Lady Notorious (Royal Rewards #4) Page 8

  George leaned in to speak by her ear. “Got your courage up?”

  She drained the flute, enjoying the pop of bubbles on her tongue, then set the empty glass on the tray of a passing servant. “Yes. Ready to work. Whom would you like me to meet first?”

  “Braithwaite,” George decided. “Christian name Lionel, and he’s affable enough that he might invite you to use it. One of the surviving members of the tontine.”

  “Along with your father, Deverell, Gerry, and Cavender.”

  “Very good,” George replied. “Braithwaite was the younger son of the late Earl of Allenby—remember, all ten of the members were younger sons when they formed the tontine. His elder brother inherited the title right enough and has had a fine big family.”

  Cass understood. “So Braithwaite is well out of the line of succession. He’ll have spent his life confined to a younger son’s allowance.”

  “Such a man could have been tempted to hurry fate and gain a fortune of his own.”

  “Possible. Or he might simply be a doting uncle.” Cass lifted her chin. “Lead on, and I’ll see if I can spot which sort he is.”

  Their quarry was speaking to a friend, but George interrupted Braithwaite’s conversation with all the confidence of a man whom others were inevitably pleased to see. The older man greeted him politely, and Cass sized him up as they completed the introductions.

  Lionel Braithwaite was a handsome fellow of about sixty, with deeply tanned skin, curling gray hair, and the sort of strong features that aged well. Though his clothes were of excellent quality, they were several seasons out of date—Cass could thank her landlady’s fashion periodicals for this knowledge—and were beginning to show wear.

  “Mrs. Benedetti is”—George paused significantly—“a near relative of the late duke, my grandfather.”

  This code was instantly understood to mean illegitimate daughter. Braithwaite regarded Cass with interest. “I am honored to meet the lady.”

  “The honor is mine,” Cass said. “Which is the first scrap I’ve managed to clutch about myself since returning to England.”

  It seemed the sort of thing a grateful, harried, unconventional duke’s bastard might say.

  Braithwaite’s mouth curled with humor. Even better, the muscles of George’s forearm went all rigid beneath Cass’s fingertips.

  “What interesting relations you possess, Lord Northbrook,” said the older man.

  Interesting was not a compliment, but it didn’t have to be. Interesting meant arousing interest, and that was the whole purpose of Cass’s presence.

  “You have no idea,” replied George. “I’m not certain I do either.”

  “Nor do I,” Cass said. “But I am clutched to the welcoming bosom of my family and am eager to find out.”

  She could almost feel George rolling his eyes. This was fun.

  “I wonder, Mrs. Benedetti,” said Braithwaite, “if you would favor me with a dance?”

  Cass’s smile froze. Dancing. How had she not considered the possibility of dancing? She could move her feet to the tune of a fiddle in a pub, but to dance in a ballroom? Those twining, intricate steps that took months to learn with the help of professional dancing masters?

  “I should be delighted,” she replied.

  This polite sentence had always struck her as funny, as if its second half were missing. I should be delighted, but I am not. In this case, it was perfectly true.

  “The next one, Braithwaite.” George spoke up. “As the lady has promised the first dance to me.”

  The older man bowed his assent, and Cass drew away after George, who was already pulling her in the direction of the musicians.

  “Why did you say we are going to dance?” she hissed. “I can’t dance. I don’t know how.”

  He held up a staying finger, then spoke a few words to one of the violinists. When he returned to Cass, he took hold of her hands and tugged her into some sort of elegant contortion.

  “You can manage this next one. It’ll be a waltz. I’ll push you about the floor and twirl you, and you can put your hands all over me and look delighted.”

  Other couples were beginning to drift up to the musicians, and the center of the ballroom cleared. “Then what?” Cass was beginning to feel alarmed. “Will all the dances be waltzes?”

  “They won’t, no. But given your fictional background, it’s reasonable that you wouldn’t have learned to dance. There’s no harm in saying so.” He placed one of her hands on his shoulder. “Or if you like, we can pretend that you twisted your ankle so you can sit out.”

