Rules for Being a Mistress Page 37

  He went to Miss Bulstrode’s Seminary for Young Ladies and rang the bell.

  The housekeeper showed him into a tidy office appointed with a massive desk and horsehair furniture. Miss Bulstrode rose from the desk, looking flustered.

  “I am Lord Oranmore,” Benedict said imperiously. “Fetch Miss Allegra Vaughn at once. I am her cousin.”

  “My lord!” said Miss Bulstrode. She licked her lips nervously.

  “I am in a hurry, Bulstrode,” he said, sneering arrogantly. “I am marrying her sister in the morning, so, you see, I am practically her guardian.”

  “Oh!” said Miss Bulstrode, breathlessly. “But I had understood that Miss Vaughn was to marry the marquess!”

  Benedict’s gray eyes sliced into the woman. “I am the marquess, you foolish old woman,” he said harshly. “The Marquess of Oranmore. Now fetch Miss Allegra before I lose my temper.”

  “At once, my lord!” yelped Miss Bulstrode. She galloped out of the room.

  “I should think so indeed!” he snapped, then sat down on the sofa and lit a cheroot to steady his nerves. He had never kidnapped anyone before, and the strain of being rude and menacing was getting to him. It crossed his mind briefly that he might be going mad, but he dismissed it. When one goes mad, it never crosses one’s mind that one might be going mad. Only sane people think that way.

  Miss Bulstrode came hurrying back with Allegra in tow, and he hastily tossed his cheroot away. “Ah, Miss Allegra,” he said pompously, giving the child two fingers to shake. “I am come to take you home.”

  Some papers on Miss Bulstrode’s desk suddenly burst into flames.

  “I’m so sorry,” Benedict said, forgetting to be the arrogant aristocrat. “I fear I may have tossed my cheroot onto your desk by mistake.” He picked up a vase of flowers and dumped its contents over the headmistress’s desk. The fire spluttered out.

  “That’s quite all right, my lord,” said Miss Bulstrode, with a smile pasted to her face.

  Benedict had hired a carriage. It was waiting outside.

  “This isn’t the way to Camden Place,” Allegra said suspiciously.

  “No,” he said. “I am going to be honest with you, Miss Allegra. I am not taking you home. At least, not right away. I am kidnapping you. It is very wrong of me, I know, but it can’t be helped. I simply cannot allow your sister to marry Lord Redfylde. I hope you can forgive me one day. You’ll understand when you’re older,” he added doubtfully.

  Allie threw her arms around him and squeezed. “Oh, thank God!”

  “You don’t like him either?” he guessed.

  “I hate him!” she cried. “And so does Cosy! The only reason she agreed to marry him is because they’ve been holding me prisoner at the school! I’ve been locked in the attic for days, with nothing to eat but bread and water. I’m wasting away!”

  Indeed, she did not look quite as rosy-cheeked as usual.

  “That,” he said, “is despicable.”

  “That,” she answered darkly, “is my uncle. He sold Cosy to Lord Redfylde for ten thousand pounds! He is forcing her to marry him—in Bath Abbey!”

  Benedict groaned. He had been so blinded by his feelings that he had not picked up on that important detail. Of course, Cosy would never consent to be married in Bath Abbey, by Protestant rites. She had even tried to call his attention to it, when she mentioned giving her pianoforte to the Church. And she had told him where to find Allie. And, most important, she had been playing “Caro mio ben” on the pianoforte when he arrived.

  “I am such a fool,” he murmured. “And your mother, Miss Allegra?” he said quickly. “Is she really in the baths?”

  “We don’t know where she is,” Allie replied. “Uncle Wayborn signed some papers, and the doctor took her away. He had men with him. Cosy tried to stop them, but the doctor put something on a handkerchief. He put it over her nose and mouth, and—and—”

  To his horror, Allie began to cry.

  “She went down so fast, I was sure she was dead! They carried her upstairs and locked her in her room. That’s the last time I saw her.”

  Benedict took out his handkerchief.

  “Don’t cry, Miss Allegra,” he said. “Everything’s going to be just fine.”

  He felt quite calm, almost serene.

