“There you are, Vivien.” Like a hawk homing in on its prey, Lady Faversham made her way across the cavernous kitchen. Her gray gown swished around her spare form, and her cane thumped with each step. “What is this nonsense about having no time for your lessons?”
Vivien sat at the long trestle table, her quill poised over a sheet of Lady Stokeford’s beautiful cream stationery. The portly French chef stopped in the middle of a story he was relating, his wooden spoon frozen in the air and his little black moustache quivering with indignation.
The scullery maid, who had been clinging dreamy-eyed to her broom, resumed her industrious sweeping of the slate floor. The lower cook, who had been leaning his elbows on the table, hastily began rolling out a lump of pastry dough.
Vivien hid her annoyance at the interruption. “Lady Stokeford is ill today. That means my lessons have been canceled.”
The truth was, Vivien couldn’t bear another tedious afternoon of instructions in the finer points of etiquette. Not after her unsettling encounter with Lord Stokeford that morning. He’d accused her again of conspiring to trick his grandmother. He’d even dared to suggest that Vivien had had many lovers. He was too blindly arrogant to realize why she’d lashed out at him like an ill-tempered witch. She was still amazed at how much her hand ached from that impulsive blow.
You should return to the Gypsies where you belong.
He made her so angry she could spit. He also made her weak at the knees, fluttery in her heart, and she loathed him for that.
Lady Faversham clapped her hands. “Come,” she said. “Lucy may be a trifle under the weather, but two Rosebuds are more than sufficient.”
“Later,” Vivien demurred. “Monsieur Gaston was just telling me a wonderful tale about a scullery maid who’s transformed by magic into a princess and goes off to a ball in a pumpkin coach—”
“This is no time for childish stories,” the countess broke in, her upper lip curling. “A gentlewoman does not hobnob with the staff. Nor distract them from their duties.”
“Bah,” Monsieur Gaston grumbled, stirring a pot on the big black range. “Never would I allow ze soup to burn. It is a pleasure to tell ze tales of ma mere to Mam’selle Thorne.”
Lady Faversham raised an eyebrow. “Monsieur, we will take tea in the drawing room. Vivien, it is poor manners to keep Enid waiting. You’ll have me thinking you don’t appreciate Lady Stokeford’s kindness in taking you in.”
Though Vivien bristled, she knew she had to humor the Rosebuds or risk losing her monthly payments. Rising from the chair, she curtsied to the chef in his immaculate white apron. “I’ll return soon to hear the ending.”
“We shall see what happens to la petite cinder girl at the stroke of midnight.” Monsieur Gaston flashed her a conspiratorial wink. “She is much like you, no?”
Vivien smiled tactfully, turning away to carry her papers, pen, and inkpot to a cupboard for safekeeping. Little did the cook realize, she had no wish to meet a haughty prince who would have scorned his dance partner if he’d known the servile life from whence she’d come. No woman should have to hide her true self in order to win a man’s love.
As they walked into the corridor, Lady Faversham gave Vivien a critical scrutiny. “Shoulders back, my girl. Chin up. A lady walks with dignity. Ah, that’s better. Your fingers are smudged with ink, but I don’t suppose that can be helped.”
Vivien rubbed her thumb against her forefinger, succeeding only in smearing the black stain. Of all the Rosebuds, this countess irked her the most. Trying not to wince at her sore knuckles, she curled her fingers into a loose fist. “Lady Enid won’t mind. She would have encouraged me to finish recording Monsieur’s story.”
“Enid is a featherbrain. She doesn’t always know what’s best for you.”
“Nor do you,” Vivien said. They were the same height, and she looked straight into the countess’s chilly gray eyes. “I’m a grown woman, not a puppet on strings.”
Lady Faversham frowned, and a ray of sunlight from the foyer showed the fine lines of age on her proud face. Surprisingly, her angular features softened a little. Slowing her steps, she gave Vivien a considering look. “I’m aware of your independent nature, my dear,” she said in a moderated tone. “Please understand that I wish only to guide you through the treacherous waters of society. To help you find a place for yourself in this world.”
Every now and then, the countess unbent enough to show a glimpse of caring, and it made Vivien long for a mother’s embrace. How absurd. Lady Faversham was nothing like the gentle Reyna Thorne with her warm arms and soothing manner. Even in her better moments, this gorgio lady had an aloof, touch-me-not air.
The older woman motioned for her to go into the drawing room. To the footman stationed at the door, she said, “When the marquess comes downstairs, ask him to join us later for dinner.”
“Yes, my lady.” Making a formal bow, Rumbold took up a stance by the grand staircase.
