Chapter Seven

 

Clad in a lawn nightdress with ribbons at the ruffled neck, Verity sat in bed drinking her morning chocolate.

Hearing the sound of paws scratching on the bedside table, she turned her head and saw Empress standing on her hind legs. The cat stretched a dainty paw out in an effort to capture the ribbon tied on the miniature Verity had found in her father’s room.

“Empress! No!” Placing the breakfast tray aside, Verity reached over and picked up the miniature.

The silver-colored cat leaped across the table, upending a thankfully unlit candle, and onto the bed. She jumped across Verity’s lap to chase the dangling ribbon. The dishes on the breakfast tray rattled noisily, threatening to spill across the olive green coverlet.

“You may not have it,” Verity said and chuckled. She quickly opened the drawer of the table and popped the miniature inside, slamming the compartment shut in front of the frustrated cat’s face. There followed a five-minute session of patting, stroking, and complimenting before she could restore Empress’s equanimity.

During this time, Verity pondered over the lady of the miniature, their father’s mistress. Louisa had said she was Mary Jennings, the actress. Had her father loved

the woman? Or had he simply been running away from the responsibilities of his family?

Verity leaned back against her pillows and closed her eyes, still stroking Empress. For some inexplicable reason her thoughts veered sharply to the marquess. Had it been kindness that motivated him to try to shield her from the scandalous goings-on in the Lexhams’ drawing room by taking her in his arms for that waltz in the hall?

Despite all her resolutions to keep her distance from him, she seemed destined to cross his path. And what was worse, she was not as adverse to his company as her sensible side felt she ought to be.

Was it possible he cared about her? His actions at the Lexhams, as well as that dreadful masked ball, seemed to indicate he did.

But of course, a little voice sneered in her brain, a rake knew just how to manage his victim. After the masked ball, while in his carriage, had he not extracted a price for his services in the form of that never-to-be-forgotten kiss?

“I’ve pressed the white-striped muslin gown, miss,” Betty said, entering the room. “Are you ready to dress for Lord Davies’s visit?”

Opening her eyes, Verity threw off the bedcover and said, “Yes, thank you, Betty. I had almost forgotten Lord Davies will be here at ten.”

The maid removed the breakfast tray while her mistress washed and then helped her dress. “You’ll need to wear the pink garters today, miss. The red silk ones need mending.”

“Very well,” Verity said. Her mind was already on what she would discuss with Lord Davies. She hoped he would be receptive to her thoughts on how Society could help fallen women.

Finished dressing, Verity walked out of the room to go downstairs. Betty gathered her mistress’s clothing for laundering. She didn’t notice when one red silk garter slid to the floor.

Empress, ever alert, sprang from the bed where she’d been watching the proceedings and pounced on the frilly garter. Holding it in her mouth by one of its ribbons, the cat paraded from the room.

* * * *

The Marquess of Carrisworth sat alone on a marble bench in Verity’s garden reading the Times. He had just come in from his now customary early morning ride in the Park, and after changing clothes had found himself drawn back to the sunny outdoors. Amazing, he thought, how keeping a clear head the night before resulted in feeling fit in the morning.

“My lord,” an elderly voice croaked from the doorway, “I thought I understood it to be one of Miss Pymbroke’s rules that you not use her back garden.”

His lordship lowered the newspaper and turned to scowl at Mr. Wetherall. “Miss Pymbroke has too many rules. Besides, what harm can there be in sitting out among these beautiful roses?”

The old valet’s left eye twitched, and he came outside to stand over the marquess like a stern father. “The flowers are pretty. They’ve been raised well. Just like the young lady. Tempting she is, like being out here when you’re not supposed to.”

Lord Carrisworth’s expression grew chilly. “I always do just as I please, and you know it.”

“Yes, my lord,” Mr. Wetherall agreed. “Anyhow, what I hear from the servants about Miss Pymbroke tells me she’s a right one, good-hearted, too. Cared for her Mama

until the end and never complained about not attending balls and parties and such.”