  Lord Wayborn picked up the banknote for ten thousand pounds and put it in his pocket. He leaned back from the table in the private dining parlor of the York House Hotel and thanked his host profusely as the waiter filled his glass with a magnificent port bottled in the previous century. “A toast to the bride and groom,” he said, lifting his glass.

  “To me,” Lord Redfylde agreed, lifting his own glass.

  The door was thrown open and a fat constable burst into the room. The entire Bath Watch crammed into the room behind him, armed with pistols and blackjacks.

  Lord Redfylde spilled his port all over himself.

  “You’re under arrest!” screamed the fat constable.

  “How dare you!” said Lord Redfylde, jumping up. “I am the Marquess of Redfylde! This is the Earl of Wayborn. You are interrupting a private dinner!”

  The constable sniffed, unimpressed. “You’ve a bloody cheek, you have! I’ll teach you to impersonate a lord and an Englishman, by God, you Irish dogs! Lord Oranmore warned us you would use those very names.”

  Lord Oranmore entered the room. “That,” he said scathingly, pointing at Lord Redfylde, “is one Patrick O’Toole, and that,” indicating Lord Wayborn with equal scorn, “is one Seamus O’Riley. I have it on good authority that they are plotting to assassinate the Prince Regent. Impersonating Lord Wayborn was the biggest mistake you could have made, Mr. O’Riley. Lord Wayborn happens to be my cousin.”

  Benedict smiled. It was not a nice smile.

  “But-but-but I am your cousin, sir!” squawked Lord Wayborn. “I am not Irish! Do I sound Irish to you?” he appealed to the constables.

  Lord Oranmore sneered. “The Irish are gifted mimics. One finds them on stage constantly, sounding just like you and I, Constable. That is what makes them so dangerous.”

  Lord Wayborn flung his arm out in accusation. “He’s the one who’s Irish!”

  The fat constable laughed.

  “I suppose,” said Lord Redfylde coldly, “that Serena has been complaining about my treatment of her. Well, she asked for it, the little slut.” He laughed harshly. “She begged for it. And so she will again. Once a whore, always a whore.”

  “Is that,” said Lord Oranmore, “any way to talk about a Princess Royal?”

  “Oh, no, he didn’t!” screamed the fat constable without pausing to reflect that none of the Royal Princesses were named Serena. “Bring the chains!”

  The fat constable was determined that these two Irishmen would not escape as the other one had. Lord Redfylde went down under a swarm of brawny constables wielding blackjacks.

  “I’ll get you for this,” he howled as they shackled him.

  “Better search them, constable,” said Lord Oranmore. “They may be armed.”

  “Blimey!” roared the constable. “This one’s carrying a bank-note for ten thousand pounds!”

  “For purchasing armaments, no doubt,” said Lord Oranmore. “Better let me take that. Evidence.” He tucked it into his coat pocket.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” wailed Lord Wayborn. “Think of my poor wife! And poor Miss Vaughn! Tomorrow is her wedding day!”

  The watchmen hauled them both away to the roundhouse.

  Lord Oranmore took out his watch and clucked his tongue.

  As he was leaving the York Hotel, he almost collided with Lord Ludham.

  “My lord!” they both said at once.

  “I came here to find Redfylde,” said Lord Ludham.

  “You just missed him, I’m afraid.”

  “Then I will deal with him later. I will deal with you now, Lord Oranmore.”

  Benedict looked apologetic. “I am a little pressed for time, my lord. Perhaps another time—”
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  “Then I shall be brief, Lord Oranmore. Serena doesn’t want to marry you. I am come to get her bills back from you.”

  “What bills?” asked Benedict impatiently.

  “Don’t pretend you don’t understand me, sirrah! I refer to the bills you won in a card game. You have been using them to blackmail Serena into marrying you.”

  Benedict opened his mouth to deny it, then closed it again.

  “Oh, those bills,” he said. “I didn’t know they were Serena’s. I thought they were another lady’s.”

  “You what? Where are they?”

  “I will get them,” Benedict promised. “Really, I’m very pressed for time.”

  He took out the banknote the constable had found in Lord Wayborn’s pocket. “Please give this to the lady as a token of my good faith. You have my word as a gentleman that Serena will never be troubled by those bills again. Good-bye.”

