced into her bedroom, almost tripping her up in their eagerness to get away from the atmosphere in the boudoir. She cursed silently. She had sworn to herself that she would never throw his liaison in his face, never show him that it hurt her, and she had just done both.

”Men,” she said. ”You're all the same. You support each other. That's all I meant.” She whisked herself into her bedchamber and turned the key in the lock.

Jack stepped up to the door. ”Arabella, open the door.”

She made no reply and he heard the key turn in the door to his adjoining chamber. And now he was really angry. His voice, however, was very quiet as he said, ”Arabella, open the door. Now.”

Arabella didn't answer. She flung off her peignoir and got into bed, staring up at the embroidered tester.

Jack spoke again in the same low and even voice. ”Arabella, if you do not unlock the doors instantly, I shall fetch the night porter and he will remove both locks. And they will stay removed.”

She sat up abruptly. Jack would not make idle threats and the humiliation of such a scene could not be borne. By either of them. ”d.a.m.n you, Jack Fortescu,” she said, flinging aside the covers. She stalked to the door and turned the key, then marched to the other and unlocked that. Then she went back to bed and waited.

But Jack didn't open the door. He said merely, ”Thank you.” And that was the last she heard of him for the rest of the night.

Arabella didn't hear her bedroom door open but Boris and Oscar did. They were sprawled on the end of her bed, crus.h.i.+ng her feet, something they hadn't done since Jack had shared her bed. She'd been comforted by their presence during the hours of a fitful sleep and groaned when they heaved themselves up with excited barks, leaping from the bed with a great skittering clatter of nails on the polished floor as they rushed to the door.

”You are a slug-a-bed,” a familiar voice declared. ”A night on the tiles, Bella?”

”Meg?” Arabella came blinkingly awake. She struggled up against the pillows. ”Meg,” she exclaimed with delight. ”What are you doing here? How did you get here? What time is it, for heaven's sake?” She stared at the mantelpiece, trying to see the tiny hands on the jeweled clock.

”It's past ten,” Meg said, untying the ribbons of her bonnet. She stood laughing down at her friend. ”What an indecently enormous bed . . . and why, I ask myself, are you sharing it with a couple of red setters?” She tossed the bonnet aside and leaned down to kiss Arabella. ”I have missed you so.”

Arabella, now fully awake, returned the kiss. She said, ”You don't know how much I have missed you, Meg.” Sitting up fully she reached for the little bell on the night table and rang it vigorously. ”First chocolate . . . how did you get here? I wasn't expecting you for weeks. Jack said he'd write to your father, but I thought it would take forever and-” She turned as the door opened, and greeted her maid with a smile. ”Oh, Becky, see who's here. Miss Barratt has come for a visit.”

Becky, beaming, nodded. ”Yes, ma'am, I know, ma'am. All over the servants''all, it is. Welcome, Miss Meg.” She curtsied several times in her enthusiasm, deftly balancing a tray containing a steaming silver pot of hot chocolate, a platter of bread and b.u.t.ter, and two delicate cups. ”Just like 'ome it'll be, m'lady.” She set the tray on the night table. ”Shall I pour, your grace?”

”No, I'll do it, Becky,” Meg said, divesting herself of her cloak. ”Lady Arabella will ring for you when she's ready to dress.”

”Yes, Becky,” Arabella concurred with a grin. It was typical of Meg to sweep in and take charge. In the circ.u.mstances, Meg, fresh and glowing from the cold outdoors, was clearly more capable of taking charge than Arabella, still befuddled with sleep. And of course, Meg had the advantage of knowing how and why she'd arrived so speedily. Arabella, as yet, was quite in the dark.

”Let the dogs out, will you, please, Becky?” Meg instructed cheerfully, pus.h.i.+ng the pair of adoring red heads away from her knees as she sat on the edge of the bed.

”Not so much as a backward glance,” Meg said in mock lament as Boris and Oscar abandoned their newly returned friend and shot out of the door at Becky's invitation. ”Faithless creatures.”

Arabella laughed and cast aside the coverlet. ”Let's go into the boudoir. I'm not lying in bed languid with my chocolate while you're pulsing with energy and glowing with fresh air.”

”I'll take the tray.” Meg carried the tray into the boudoir and Arabella followed, shrugging into a peignoir.

Arabella poured chocolate, handed a cup to Meg, and took her own with a piece of bread and b.u.t.ter to the chaise. ”Very well, Meg, explain.”

Meg seemed to be bursting with energy. Holding her cup, she paced the elegant room, her eyes taking everything in, before she came to rest in front of the window that looked out onto the street. ”Lord, I hadn't expected to find London exciting.”

”But it is,” Arabella said, sipping her chocolate. Meg would tell her in Meg's own good time. ”It surprised me too.”

Meg looked around appreciatively. ”Maybe it has something to do with the surroundings.”

”Maybe.”

Meg's eyes narrowed. ”A most elegant duke has a most elegant house,” she said. ”And that negligee, Bella, is just about the last word in elegance.”