The marquess took his gaze from the valet’s piercing eyes and examined a rose close to the bench where he was seated. Putting the newspaper aside, he reached out, pulled the flower to him, and drew in its potent fragrance. He suddenly recalled Miss Pymbroke wore a light rose-scented perfume. “What is your point, man? You are wasting your breath if you think to tell me the lady is not to be toyed with. I already know it.”

Mr. Wetherall’s wrinkled face was expressionless. “Of course, my lord. Miss Pymbroke is, as you say, the type you would marry.”

“I never said that, you old devil!” Lord Carrisworth responded in a fit of acute aggravation. “I shall never marry.” But he spoke to the valet’s retreating back.

“By God, was ever a man so plagued? My own servant has turned matchmaker.” The marquess jerked the flower, pulling it from its stem. “Damn me,” he said through gritted teeth. A particularly large thorn had objected to his treatment of the blossom, resulting in a line of blood across Lord Carrisworth’s palm.

Using his handkerchief to clean his hand, he was reminded of the day he first met the angelic Miss Pymbroke and her adorably outraged reaction when he had acted as if he would kiss her thorn-pricked finger. How prim and proper she had been. Such a contrast to the way she had behaved in his carriage. His lordship groaned in frustration at the memory.

As if to underline Verity’s passionate side, Empress appeared balancing on the wall of the garden, the red silk garter clamped in her jaws. Spying the marquess, she made a magnificent jump down to the ground and padded gracefully over to where he sat, dragging the garter with her. Reaching him, she stood on her delicate hind legs and deposited the red silk garter in his lap.

“Good God, first a matchmaking servant and now a matchmaking cat.” Lord Carrisworth rolled his eyes. “I assume this belongs to Mrs. Barrington?”

Empress’s whiskers turned down. She removed her front paws from where they had been resting on his lordship’s buff pantaloons. Standing on the ground, she glared at him and, as if in extreme distaste, she shook her right front paw.

The marquess observed these actions and interpreted them as a negative. “You mean to tell me this belongs to Miss Pymbroke?”

“Miaow,” Empress promptly answered, her fluffy tail swaying sinuously.

“Yes, now that I think on it, as unlikely as it might at first seem, I believe you.”

Hastily, the marquess rose to his feet and balled up the piece of silk, thrusting it into his pocket. Irrationally, he felt it would scorch his hand if he continued holding it. Intent on returning the lacy scrap to its owner, he strode through the glass doors, across the cheerful yellow morning room, into the hall, and out the front door. Just in time to see a smiling Miss Pymbroke being driven away by Lord Davies in his high-perch phaeton in the direction of the Park.

Lord Carrisworth retreated into the house and slammed the front door, startling the butler. “Have my carriage brought round, Digby,” he barked out.

The marquess paced the black-and-white tiled hallway, slapping his gloves against his thigh. He would drive after them and discover what Miss Pymbroke was about, allowing herself to be escorted by the dandified baron. She was such an innocent. Evidently she had not learned her lesson regarding Lord Davies that day at the theater. How the man could even see Verity over his ridiculously high shirt points was beyond imagination, he reflected in disgust.

A few minutes passed while he waited for his vehicle, during which time his temper gradually cooled. Reason asked him what he was doing storming after the chit tike a jealous lover. Her activities were nothing to do with him. He had no right. He had nothing to offer her.

Well, that wasn’t precisely true. He had something he was aching to offer her. But it wasn’t marriage, the only proposition he could respectably make.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered. Seeing his tiger outside with the carriage at last, he made up his mind. “White’s,” he shouted, climbing into the vehicle.

An afternoon of drinking and gaming at his club was what he needed. Imagine, a man of the town like himself growing maudlin over a proper young miss. Ridiculous!

Watching from the landing above, Mr. Wetherall thought he’d never seen his normally languid lordship so agitated. He rubbed his wrinkled old hands together gleefully, cackling with laughter as he turned to make his way down the corridor.