Vivien halted just inside the doorway. Her heart flipped in her breast. “Lord Stokeford? He’s here?”
Lady Faversham smiled, a mere twist of her thin lips. “How remiss of me not to mention him. He’s upstairs, visiting with Lucy.”
Vivien hadn’t put much faith in his promise to call on his grandmother. A gorgio rogue like him couldn’t be bothered with a sick old lady. Better he should return to his wastrel friends in London, far away from here. “I must go to Lady Stokeford, then. He cannot be allowed to upset her.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Lady Faversham said, her cold, bony fingers propelling Vivien into the formal gilt and green drawing room. “Lucy can handle the boy.”
Boy? He was a man, Vivien thought spitefully, all arrogance and aggression. She couldn’t forget how he’d cornered her by the bookcase, how her pulse had sped so fast she’d felt dizzy...
Perched on a sofa, Lady Enid Quinton looked up from her London news sheet, her brown eyes huge behind a gold-rimmed lorgnette. On her ginger hair, she wore a rich purple turban that matched her voluminous gown. “Olivia, do listen to this news! Lord M. has been wed at Gretna Green to a Miss T. B. Why, it must be Moncrieff and that coal merchant’s daughter, Theodora Blatt.” She tut-tutted, shaking her head. “I’d pity him, having to marry that horse-faced ninny. Yet ’tis her I pity, for that gamester will soon run through all her papa’s gold.”
“Never mind your gossip,” Lady Faversham said impatiently. “Here’s Vivien at last. I was assuring her that Lucy will keep Michael well in hand.”
As they walked closer to the ring of chairs by the hearth, Vivien glanced worriedly at the doorway. She couldn’t help being concerned about the dowager. “I was saying I should go upstairs and see what he’s about.”
“Ah, Michael.” As Lady Enid lowered the lorgnette, a merry smile spread over her round face. “A handsome one he is, with those wicked blue eyes and that dissolute smile. Were I younger, I’d be dashing up there, too, to have another look at him.”
“That isn’t why I wish to go upstairs,” Vivien choked out, appalled at the older woman’s error. “I need to protect her ladyship from his bullying.”
The Rosebuds exchanged a glance that held both amusement and something else, something secretive.
“More likely, Lucy will bully him,” Lady Enid said. “So you see, there’s no need for you to play Joan of Arc.”
“You’ll sit right here with us.” Lady Faversham guided Vivien to a gold-striped chaise and gracefully sank down beside her. “There, now. You mustn’t misjudge Michael. You and he started off badly, that’s all.”
“It’s more than that,” Vivien said, her muscles rigid with the hope that he would strut in here at any moment. She could endure his presence if it kept him from berating Lady Stokeford. “He believes me far beneath his exalted self. He’s called me …”
“Called you what?” Lady Faversham said in an outraged voice that encouraged Vivien.
“A thief, a liar, and...and an unchaste woman.”
“Unchaste?” Lady Enid leaned forward in her chair, her generous bosom shelved on her knees. “Did you give him cause to think so? Did you allow him to kiss you?”
“Enid!” Lady Faversham scolded. “Vivien knows better than to permit such an impropriety.” Yet her gray eyebrows clashed in a worried frown.
“All girls of the Rom guard their chastity,” Vivien said fiercely. “Should Lord Stokeford dare to touch me, the stallion will find himself a gelding.”
Lady Enid choked out a cough, though her eyes twinkled.
Lady Faversham gave Vivien a curt nod. “It’s admirable that you prize your innocence. However, I hardly think it necessary to be quite so ... picturesque in your description. Michael is, after all, a gentleman.”
“He’s a beast,” Vivien countered, not caring if she offended them. “Even a horse with the finest bloodline can have a devil’s nature.”
“Quite so,” the countess said. “Yet you’ll encounter many like him in society. People who will judge you by your past and find you wanting. It’s best you learn how to handle them.”
“Perhaps you could try winning him over gently,” Lady Enid suggested. “Use your allure, my girl. That’s what men like.”
Gripping the arm of the chaise, Vivien shook her head emphatically. “I could never lure him. Nor would I ever want to do so.”
“Don’t be too hasty now,” Lady Faversham said, a gleam thawing her frigid eyes. “Enid has put an excellent notion before us. If ever you are to win the acceptance of society, Vivien, you must proceed to the next step in your education. You must learn the wiles of a woman. Who better to practice your charms on than Michael?”
The suggestion jolted Vivien. The wiles of a woman?
Surely they were jesting. They couldn’t expect her to entice that swaggering lord.
