“Would you happen to know the history of this place as well?”
“I might have read an article or two.”
“The study’s collection?” she teased. How he warmed to it.
“Its collection on London is rather exhaustive.”
“Tell me about Vauxhall, then.”
He could deny her nothing. “It was established as Spring Gardens—in 1660, I believe—but it didn’t become the Vauxhall Gardens we know until some chap took over the lease and did a complete refurbishment in the 1730’s. It’s been a pleasure garden for the rich and poor alike ever since. Nowhere else in London—I daresay in all of England—do the classes so closely mingle and share in the same amusements.”
Examples of high and low London swirled around them, all intent on the same frivolities from shop girl to duchess, from costermonger to prince. It possessed a fearless vivacity that fizzed its way beneath the skin and through to one’s veins.
A shout sounded from a nearby supper box, “Clare!”
Dread twisted Jamie’s gut. A voice he’d known since childhood, one he would know anywhere.Rothesbury.In the space of a few seconds, Hortense’s visage went from thoughtful and engaged to vacuous and coy, a saucy smile curling about her cherry red mouth, coquettish mischief twinkling in her eyes. He’d lost the genuine Hortense to her role for the night.
They crossed the short distance to Rothesbury’s box, and she squeezed his arm. “Are you ready for this?” she asked under her breath.
No, he wanted to growl, but he bit it back. He could sit through a night of playing her fool if it meant saving his son from Flick Doyle. He mustn’t lose sight of tonight’s objective. Jaws were made for clenching after all. “Of course,” he said tightly.
“Angry newlywed husband doesn’t suit you,” she said through her false smile. “Try haughty marquess. It should be a natural enough fit.”
He gave a dry snort.
They reached Rothesbury’s box and found six occupants: Rothesbury, a lady whose bounteous bosom was in danger of spilling from the front of her dress and who could be none other than Rothesbury’s mistress, and two other couples, ladies paired with ladies and lords with lords, undoubtedly sharing on-dits from Almack’s and Tattersall’s respectively.
“If it isn’t the Marquess of Clare,” exclaimed one lady.
“And his new bride,” said the other.
Deuce take it.They were his supper partners from Wellington’s party.
Rothesbury’s mistress batted the duke with her fan. “You said you had a treat for us tonight, you rogue.” She brazenly eyed Jamie up and down. “And how you delivered.”
Rothesbury paid the woman scant attention as he introduced her as Lady Selborne. Greetings continued around the box, and Hortense unthreaded her arm from Jamie’s and stepped away, her gaze for Rothesbury only. Instinctively, Jamie made to follow, but halted mid-step. Haughty lords didn’t follow their ladies about like green pups. Instead, he watched her settle into the open chair next to Rothesbury’s mistress.
A serving girl appeared, bearing a tray of arrack punch, Vauxhall’s infamous libation, the arrack a sugar and coconut liquor imported from the East Indies. Jamie waved her away, attracting Rothesbury’s attention.
“When are you one to turn down spirits, Clare?” the duke asked. “Last I saw you in Pizzy’s Pleasure Palace—when was that? a year ago?—you were hell bent on turning into a right old sot.”
Jamie shrugged, thoroughly uninterested in Rothesbury’s opinion of him. “I’ve lost the taste for it.” Perhaps if he told the lie enough times, it would become the truth.
The duke turned his lecherous eye on Hortense, all but licking his lips at the sight of her. “And you, Lady Clare?” He lifted a cup of arrack and held it out to her, leaning across his long-suffering, all-but-forgotten mistress. “Do you follow your husband’s lead in all things, like a good, little wife?”
“Oh, I’m good, your grace”—she suppressed a naughty smile—“but not at obeying my husband.”
“And what is it you’re so good at?” Rothesbury asked.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she asked, all enticing primness as she accepted the proffered arrack and took a delicate sip. Her tongue darted out and licked the sweetness off her bottom lip.
Jamie wasn’t the only man transfixed by the motion of her tongue.Rothesbury.He could punch the leer off the man’s face—a quick clip on the jaw should do it—or, better yet, yank the wig off the man’s head. Did he not realize how ridiculous it made him?
Settle, he scolded himself. This was exactly what Hortense had warned him against. To win Rothesbury’s trust, they must keep to their roles.
Rather than the conversation returning to gossip about balls, fashion, and horseflesh, it pivoted to the political. “Can you believe George Canning replaced Lord Liverpool as prime minister?”
“Lord Liverpool must be at death’s door to stand down after fifteen years.”