* * * *

Plump in the pocket after the sale of Love’s Helping Hand, Lady Iris took Verity and Lady Hyacinth on a rare shopping expedition later that day.

Lady Hyacinth was in high alt because of her restored credit at Mr. Millweed’s shop.  She couldn’t wait to try a new potion made by a lady who called herself Auntie Payne.

Over Verity’s protests, Lady Iris purchased a length of gold-colored silk for her young friend. “I shan’t hear another word, gel. The shade will be flattering on you, and you need a new evening gown,” Lady Iris proclaimed after concluding arrangements with the dressmaker. Secretly she viewed the stunning creation the modiste had promised as the very thing required to permanently fix Lord Carrisworth’s interest in the girl.

“But, my lady, Beecham has done wonders working over Louisa’s gowns. I shall do very well with what I have,” Verity persisted while being led out of the shop.

“That’s all well and good. But you deserve a gown made just for you. Not any more of your sister’s castoffs that have probably had some man’s hands run all over them—and under them,” Lady Iris concluded with a derisive snort.

“I am not one to correct my elders, Lady Iris, but I must ask you to refrain from speaking of my sister in that manner.” A footman helped the three ladies into their carriage. Seating herself next to Lady Hyacinth in the coach, Verity stiffened her spine.

In the face of what promised to be an extended discussion, Lady Hyacinth held up her plump hands in a pleading gesture. “Iris, you promised we might go to Gunter’s for an ice. You know I cannot go more than two hours without taking sustenance else I shall have a spasm.” Raising a hand to her brow, she said feebly, “Indeed, I grow weaker every moment.”

Lady Iris eyed her sister sourly but gave the order to the coachman for Berkeley Square. Gunter’s was the only place in Mayfair where ladies could go unescorted to take tea or enjoy some of the celebrated ices and sorbets said to be prepared from a secret recipe.

After settling themselves at a table in Gunter’s, they placed their orders for ices. Verity could barely enjoy the treat when it was placed in front of her because, sitting

across from her, Lady Iris was once again speaking derisively of Louisa.

“The woman is no better than she should be. I know she’s your sister”—Lady Iris paused to glower at Lady Hyacinth who had rapidly finished her ice and was ordering another—“but one can’t choose one’s relatives, more’s the pity. Louisa is liable to damage your reputation while you try in vain to save hers.”

Verity’s gaze was on her plate. “You make it sound as if there is no good in Louisa.”

“I’m certain she excels at some things,” Lady Iris replied, her gruff voice sarcastic. Then her tone softened. “What I’m saying is we all have choices in life, gel. Your sister has made hers, and you cannot allow yourself to suffer needlessly from them. We can only hope Louisa will marry before she puts herself completely beyond the pale.”

“I can help her, if she will only listen to me,” Verity insisted, but knowing in her mind that what Lady Iris said was the truth. It was her heart that refused to give up on Louisa.

Lady Iris shook her bewigged head sadly. “Why not concentrate on your own future? You know you are welcome to remain with Hyacinth and me after the Season and continue to lease out your townhouse, but you should have a husband.”

A vision of the Marquess of Carrisworth’s handsome face materialized in Verity’s mind, and she dropped her spoon on her plate with a clink. Despite her growing attraction to him, he was anything but a suitable candidate for her husband. Besides which, he wouldn’t want a wife. Why then could she not seem to stop thinking of him?

Oblivious to the turn her young friend’s thoughts had taken, Lady Iris said, “I know you mean well, but one cannot change other people, Verity, no matter how badly one wants to.”

The waiter arrived at the table with yet another strawberry ice for Lady Hyacinth.

“Only consider my dolt of a sister,” Lady Iris continued wrathfully. “I’ve warned her time out of number that too many sweets are bad for her health. Ye gods, is that your third, Hyacinth? Give me that plate!”

Lady Iris reached across the table and grasped the dish of strawberry ice. Lady Hyacinth hung on for dear life. “No! Take your hands off it, Iris!”