  “The Bentons and their leg injuries,” she grumbled. “All right.”

  “You can blame it on me,” he said generously. “I’ll tread on your foot and mess up your graceful fairylike flit across the floor.”

  How could one not laugh at that? “It’s arranged, then,” she agreed. “And maybe for the best. If Braithwaite will honor the poor weak-ankled signora with his company, I can talk to him instead of dancing.”

  “Thus prying far more information from him than you could if you were tramping through a country dance, exchanging half a sentence at a time,” George said. “I told you my plans were always good.”

  Fortunately for George, there was no time for Cass to reply before the violinist’s bow touched string—and with a tremulous sweep, the musicians dipped into the stutter-step of a waltz.

  George released Cass’s hand at his shoulder, then touched her waist. Their other hands remained clasped. “One, two three,” he murmured, pushing lightly with the hand that cradled her midsection.

  Cass gripped his shoulder and stumbled back—or she would have if he hadn’t held her steady. Her smooth-soled slippers instead slid backward on the glossy floor as George stepped forward.

  “Excellent!” He beamed at her, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re dancing. Here, let’s try a twirl.”

  “No! Let’s not—oh.” Before her protest was spoken, the spin was completed. Then there was another shove backward, another little spin. She bit her lip. “I’m going to step on your feet.”

  “Do your worst.” He pulled her closer, humming a little. “I won’t even feel the stomp of your fragile little shoes.”

  She wanted to make a clever reply, but nothing sprang to her lips. She was experiencing again, from head to toe. His hand was on her waist, and she held the hard line of his shoulder, and they were part of a twirling crowd of elegant Londoners, and just for now, she was not herself. She was a duke’s bastard, dancing.

  Cass was jostled and grabbed every day in Bow Street. She’d had lovers’ hands on her bare skin. Was it the silk gown, then, that made her so aware of the light touch of George’s hand at her waist? The unfamiliar stays, lifting her breasts and rubbing at their sensitive tips?

  The knowledge, maybe, that everything from her gown to her name was borrowed and could not last?

  “I know you’re here to work,” he said, “but I hope you’ll enjoy yourself all the same.”

  “Um.” She slid back, then fell against him when he twirled her in a new direction. Her mouth went dry.

  “I’ve been to dozens of balls like this, maybe hundreds, since my Oxford days,” he continued blithely, seeming oblivious to the upheaval within her. “They’re all pleasant enough if you get good things to eat, though I always get pinched by some old dowager who remembers my undignified days in leading strings.”

  Talk. She needed to remember how to talk. “Do you dance with them?”

  “Those pinchy-fingered dowagers? Oh, sometimes. They’re terrible dancers but delightful to talk to. Then there are the shy wallflowers, who are just the reverse.”

  Slip. Slide. Turn. “I’m not sure which sort I am.”

  “Delightful to talk to,” he replied promptly. “You must be; our plan depends on it. Plus my sister, Selina, will be talking about you all evening. Telling everyone how charming you are.”

  Lady Wexley—no, she’d said to call her Selina, hadn’t she?—had p
romised to gleefully and in greatest confidence spread the news of the family’s unfortunate and slightly scandalous guest. The secrecy of this information would, of course, ensure its immediate and wide distribution throughout the guests in attendance.

  “Am I charming?” Cass turned over the word, liking it. “I’ve never had such a compliment before.”

  “It’s not that much of a compliment, I have to admit. ‘Charming’ means acceptable to know. ‘Pretty’ means tolerable looking. ‘Accomplished’ means literate.”

  “You didn’t have to tell me all that,” she said. “You could have let me enjoy the nice words.” So it was not a compliment, but a polite obligation. Just like the hand at her waist, and the one that clasped her fingers so lightly.

  Thus she asked, “What does ‘plain’ mean?”

  George’s fingers tightened at her waist. “It means you’re never going to let me forget anything, are you?”

  She tipped her head, pleased with this reply. “You weren’t going to forget. Were you?”