Horrified, she glanced from Lady Faversham’s thin smile to Lady Enid’s earnest nod. “But I could never...I wouldn’t know how...”
“Bat your eyes at him,” Enid said, fluttering her faded ginger lashes. “Men are flattered by a lady’s flirting.”
“It would be a wasted effort,” Vivien protested, though a forbidden thrill tingled through her. “His lordship despises me as much as I despise him.”
“Quite the contrary,” Lady Faversham said sagely. “His attraction to you was obvious last night.”
“He’s smitten for certain,” Lady Enid said, waving the folded newspaper like a fan. “Oh, what smoldering looks he cast at you! Why, the sight nearly sent me into a swoon.”
“Those were looks of disgust,” Vivien said, clenching her hands in her lap. “When we were alone, he made his ill opinion of me quite plain.”
The two older women exchanged an intent glance. Lady Faversham patted Vivien on the knee. “My dear, we’re not suggesting that you be serious in your attentions to him. This is merely an opportunity for you to rehearse your social skills.”
“We Rosebuds learned long ago that men can be maneuvered,” Lady Enid said with a wink. “You must smile mysteriously, make him wonder at your thoughts. ’Twill be excellent practice for you to romance the rogue.”
Vivien felt backed into a corner. Was this what she must do to humor the Rosebuds? To seek out the company of that arrogant gorgio lord? “It won’t work,” she argued. “He’ll see right through me.”
“Have faith in yourself,” the countess said with a heartening smile. “You’re clever and spirited. Surely you can get the best of a mere man.”
As Rumbold wheeled in the tea table and Lady Faversham rose to pour, Vivien gripped the soft folds of her skirt. Something in her responded to the challenge set before her. Why was she doubting herself? Janus had been easily taken in by her compliments and smiles. Though the marquess was a more hostile and dangerous man, surely he could be fooled, too. She let herself imagine him enraptured by her wit and beauty. How satisfying it would be to see his fine-and-fancy lordship fawning at her feet, begging for her attention. How delightful to watch him behave like a babbling simpleton.
Yes.
Absorbed by the fantasy, Vivien sat up straight. Like the cinder girl, she could transform herself into a tempting woman. Instead of quarreling with the wretch, she could play him for a fool. She could use all of her newly acquired gorgio charm to entice the rogue. She could make Michael Kenyon, the Marquess of Stokeford, fall madly in love with her.
And then, when she left here, she would laugh in his face.
“Open the window a bit more, will you, darling?” Lady Stokeford said. “There, that’s better.”
Michael turned from the tall window to see his grandmother settling more comfortably against the pillows in her four-poster bed. Her white hair was styled in a sleek knot. The afternoon sunlight bathed the fine seams of age on her face. A hint of natural color touched her high cheekbones, and her blue eyes were bright and watchful. He’d always regarded her as omnipotent, immortal, a permanent fixture in his life. Now, it shook him to consider the fact of her mortality. She wouldn’t be around forever.
But was she truly ill...or was this merely another bid for attention?
Walking toward her, he said, “I’ll send for a physician from London. You should have a thorough examination.”
“Pish-posh,” the dowager said with a hint of her customary spark. “There’s nothing a doctor can do to cure the effects of old age.”
“He might prescribe a tonic or remedy to ease your symptoms.” Resting his hand on the carved bedpost, he watched her closely. “By the way, what are your symptoms? Have you been wheezing again?”
“I’m weary and my bones ache, that’s all. Not that I expect any sympathy from you.” She stared keenly at him. “If you cared a whit for my welfare, you wouldn’t have stayed away for three long years. Or kept my only great-grandchild from me.”
Michael tensed. He had shunned Stokeford Abbey for reasons she couldn’t know—reasons he intended to guard forever. “I haven’t kept Amy from you. You’re welcome to visit us in London whenever you like.”
“Bah! You know how the air in town affects my lungs. The last time I came to visit, I spent a fortnight in bed and scarcely saw the dear girl.”
He tightened his fingers on the wooden post. “I prefer the city to the country. I’ve explained that to you many times in my letters.”
“There was a time when you took pride in this estate. A time when you wouldn’t have run from your responsibilities.”
“My steward reports to me in London every quarter,” he said stiffly. “That’s more than sufficient.”
“It isn’t sufficient reason to keep my great-granddaughter from here. This is her home, too. Her heritage.”
He gritted his teeth so hard the ache in his jaw worsened. He had kept Amy safe from scandal, and that was more important than any other consideration. “Amy stays with me. And I stay in London.”