The two ladies gripped the plate, each trying to wrest it from the other’s grasp. Suddenly, with a burst of strength, Lady Hyacinth succeeded in pulling it from Lady Iris. But the force catapulted the contents of the dish up and across the older lady’s shoulder.

Twisting around in her chair, Lady Hyacinth saw with chagrin that her ice had splashed across the back of another customer’s superbly tailored coat. The offended gentleman rose and turned to face his assailant.

To her horror, Lady Hyacinth recognized the famous dandy and social leader, Beau Brummell.

There was sudden, absolute silence in the shop as everyone stared. Feeling as if she had been plunged into the worst of nightmares, Lady Hyacinth gave a little cry and slumped over her place at the table in a swoon.

Alarmed, Verity spared not a glimpse at Mr. Brummell. Instead, she reached for her napkin and dampened it with water from her glass. She patted the wet cloth about Lady Hyacinth’s temples and the back of her neck. “My lady, please, you must wake up.”

“She’s probably pretending,” Lady Iris accused. “Get up, Hyacinth, you buffleheaded gudgeon.”

Meanwhile, waiters came running up offering towels to their powerful guest, but Brummell froze them with a glance. The friend accompanying him, “Poodle” Byng, picked up a napkin and quickly wiped the sticky mess from the Beau’s ruined coat.

Slowly, Lady Hyacinth came around, moaning and clutching the edge of the table. “My vinaigrette ...” she uttered weakly.

Verity hastened to retrieve the container from her ladyship’s reticule and waved it under the older lady’s nose.

“Oh, Hyacinth, you ninny,” Lady Iris said, and was assailed by a fit of laughter so convulsive, the crescent-shaped patch she wore by her mouth loosened and fell into her own ice, causing her to laugh even harder.

Everyone in Mayfair knew one another so Brummell realized with whom he was dealing. He bowed and said, “Good afternoon, Lady Iris. Lady Hyacinth, I should have been pleased to join you for an ice had your invitation been less imaginative.”

Lady Hyacinth’s expression cleared and she giggled like a schoolgirl. “Oh, my dear Mr. Brummell, you are everything kind. And after I ruined your handsome coat. It does show the strength and width of your shoulders particularly well. How will you ever forgive me?”

“What a fustian,” Lady Iris mumbled crossly.

The Beau, completely disarmed by Lady Hyacinth’s flattery, took one of her hands and raised it to his lips. “A beautiful lady must always be forgiven, else she might remove herself from the presence of admiring eyes.” His gaze moved to Verity and he raised an inquiring brow.

Lady Iris performed the introductions since Lady Hyacinth was busy fluttering her eyelashes at Mr. Brummell. He said, “Ah, yes. Miss Pymbroke, I have heard you are leasing your townhouse to Carrisworth. Rather like the lamb allowing the wolf through the front door, is it not?”

Poodle, Brummell’s table companion, raised an eyebrow. “I say, that’s not quite fair, is it? The word in the clubs is that Carrisworth has given his mistresses their congé.”

The Beau turned a haughty look on his friend. “Have you been spending too much time in the company of your dog? Ladies are present. Your conversation is not fit for their ears.”

Poodle inclined his head. “So terribly sorry, ladies. Forgot myself.”

Verity’s heart beat hard. The marquess had ended his relationship with the French girls! What could have caused this change of heart? She knew her cheeks were pink, but she managed to meet the Beau’s gaze without flinching. “I am happy to meet you, sir.”

Brummell’s eyes twinkled. “I hope I may have the honor of a dance at the Tremaines’ ball tomorrow night.”

After receiving a nod from Lady Iris indicating they would be attending, Verity responded, “I should like it above all things.”

Turning to Lady Hyacinth the Beau said, “While the loss of my coat grieves me excessively, you must not blame yourself. I had quite decided the color will be out of fashion tomorrow.”

He gave the ladies an elegant bow, picked up his walking stick, and strolled out of Gunter’s with his friend in tow.

Lady Hyacinth sang the praises of Mr. Brummell the entire way home in the coach. “Such a nice young man, not at all high in the instep. Did you mark the speaking way he looked at me, Iris?”