  He left Ludham staring at the banknote, open-mouthed.

  Imagine, carrying that much cash around.

  “Willoughby!” shrieked Lady Wayborn as the butler opened the door to the drawing-room quite unexpectedly. Her ladyship was supine on the sofa with a box of chocolates open on her ample stomach. She struggled into the sitting position, depositing the chocolate box onto the floor. “What is the meaning of this intrusion? How dare you?”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, my lady,” said Benedict, striding into the room. “But I have just this minute received a letter from my sister the duchess. I thought you might like to read it.”

  Lady Wayborn was now on her feet, and Willoughby was disposing of the chocolate box. “Oh!” she cried in delight. “The duchess! Oh, do come in, Lord Oranmore! Willoughby! Tea!” Her small, piggish eyes lit up suddenly. “Or would you rather have a sherry, my lord? Sherry for his lordship, Willoughby.”

  Willoughby withdrew discreetly.

  Lady Wayborn sat down. “Pray, be seated, my lord. It is so good of you to come to see me. My husband neglects me so.” She fluttered her lashes coyly. “But, really, there was no need to push your way past poor Willoughby. I would never have denied you admittance. How is dear Juliet? Breeding, I trust? Why, it has been over a year since the marriage took place. I gave my husband a son and heir precisely nine months after the wedding,” she gloated, preening. “I do hope Her Grace is not barren. Then the Duke will be obliged to divorce her, which would be a great shame, for I believe it was a love match.

  “We are always eager to hear about our dear duchess,” she went on, taking the piece of paper he offered. “Such an original! Whoever heard of honeymooning in Canada? My Lord Wayborn was persuaded it was most unwise. So perilously close to those ungrateful American savages!” She looked at the page. “‘If you ever want to see your sister again—’” she read.

  Benedict snatched it away from her. “Er…wrong letter,” he muttered. “Here.”

  He took out his sister’s letter and handed it to Lady Wayborn.

  Lady Wayborn took it eagerly.

  “Is Miss Vaughn at home?” he inquired presently.

  “The poor girl is simply exhausted,” Lady Wayborn replied, her eyes glued to the duchess’s letter. “Burnt to the socket! Dr. Grantham has forbidden her to leave her bed until tomorrow morning. Oh, Her Grace does not say anything about my younger son,” she pouted in disappointment.

  “There’s something about James on the back,” he said, and the lady turned over the letter eagerly. “Two thousand a year, I believe. I do hope,” he went on smoothly, “that you remembered to lock Miss Vaughn in her room. We can’t have her escaping, not with the wedding tomorrow.”

  Lady Wayborn started up in alarm.

  “It’s all right,” said Benedict. “Lord Wayborn and I have no secrets from one another.”

  She blinked in confusion. “You don’t?”

  “No, of course not. In fact, I have just come from the York.” He smiled again. “I came here in the hopes of finding you quite alone, Lady Wayborn.”

  “Oh!” said the lady, blushing. “Why?”

  “I want to do something shockingly indecent to you, of course,” he replied. “Did you remember to lock Miss Vaughn in? It would be a shame if we were interrupted.”

  “Of course I remembered to lock the door, you naughty man,” cried Lady Wayborn. “Here is the key, if you don’t believe me.”

  She withdrew a large black key from between her generous breasts, showed it to him, and then put it back. “I am so relieved,” he said.

  “Not that it’s at all necessary,” said Lady Wayborn. “The doctor gave us something to help her sleep.”

  “Laudanum, of course,” said Benedict.

  Lady Wayborn selected a tall bottle from several on the small table next to her.

  “We can’t give her laudanum—she won’t drink it. Fights like a tiger. We use ether. My maid holds her down, and I put it over her nose and mouth with my handkerchief. So easy! Of course, she is just a slip of a girl. It doesn’t take much.”

  Benedict took the bottle from her ladyship and went over to the window to read the label. “Is that safe, do you think?”

  “Dr. Grantham assures us it is very safe and confidential,” said Lady Wayborn.

  She squawked in surprise as a sodden handkerchief suddenly covered her nose and mouth. Lady Wayborn was a large woman. She did not slump over immediately, but kicked her legs and struggled. For one awful moment, Benedict feared he had murdered the woman.