The dowager shook her head, pain in her eyes. “Think, Michael. Think of what you’re denying me ... and her. She needs a woman in her life, a mother. It isn’t right to keep a four-year-old girl in a bachelor household.”
“Amy is firmly attached to her governess, Miss Mortimer. And to me.” He paused, wondering if he should mention Katherine, then decided against it. His grandmother would find out his marriage plans in due course.
“Why did you not bring Amy with you, then?” she asked.
“She’s starting her schoolwork, and I won’t have her uprooted.”
“She can learn her letters here as well as there. I’d be happy to tutor her myself.” Tears shimmering in her blue eyes, Lady Stokeford held out her hands. “Please, Michael. Don’t deny me the dear girl. I miss her sorely.” Her tears struck him as hard as that blow to his jaw. Her letters, alternately pleading and imperious, he’d been able to answer with cool detachment. But it was another thing entirely to come face-to-face with his grandmother’s unhappiness.
Perhaps he was being overly cautious. Perhaps he could bring Amy here for a brief visit. If he took care, no one would discover the secret that had shadowed his life for three long years.
Moving to the bedside, he kissed the back of his grandmother’s hand. It felt small and dainty, as if her flesh and bone had shriveled. “It shall be as you wish, then. We’ll come for the Christmas holidays.”
“Send for her now, Michael. There’s no need to wait.”
He firmly shook his head. “I won’t have my daughter near that Gypsy. However, if you were to send away Vivien Thorne, I might reconsider.”
The distraction worked, but not in the way he intended. Drawing her hand back, his grandmother made a huff of impatience. “Must you persist in your dislike of Vivien? You don’t even know the girl.”
He placed his fists on his hips. “I know her kind. She’s adept at lying. She’s abusing your trust.”
“Nonsense. Vivien has behaved like a daughter to me. And I must say, she’s far more attentive than you are.”
“Of course she’s attentive,” he said, anger deepening his voice. “She wants you to change your will in her favor.”
But Lady Stokeford wasn’t listening. Frowning, she leaned forward and subjected him to another close scrutiny. “For goodness’ sake, Michael, is that a bruise on your jaw?”
Clamping together his teeth, he rubbed his still-tender face. Much as it would prove his case about the Gypsy’s low breeding, he couldn’t admit he’d been drubbed by that female. “This? It’s nothing.”
“You’ve been fighting. I thought you’d outgrown such childish actions.”
“I practice often in the pugilist’s ring in London,” he said glibly. “All the gentlemen do.”
“Men punching one another.” She made a snort of disapproval. “I only hope people realize I didn’t raise you to be a bloodthirsty heathen.”
“It’s merely a form of activity, Grandmama. It isn’t important.” Irked, he turned the conversation back on course. “What is important is your well-being. Not only your health but your choice of companions. I shouldn’t have to tell you that a Gypsy woman isn’t suitable company for a marchioness.”
An unexpected smile bloomed on the dowager’s face. “My, you sound stodgy, Michael. Quite as stodgy as your grandpapa, God rest his well-meaning soul.”
Stodgy! To hide his chagrin, he turned to pace the fine Aubusson carpet. “There’s nothing stodgy about my desire to protect you. Vivien Thorne inveigled her way into your good graces with this fantastical tale of being aristocratic.”
“On the contrary, I sought her out. She knew nothing of her heritage.”
“She knows exactly what her heritage is not," he muttered, prowling to the far end of the bedchamber.
On a table beside a chaise lay the book, Moll Flanders. Michael picked it up and by impulse, brought it to his nose. Along with the stale scent of paper and leather binding, he caught a whiff of her musky perfume. Lust seared his loins as he remembered Vivien holding the book to her bosom.
“Have a look at Harriet’s letter if you don’t believe me,” Lady Stokeford said. “Olivia brought it this morning and left it on my desk.”
“Why the devil didn’t you say so sooner?” Dropping the book, Michael wheeled around and strode to the dainty writing desk. He snatched up the letter, unfolded it, and found himself staring down at...
Harriet Althorpe’s handwriting.
He knew that stiff, precise penmanship. He’d read enough of her notes on his school papers, meticulous corrections on his essays, his Latin and Greek assignments, his mathematics exercises. Though at the time he’d resented her high standards, he supposed she’d made a better scholar of him.
Swiftly he scanned the missive. Many years ago, while I lay ill with fever, my cruel lover took my darling babe and gave her away to the Gypsies. I implore you, my lady, find the Gypsy named Pulika Thorne, bring dear Vivien home, and give her the life of a gentlewoman...
“Melodramatic nonsense,” he muttered. He took the letter over to the window and examined it more closely in the sunshine. To his gratification, he spied a few inconsistencies. “This isn’t her writing. This is a forgery.”