  “No. No, I wouldn’t forget anything I said to you. Worse luck.”

  She relented. “You don’t have to remember. I’ll remember what people say to me. For the case.” She twirled, though unfortunately at the wrong time. “Sorry. Another time, you ought to come to the Boar’s Head and we’ll dance a hornpipe together.”

  “You’d regret inviting me at once. I’d embarrass you in front of your friends.”

  “Turnabout is fair play.” She followed his lead, getting the timing of the next spin right. It put her head in a whirl. “Before we leave the floor, point out Gerry and Cavender to me, if they are here. I shall work my investigative magic upon them.”

  * * *

  It was closer to dawn than midnight when they returned to Ardmore House. George parted with Cass when they reached the third story. She went, he assumed, to her bedchamber, while he went to his experiment room.

  Lighting one of the amber-shaded lamps to dispel the darkness, he peered at the paper he’d set into place before leaving for the Harroughs’ ball. He had painted a heavy sheet of paper with a solution of silver salts, then laid it upon the glass top of the smaller camera obscura. The camera’s cunning method of reflection would shine an image up onto the paper, he thought, and—perhaps—imprint upon it. He had placed the camera before the window, so it looked out upon the facing buildings of Cavendish Square, and left it to stew in the diffuse evening light.

  By the ruddy glow of the lamp, he spotted no results. Everything was a uniform pale shade, the paper still damp.

  He would leave it longer, though daylight would quickly darken the entire sheet if it rested on the glass. Inside the camera obscura with the paper, then, and a wooden board atop the glass to block it. The only light would enter through the lens. It would be a small amount, a little image if it worked. But it just might. By evening, he would know if this trial had succeeded.

  Carrying the lamp to the doorway to light his steps, he tugged at his cravat and was already dreaming of bed.

  Then a whisper split the nighttime silence. “George.”

  A female whisper.

  “Cass?” He held up the lamp. “Cass? Are you all right?”

  A pause. “I . . . need your help.” Her bedchamber door was open partway; her form made a shadow around which candlelight spilled.

  In an instant, he’d doused the lamp, returned it to its place on the worktable, and stepped back into the dark corridor. Cass was no longer in the doorway, so he tapped at the door before pushing it open further.

  “Yes, come in, come in,” she replied. He entered the room.

  “Close the door,” Cass said. She sounded impatient.

  She looked impatient. Impatience was in every line of her body, from her half-unpinned hair to her bare toes peeking beneath the hem of her gown. Impatience was scattered about the lamplit room: slippers on the floor, gloves bunched and draped on the vanity, stockings tossed over the top of a dressing screen.

  At the sight of her discarded clothing, impatience was not the sentiment that settled upon George. He forgot that he had been tired or that his cravat was scratchy about his neck. He could think only that a woman was shedding her clothing in his presence, and then it was difficult to think of anything at all.

  George was casting about for something to say besides what have I done to deserve this—good or ill—when Cass spoke again. Impatiently, of course. “I can’t get this gown off.”

  He shut his eyes. He must pretend not to notice the erotic clutter of castoff garments. “Thank you for the information. Let me summon Gatiss for you, shall I?”

  “No!” She sounded shocked. “I’m not going to wake a servant at three o’clock in the morning just to undress me as if I were a baby!”

  Undressing. Lord. This conversation was not going to veer back in a safe direction, was it? Yet it must continue. George required his eyes to open. “Assisting women with garments is the purpose of her position as lady’s maid. She expects to be woken when she’s needed.”

  “She might expect it, but . . . I don’t want to do that.” Cass bit her lip. “It doesn’t feel right. I’m used to doing for myself, and this is the first time I haven’t been able to. But that’s not Gatiss’s fault.”

  “It is,” George said. “Because she helped dress you in whatever contraptions you now can’t undo.”

  “They’re not contraptions. They’re just clothes. But they fasten up the back, and I can’t reach. Can’t you help me?” She turned, presenting him with her back. “It’ll take three minutes. There’s no reason to wake up Gatiss for something you could do in three minutes.”