  Then she began to snore.

  Gingerly, he reached between the woman’s breasts and pulled out the key. It was greasy from her ladyship’s body oil.

  Benedict couldn’t think of anything more shockingly indecent than that.

  He rang the bell. When Willoughby appeared, he said calmly, “Her ladyship has had too much to drink. You had better put her to bed. I can show myself out.”

  “Not again,” Willoughby muttered. He went out to fetch the footmen and Lady Wayborn’s maid. Benedict went downstairs and opened the door. Then he closed it again and ran back up the stairs. He made his way to Cosima’s room and unlocked the door.

  The room was black as pitch. Benedict dug out his cheroot case and struck a match. Cosima was tied hand and foot to the iron bed. She was unconscious. They had not bothered to undress her completely, but her feet were bare. Her wig was gone.

  “Cosima! Cosy! Wake up!”

  Her eyes popped open. “Ben,” she croaked.

  The match burnt his fingers and he dropped it.

  He lit another match and ran to her.

  “Never mind about me,” she hissed. “Ben, you must find Allie! Mother is in the hospital, but they won’t tell me where they’re keeping Allie! You—”

  He found a candle and lit it. “I have Allie,” he said shortly.

  “You have Allie?” she repeated. “You have Allie, and I’m not dreaming?”

  He kissed her. “You are not dreaming. Now let’s get you out of here.”

  He took out his pocket knife and cut her bonds.

  “Can you walk?”

  “I think so,” she said, but in this she was quite mistaken. Because of the ether, her legs were too weak to hold her. She fell back on the bed like a rag doll.

  “Bastards,” he snarled. “I will have to carry you.”

  She looked at him sadly. “You can’t do it, Ben. I’ll walk. I’ll manage.”

  “Is that so?” he said coldly. He caught her behind the knees as she pulled herself to the edge of the bed, and, in the next minute, she was upside down. Her bottom was on his shoulder and his left arm was like a band of iron around the back of her thighs.

  She felt dizzy. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she moaned.

  “Then be sick,” he snapped, straightening up. With her body bent in half, she was light as a feather. He heard her retch.

  “You will never manage all these stairs,” she said presently. “Really, I believe I can walk. Ben, you will fall and hurt yourself. Put me down!”

  “It’s so n
ice,” he said tightly, “to be with a woman who has such confidence in me! I am carrying you down these stairs, madam, and that is my final word.”

  He carried her down to the landing. Willoughby looked at them in surprise. Two footmen were carrying Lady Wayborn’s bulk from the drawing-room. They stopped and looked at Lord Oranmore in surprise, too.

  Benedict thought quickly.

  “The house is on fire,” he said. “Everyone should get out as quickly as possible. Don’t—”

  Willoughby shrieked in terror. The footmen dropped Lady Wayborn and ran off in all directions. Lady Wayborn’s maid flew out of her ladyship’s bedroom, screaming.

  “—panic.”

  Benedict calmly stepped over Lady Wayborn’s inert body.

  “What did you do to her, Ben?” Cosima asked curiously.

  “Ether,” he answered briefly.

  “We can’t leave her, Ben. We can’t let her burn up in a fire.”

  “Don’t be silly,” he snapped. “The house isn’t on fire.”

  “It isn’t? But you said—”

  “I lied, my love. I lied!”

  Huffing and puffing, he carried her the rest of the way down. The servants very kindly had left the door open for him. He carried her out to the waiting carriage and put her inside next to her sister. Allegra had never seen her sister without her blonde wig.

  “Holy fly! What did they do to you?”

  Benedict climbed up into the carriage. Cosima was white-faced, leaning against the side of the vehicle, holding herself very still, struggling not to be sick. She opened her eyes and asked quietly, “Mother?”

  He smiled at her. “I’m afraid I have no authority to countermand your uncle’s orders,” he said apologetically, “unless, of course, you marry me.”

  A glint appeared in her eyes. “That’s blackmail,” she said weakly.

  He smiled at her. “Black is my favorite color,” he reminded her. “Do you think Father Mallone will marry us now, even though you are so drugged you cannot even stand?”

  “He will,” she assured him, “when he hears my confession.”