“Balderdash,” his grandmother scoffed. “You can’t know that.”
“Miss Althorpe often wrote on my schoolwork. She used proper form with two exceptions. Her r’s and s’s had a certain little curl that isn’t here.”
Lady Stokeford harrumphed. “Perhaps she changed her penmanship over the years. Or perhaps your memory isn’t up to snuff.”
“Or perhaps Vivien Thorne is a clever forger,” he said flatly, tossing the letter back onto the desk. “Your proof is right there.”
His grandmother settled back against the pillows. “You may bluster all you like, darling. I shan’t forsake dear Harriet’s daughter.”
The letter had only firmed his conviction of the Gypsy’s guilt. “I’m not blustering. Vivien Thorne is milking you out of a hundred guineas a month, with an eye for more. I won’t allow it.”
“Alas, you’ve no choice in the matter.” Smoothing the coverlet, she slid a calculating glance at him. “By the by, you should be the first to hear my news. I’ve decided to give a weeklong house party a fortnight from now.”
Taken aback, he frowned. “But you’re ill.”
“All the more reason to invite my friends and neighbors for a nice, long visit. That way, I’ll have a chance to see them all before I die.”
His chest tightened even as he eyed her suspiciously. She was merely trying to manipulate him. Wasn’t she? “You aren’t about to die.”
“When one reaches my advanced age, one never knows when the end might come.” On that nebulous statement, she aimed an imperious stare at him. “You will hire additional help from the village, air all the bedchambers at Stokeford Abbey, and have the ballroom dusted and polished.”
He strode to the bedside. “I most certainly will not. You aren’t strong enough to plan a party, let alone to entertain a crowd for a week.”
“Nonsense, the very thought of it invigorates me. I’ll be up and about before you know it. The Rosebuds will help me with the arrangements.”
He grimaced. “This was their idea, wasn’t it?”
“They’re in agreement with me, of course.” She cast another challenging glance up at him. “You see, we’ve decided it will be the perfect opportunity to introduce Vivien to a select group of the ton."
For a moment, his throat choked with rage. He had underestimated Vivien Thorne. She’d spun her web of deceit far more completely than he’d imagined. “Have you gone mad?” he burst out. “She’s a pariah. People will scorn her. They’ll scorn you."
“They shan’t dare,” his grandmother countered in a steely tone that had once made him quail in his youth. “Vivien cannot help the circumstances of her past. I shall see to it that no one treats her ill.”
Reaching down, he seized her hand and strove for equanimity. “Think, Grandmama. The ton will never accept her. Even if they were to swallow her ridiculous story, they’d condemn her as a bastard.”
“She’s charming enough to overcome any obstacle. I must say, it’s uncharitable of you to believe the worst of an innocent girl.”
“Innocent.” Remembering her bold manner, he gave a harsh laugh. “She’s no better than a harlot strutting her wares along the Strand.”
“Michael, I’ve heard quite enough. If you believe such nonsense, then you’ve been in wicked company for far too long.” Lady Stokeford thinned her lips. “Have a care lest I think you an unfit father for little Amy.”
His grandmother’s sharp voice still had the power to silence him. Though he knew she had no legal right to take his child, she made him face the doubts in himself, the fear that he would fail to raise his daughter properly. Amy. He pictured her elfin face, the freckled cheeks and inquisitive hazel eyes. With an unmanly wrenching in his chest, he missed her sunny smiles, her warm hugs, even her incessant chatter.
Lady Stokeford went on. “I won’t have you ill-treating Vivien at my party. Thusly, I insist you spend some time with her over the coming weeks, so you might realize just how pure and kindhearted she is.”
Like bloody hell, he wanted to retort. He shifted his thoughts to the Gypsy, to the vixen sway of her hips, the impudence of her gaze, the ripeness of her curves. He knew of only one use for a woman like her. Only one way he’d care to get close to her...
He narrowed his gaze at his grandmother. It would be futile to reiterate all his objections. Despite her frail appearance, Lady Stokeford had a backbone of steel. But if she wanted proof of Vivien Thorne’s low moral character, then he would give it to her on a golden platter.
“All right, then,” he said. “I’ll seek out her company.”
The dowager smiled, her expression softening. “Bless you, my boy. Perhaps London hasn’t spoiled you, after all.”
He flashed her a cool smile. Little did his grandmother realize, he would do more than befriend Vivien. He intended to use his considerable charm to woo her into a sense of false security.
Then, when he had the Gypsy fully in his power, he would seduce her.