“Depend upon it, he’s top over heels in love with you, Hyacinth,” Lady Iris said dryly.

Lady Hyacinth chose to ignore her sister’s mockery. Patting her red curls she said, “He is very close with the Prince Regent, Iris, and as I’ve tried to explain to you before, our Regent prefers plump, slightly older ladies. It stands to reason Mr. Brummell’s tastes would run parallel to our dear Prinny’s.”

Verity turned her head to hide a smile.

“Tarnation!” Lady Iris expostulated, “Of course the Regent would want a larger lady. In bed, a smaller one might be crushed to death under his massive weight. Think of the scandal.”

Lady Hyacinth drew her shawls around her tightly. “You have always been jealous of me, Iris.”

“Home at last,” Verity announced trying to divert the sisters’ attention before the situation escalated to one of their famous quarrels.

“There is Lord Carrisworth,” Lady Hyacinth declared, stepping down from the carriage. Her welcoming smile died on her lips. “Oh dear, his lordship has brought a lady friend home. He seems a bit unsteady on his feet.”

Verity alighted from the vehicle and halted on the sidewalk. Her gaze flew to where the marquess, who looked like the very devil, was mounting the steps of her townhouse with Roxanna clinging to his arm. The actress threw Verity a smug look over her shoulder, then disappeared inside with Lord Carrisworth, who had obviously drunk enough to make a cat speak.

Lady Iris cursed under her breath. Then she caught sight of the unmistakably hurt look on Verity’s face. Ah, the darling girl was not indifferent to him. Well, she would simply have to put Verity in the way of understanding it was to be expected that Carrisworth wouldn’t give up his vulgar flirts entirely.

Verity’s lips compressed. After she’d asked him specifically not to, here he was bringing one of his doxies home—to her house. Detestable man, she thought, feeling a tightening in her throat and a constriction in her chest.

Holding herself in strict control, she walked up the steps behind Lady Iris and Lady Hyacinth and through the door Bingwood opened. Calmly excusing herself, she climbed the stairs and found her way to her bedchamber, quietly closing the door behind her.

Then she advanced but a few steps into the room and threw her reticule with unnecessary force onto the bed.

“Damn the ground you swagger upon, my Lord Carrisworth,” murmured the proper Miss Pymbroke, who had given many a lecture to others on not using profanity.

* * * *

“Mrs. Barrington has gone off again, miss.”

Sitting in the drawing room with Lady Iris and Lady Hyacinth, Verity looked at the maid in surprise. “What? Louisa is to go with us to Lady Graham’s musicale.”

“Well, she’s left the house and that’s a fact,” Betty advised. “Mr. Bingwood himself opened the door to Sir Ramsey a few minutes ago. And while you know the butler ain’t one for gossip, I was coming down the stairs with Mrs. Barrington’s shawl when he says, ‘You are too late, Betty, madam has left with Sir Ramsey for the opening night at Vauxhall.’”

“How romantic!” Lady Hyacinth cried. “Why I remember many magical nights at Vauxhall listening to the music, watching the fireworks, and especially strolling down the Lover’s Walk with one of my handsome gallants. Oh, how the gentlemen do misbehave themselves along the darkened walkways!”

Verity listened with growing concern. Surely it was not wise for Louisa to attend the pleasure gardens alone with Sir Ramsey. “I must go and find her. Betty, run upstairs for my cloak.”

Lady Hyacinth’s face had taken on a dreamy expression, “I remember one evening in particular when dear Lord Anthony plucked one of the plumes from my headdress and ran it up and down—

“Just like Cleopatra,” Lady Iris interrupted pettishly. “Verity, we are engaged to the Grahams. Leave Louisa to her fate.”

“Indeed, my lady, I cannot. I shall take Betty along with me—”

“Hmph. After she deserted you at that masked ball? Fat lot of protection she would be. Besides, I refuse to let your selfish sister ruin our evening.”