  George sighed. “I might be your fake cousin and your real investigative partner, but I am also a man. You’re asking me to undo your clothing. I might get ideas.” I’m already getting ideas.

  Beautiful ideas in which he continued removing his cravat and progressing to his bedchamber. But in this version of the fantasy, a redheaded temptress accompanied him, and she undid his buttons just as he unfastened hers, and they fell onto the sheets and . . .

  A hand touched his. “George. It’s just me.” Earnest brown eyes met his. “I’ll ring for Gatiss if you really don’t want to help, but . . . it’s just me.”

  Oh, he was willing to help, all right. That was the problem.

  He wouldn’t let on. He mustn’t. “Right. Sorry. Can’t think what came over me. Do forgive my maidenly bashfulness and turn about.”

  He knew who she was. He didn’t need reminding of that. She wasn’t Mrs. Benedetti; she was Miss Benton, and it was all a role, and he had a job to do just as she did. And right now, that job was undoing the damned buttons. It was irrelevant that they were the buttons on Cass’s gown, and that they would open the bodice of her dress. It did not matter in the slightest that she smelled of sweet flowers and her tumbling-down hair shone like copper and bronze.

  He undid the damned buttons, gritting his teeth against everything else in the world. There was a short march of them, covered in the same blue silk as the gown. They seemed to grow tinier and more sleek with each movement of his fingers, slipping away like minnows.

  She was saying something now. It was words and sentences, but he could hardly take in what she was saying. For he’d finally undone the buttons; the fabric parted; and there was her shift, nearly transparent, and the top of her corset. They had been hidden beneath the rich silk; they hid still her skin, and he wanted only to undo more and more until every layer between them was stripped away.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  He found it difficult to swallow and shape a reply to what she’d asked him. Whatever it had been.

  “George?” she pressed.

  “I shall become capable of listening in a moment.” He turned his mind to chemical solutions. Acids and salts. Unsuccessful experiments. “There. All right. Speak freely.”

  “I was saying”—her voice was tinged, again, with impatience—“that I thought the evening was a great suc
cess. Your idea of the wrenched ankle was a good one. Braithwaite was only too happy not to dance.”

  “Most gentlemen are.” Did he have to unlace or unbutton anything else? Surely he’d done penance enough for whatever sins he had committed today.

  Or perhaps not, as he was continuing to commit the sin of lust. He really couldn’t help it. Acids salts unsuccessful experiments think think think.

  Cass was oblivious. “He was only too happy to talk about Gerry too, since the man wasn’t there. Braithwaite said Gerry’s gout is worsening, so it’s hard for him to get about. And Cavender told me—”

  “I can’t do this,” George blurted. “Your gown is falling off and—Look, just ring for Gatiss. Or anyone. The cook or the scullery maid. The stableboy if you must.”

  She turned her head to the side, regarding him aslant. “Why, Lord Northbrook. You can’t be thinking I have designs on you. Me, with an illustrious man such as you?”

  The amusement in her voice did nothing to dampen his growing arousal, though he tried to respond as lightly as she. “If you did, you’d be at least the tenth woman this week. I haven’t kept count higher than that.”

  She reached a hand up to her shoulder. Feeling about for his fingers? No, she was only tugging at the edge of the now-unbuttoned bodice. From the front, she likely looked almost dressed. She could have no idea of the view with which she now presented him.

  “The curse of the titled heir.” She sounded sympathetic. “It must be dreadfully dull being harassed with female attentions all the time. I’m sorry.”

  “Do you mean that?”

  “Of course I do. But don’t worry.” She turned about, removing that enticing view from his eyes, and patted his cheek. “You’re quite safe with me. Why, you’re far too young for me. You can be no more than thirty years old.”

  “Twenty-nine,” he grumbled. “I am your senior by what, three years?”

  “You might think so. But twenty-six in female years is at least double your own age, and if you add twin years on top of that . . . gracious. I’ve lived a lifetime already, and I’ve no interest in breaking you to saddle.”

  His brows lifted. They were not the only part of his person that did so.