“So, you found my… services satisfactory, my lord?”
Sexually satisfied yet not entirely replete-which seemed to occur often of late-Damien prevaricated with a murmur that could be taken as agreement. There was really nothing lacking in her performance. Rather-he’d begun to believe-it was something in himself.
The sumptuous Swann should have been the perfect mistress. As famed for her performance in the boudoir as on the stage, she was sensual and hot-blooded enough to excite his passion. All London found her fascinating, even to the point of dueling for her favors. If she was unable to satisfy the restlessness that had been brewing in him recently, well then, perhaps he was expecting too much.
Damien opened his eyes to find her studying him intently. Doubtless she was calculating the remuneration he could be expected to furnish her-house, carriage, servants, jewels.
“I understand,” she began carefully, “that you are unencumbered by a mistress at present.”
“How could you have failed to hear of it?” he replied dryly, referring to the scandal inspired by the end of his last liaison.
“Indeed. It was the talk of the town for days.”
“Any reports were likely embellished.”
“Perhaps so. The wicked Baron Sinclair does tend to be prime fodder for the gossipmongers. But still, there must be some truth to the matter.”
“What precisely did you hear?”
“That when you gave Lady Varley her conge, she threatened to fling herself into the Thames. And you offered to drive her to the docks in your curricle yourself so that she might accomplish the feat.”
Damien grimaced in remembrance. “I merely offered to drive her home. She was distraught.”
“I imagine you find such scenes a bore,” the Swann remarked. “As do I. I well know how tedious it can be, being the object of such unwelcome attention. You cannot enjoy having noble ladies swooning over you, declaring their undying love.”
“The lady was not in love, I promise you. She merely fancied herself so.”
“Still, you are said to have broken scores of female hearts, my wicked lord.”
He gave a noncommittal murmur.
In a sensual gesture, Elise reached up to smooth back a disheveled lock of raven hair that had fallen across his forehead. “There is a moral to the tale, I suppose. Never give your heart to a rake.”
Damien smiled his usual charming smile, but it did not reach his eyes. “A wise philosophy, sweeting. But I subscribe to an even simpler conviction. Never give your heart at all.”
“ “Tis just as well, then, that I consider love merely a business proposition.”
She was shrewdly trying to reassure him, he knew. Promising that she wouldn’t create a scene or make unwelcome demands when they inevitably parted-which was fortunate.
He had no desire for any sort of permanent arrangement. His dalliances lasted a few months, rarely more, and he made it a practice never to keep any mistress longer than a Season. He knew from experience how destructive lengthy affairs could be. And he had no intention of emulating his late father by becoming obsessed with a beautiful temptress. Not even one as alluring as the Silver Swann.
Before he could respond to her pledge of restraint, however, he heard swift footsteps on the landing outside the bedchamber.
The tentative rap on the door held a distinct reluctance.
“Beg pardon, ma’am,” a nervous female voice called out, “but there’s a gen’lemun to see “is lordship.”
Her lovely face stiff with sudden anger, Elise leapt from the bed and crossed to the door. Drawing it open a crack, she hissed in a harsh whisper, “I’ve told you never to interrupt me when I am entertaining!”
“But “e said it was the utmost urgency. Said to tell ’is lordship ”is name was Mr. “askell.“
Damien caught the name of his secretary and frowned. Wondering what the urgent matter could be, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for his satin evening breeches. While the graceful Swann railed like a fishwife at the poor servant girl, he gathered the rest of his clothing and went to the door.
“You say Mr. Haskell is here?” he demanded of the servant.
“Aye, milor“.” The quaking maid bobbed a curtsy, even as she cast a fearful glance at her mistress. “I’ve put ’im below, in the green parlor, milor”.”
Damien turned abruptly for the stairs. Behind him, the actress snatched up a wrapper and followed.
He found the parlor without difficulty and entered to discover his secretary pacing the floor. George Haskell was a tall, pleasant-looking man with even features, non-descript brown hair, and gold-rimmed spectacles. Normally possessed of a lively sense of humor, he appeared at the moment as grim as his employer had ever seen him.
“What goes, George? The matter must be very important to bring you here.”
The secretary glanced at the actress, who was lingering in the parlor doorway. “I’ve come on a matter of some urgency, my lord. If I might have a word in private?”
Finding the attention on herself, Elise flushed prettily. “Of course, I shall leave you alone.” Obligingly, she backed out and shut the door.
“What is it?” Damien demanded impatiently.
“I fear I have grave news. Your sister has suffered an accident.”
Damien felt his heart clench. “Olivia?”
It was a reflexive question. He had only one sister, a girl some fifteen years his junior, who lived quietly at his country estate of Rosewood, the family seat of the Barons Sinclair. “What manner of accident?”
“I do not have all the particulars-the message your bailiff sent was written in apparent haste. But it seems Miss Sinclair fell down a flight of stairs. When she regained consciousness, she had lost all feeling in her lower limbs. The doctor was called, and while he could find no broken bones, he believes her spine to be damaged. The possibility exists that she may be permanently crippled.”
Damien stared, shock rendering him mute.
“I fear that is not all,” George added quietly.
“There’s more?” he said hoarsely.
“From the note, I gather the injury occurred during a-”
“A what, man? Tell me!”
“You will not care for this, my lord, but… it was an aborted elopement.”
“A what?” Damien shook his head. He could not credit that his shy, sheltered sister would attempt an elopement. Or that the strict governess he’d hired to look after Olivia would permit it. “That is impossible. There must be some mistake.”
“Perhaps so,” George said dubiously.
“Who was the man?”
“The man?”
“Her seducer. Whom did she think to wed?”
“The missive makes mention of Lord Rutherford, but it isn’t clear if he is the culprit.”
Damien knew of a Viscount Rutherford, a rather wild young man who had just come into the title.
“Here,” his secretary said, “you will wish to read Bellows’s letter for yourself.”
Damien took the proffered sheet of vellum and hastily perused the nearly illegible scribble in his bailiff’s hand. The tragic mishap had occurred in Alcester at the Four Lions, a busy coaching inn near the Sinclair family seat of Rosewood. The note described the extent of Olivia’s suspected injuries and went on to suggest how the accident came about. Bellows wrote:
It pains me to deliver such disastrous tidings, but I gather your sister planned an elopement. At the last moment, however, the gentleman in question reneged. Miss Olivia fled in dismay, which precipitated her fall. Lord Rutherford summoned the doctor immediately, but the damage was done-to her person and, I fear, to her reputation as well.
I hope to hush up the sorry tale for as long as possible, but I know it cannot be forever. I beg you, my lord, send me your instructions and advise me how best to deal with this dire situation.