Lady Hyacinth drew all five feet two inches of herself up straight. She stared at Lady Iris while addressing Verity. “Never mind, dear child, I shall accompany you. I have a mind to see Vauxhall again.”

Lady Iris threw up her hands in defeat. “A pox on all sisters! Go then, but I’ll not be a party to such foolishness.” So saying, her ladyship retrieved her cane and stomped away.

The minute Lady Iris left the room, Lady Hyacinth seemed to deflate. “Oh dear. Perhaps it would be better if we had a gentleman to escort us. I’ll send a footman next door and ask the marquess—

“No!” Verity denied her. “Not him. I shall ask ...” Verity thought fleetingly of Cecil Sedgewick. But he had not called after Lady Lexham’s turtle dinner, and she shuddered remembering the censure in his conversation with her. She had only one other choice. “Lord Davies.”

* * * *

Verity hurried along the Grand Walk at Vauxhall desperately searching for her sister. The black gauze mantle, which she wore over a white muslin dress with a bodice of pale blue, flew out behind her.

By the time Lord Davies had been summoned and had conveyed them to the famous pleasure gardens, she had worked herself up into a frenzy of agitation. Certain Louisa needed her as never before, she rushed headlong to the Grand Cross Walk, which ran through the center of the grounds, unaware of her companions’ distress.

Lord Davies was heartily sick of the game. “My dear Miss Pymbroke, surely any sister of yours must be above reproach. Why, we are putting Lady Hyacinth’s health at risk by jaunting about in this manner.” Lord Davies congratulated himself on this thoughtful statement. In truth, he was obsessed with a fear his brand-new Hessian boots—which he’d picked up from Hoby’s only that day, being forced to fork over the blunt for a new pair after that contemptible cat had ruined his others—would be scraped during their mad dash.

“Indeed, dear child,” Lady Hyacinth gasped, trying to catch her breath. “I cannot go on. Why I expect at any moment to turn my ankle running about on this frightful gravel—

“There she is!” Verity exclaimed triumphantly. Leaving behind an open-mouthed Lady Hyacinth and a grim-faced Lord Davies, she ran ahead to where Louisa and Sir Ramsey were disappearing down the walkway.

“Oh dear,” moaned Lady Hyacinth to Lord Davies, who had raised his quizzing glass and was trying to discreetly inspect his boots for damage in the dim light. “What are we to do?”

At that moment Lord Killigrew appeared, his heavy jowls trembling as he walked down the path. “Your servant, Lady Hyacinth,” he said and bowed. “Charming to meet you again so soon after Lady Lexham’s turtle dinner.”

Something had been rejuvenated in the older man, that something being in his breeches, after his experience with Love’s Helping Hand. He had come to the gardens seeking female company and was not averse to assisting Lord Davies in taking care of Lady Hyacinth in her hour of need.

That lady quickly apprised the gentleman of their situation. Lord Killigrew appeared all concern. “Pray allow me to escort you to a supper box, Lady Hyacinth. I am persuaded you would be more comfortable with a bite to eat while Lord Davies follows Miss Pymbroke.”

Since nothing could be more to her ladyship’s liking, Lady Hyacinth accepted Lord Killigrew’s arm with a smile and the two moved away.

Lord Davies was left alone to brood in sulky silence. Lounging against a tree, he decided to wait where he was. He would not risk his boots by dragging them through the shrubbery. Eventually, the stupid girl would have to come back this way.

Meanwhile, Verity looked frantically for her sister. She dared not call out her name and thus reveal her identity. Following the couple who were ahead of her, Verity realized the walkway they were now on was quite narrow and dark. Quickening her steps, she experienced a shiver of fear and bit her lip to keep it from trembling. All at once she stumbled upon Louisa who was returning a passionate kiss from Sir Ramsey.

“Louisa, thank goodness I have found you!”

Swiftly, the couple broke apart. Sir Ramsey’s face held an amused expression. Louisa was breathless with rage. Rancor sharpened her voice. “Randy, my love, I wish to speak privately with my sister. Wait for me at our box.”

Sir Ramsey shrugged his shoulders and bowed, leaving the two women alone.

In the face of Louisa’s fury, Verity felt a chill run down her spine. Nonetheless, she forced herself to say the words uppermost in her thoughts. “My dear sister, please come home with me. Surely you see Sir Ramsey is not fit company. A gentleman never k-kisses a 1-lady,” she stammered, a sudden vision of Lord Carrisworth kissing her in his carriage forming in her mind, “unless they are betrothed and you have not indicated—”

“I shall kiss whom I please, where I please!” Louisa screeched. “How dare you follow me here, you interfering, moralizing, silly little fool,” she spat out contemptuously.

Verity drew in her breath sharply. “Louisa, I thought we loved each other. Could I have been mistaken?”

“Love?” the widow questioned derisively. “There is no such thing. Only lust.”

“But, your husband, Philip, you loved him,” Verity whispered, her brown eyes enormous in her face.

Louisa laughed briefly. “Of course not, though I didn’t know it at the time. I simply wanted him in my bed. But I am no longer a green girl. When I marry, it will be for wealth and position, and I shall seek my pleasures elsewhere. Oh, stop gaping at me like a stuck pig.”

“Louisa, you must not say such things,” Verity said faintly.

The widow took a menacing step toward her. “And you, my meddling Mouse, will keep out of my affairs from this second forward. Do I make myself clear?”

Verity felt sick. She realized that what Lady Iris had been telling her all along about Louisa was true. “I understand,” she replied sadly.

Louisa flashed her a look of disdain. “A martyr to the bitter end.”

At the look on her sister’s face, Verity took a step backward and stumbled. Her arms flailed out at her sides, and she landed in the gravel on her posterior.

At that moment, the nearby sounds of drunken male laughter floated on the air. Louisa’s stormy gray eyes narrowed. In a second they would be upon them. Without another look toward her sister’s plight, Louisa turned and ran away down the path, just as three very drunk young men, looking for a girl to drag off into the shrubbery, appeared.

Alarmed, Verity opened her mouth and called for help.

* * * *

At almost the same time Verity, Lady Hyacinth, and Lord Davies had first arrived at Vauxhall, the Marquess of Carrisworth had entered the gardens looking satanic. His hellish mood had nothing to do with seeing Miss Pymbroke riding off with Lord Davies. No, he told himself. He was no longer in the grip of jealousy that had sent him to his club to become foxed. That little episode over his frustrating landlady, so out of character for him, he chalked up to his body being unused to sobriety. He was quite himself again—carefree and in absolute control of his emotions.

Another matter was currently making him feel nettled. He had made the fatal mistake of going to Roxanna after hours of heavy drinking. Nothing had happened, and looking back on it now, he decided it had been simply boredom that had led him to her house.

In any event, the woman had clung to him like ivy ever since. For some incomprehensible reason, Roxanna had insisted on personally returning him to the house in South Audley Street, and had then remained with him, despite several broad hints to the contrary, once he had regained clear thinking. His temper had been tried beyond measure by the cunning actress’s blatant desire to reestablish herself as his mistress. Finally, he had decided that taking her out would be the only way of eventually ridding himself of her that night.

“Perry, darling, did you send a servant ahead to reserve a box?” Roxanna’s arm tightened on his and her blue eyes were like sapphires in the dark.

“Yes, though what Rupert will say if news of this outing reaches his ears, I cannot think. I would not countenance the defection of any lady under my protection,” the marquess answered resolutely, guiding her in the lamplight toward the South Walk. He led her into a large box, which was decorated with paintings, and ordered sliced ham and champagne.

“I swear I don’t care what the duke knows, darling,” she whispered, reaching across and placing her fingers on top of his. “I am the happiest of women when we are together and long to be joined as we once were.”

The marquess took his gaze from the invitation in her eyes. And found his friend, Sir Ramsey, at the entrance to his box. “Randy, well met. Do join us,” he said in a relieved voice.

Roxanna’s lips thinned at this intrusion.

Sir Ramsey gave the actress a brief bow and entered the box, signaling to a waiter for another glass. He sighed heavily. “I tell you. Perry, I’ve had the most devilish luck this night. I was engaging in a bit of dalliance on the Dark Walk, and right when things were getting interesting, the lady was pulled from my arms by an outraged relative.”

“You have my sympathy,” the marquess said and grinned wolfishly.

Sir Ramsey drained his glass, noticing the frustrated expression on Roxanna’s face. “Hey, now, I’m not playing gooseberry here, am I?”

“Not at all. I’m glad to see you,” Lord Carrisworth answered, ignoring Roxanna’s obvious anger. He sat back in his chair to relax, but immediately leaned forward, staring at the woman who’d appeared in front of them. A quick and disturbing thought presented itself in his brain.

“Good evening, Lord Carrisworth. How delightful to see you. Randy, I’m ready to leave now.” Louisa patted her pale blonde hair, totally at her ease after leaving her sister alone to be ravaged. She ignored Roxanna, perceiving at once the woman was beneath her notice.

Sir Ramsey rose. “We’re off then.”

As if holding a raw emotion in check, the marquess spoke stiffly. “Mrs. Barrington, is your sister here?”

A chill black silence ensued until Louisa found her voice. “Yes, Mouse, is with, er, a friend.” Looking into Lord Carrisworth’s furious green eyes, she felt as if a hand had closed over her throat. A nervous laugh escaped her.

“Where is she?” the marquess’s voice was icy.

Grabbing Sir Ramsey’s arm, Louisa pulled him from the box. “The Dark Walk, my lord,” she babbled, anxious to get away from what she feared might grow into a terrible scene.

But she need not have worried. At her words, Lord Carrisworth bolted out of the box shouting, “Take Roxanna home, Randy!” and, not waiting to see how Louisa would react to the insult of being conveyed in the same vehicle as an actress, raced down the walkway, deftly avoiding the couples strolling there.

Meanwhile, Lord Davies, lounging against a tree, had heard Verity’s cry for help. He made a move in her direction and then frowned. Perhaps it was not Miss Pymbroke’s voice he’d heard call out in distress after all. He ran a hand through his wiry red hair and considered the matter. A few seconds later, he decided that, indeed, it was most probably Miss Pymbroke’s voice, but, still, there was no sense risking his boots for any female.

Then he heard a strong masculine voice coming from somewhere to his right. “Miss Pymbroke! ’Tis I, Carrisworth. Where are you? Miss Pymbroke!”

Lord Davies’s brain worked quickly. Here was his opportunity to further Roxanna’s plan. Thinking ruefully of his precious boots, he plunged down the path and moments later, came upon the scene.

The three drunken bloods of the ton were taunting Verity. She had scrambled to her feet, with her back to the shrubbery, and was defending herself by kicking wildly at anyone who came close. One young man was clutching his leg while howling in pain.

At Lord Davies’s appearance, they apparently decided to look for easier sport, and with a few final suggestions as to what the gentleman could do with the lady, they ran off.

Lord Davies successfully hid his disgust. His manner all solicitous, he extended a hand to Verity. “Miss Pymbroke, are you all right?”

Verity accepted his hand and stepped forward shakily. Her eyes were still glazed with fear. “Lord Davies, thank heavens you arrived when you did. I do not know how much longer I could hold them off.” Her words ended with a tiny sob.

The baron put an arm around her shoulders to support her. Gad, when would Carrisworth find them? “I am all admiration at your bravery, dearest girl.”

Allowing him to keep his arm about her, Verity looked up at him. “I am not so brave, sir. I confess to feeling a trifle wobbly.”

Hearing the sounds of footsteps pounding down the walkway, Lord Davies pulled Verity closer and kissed her full on the mouth.

Sagging against him, Verity could not believe what was happening. Too shocked to move, she remained passive in his arms.

And that is how the marquess saw her, locked in Lord Davies’s arms, a seemingly willing participant to his lovemaking.