And they were cold, in spite of the carved marble fireplaces, cold with a chill deeper than the physical. Gervase wondered who had built this mansion and lived in it, and whether anyone had ever been happy here.
For himself, the viscount expected neither warmth nor happiness. In India he had learned to expiate his sins with the rewards of work well done, of duty and honor fulfilled, and that must be enough. He had built a useful life, regulating the welfare of his dependents and participating in the affairs of the nation. Much had been given to him, and he had a responsibility to use it well.
Only gradually did Gervase realize his true goal in this late-night prowl: his mother’s rooms, which lay behind the master’s apartments. Perhaps because he had been thinking about women, he recognized that it was time and past time to face his mother’s ghost. He’d invested eight years in developing his strength so that he would not be afraid to face anything in his life.
Medora, the Viscountess St. Aubyn, had been the daughter of a duke. She was as graceful as she was charming, as corrupt as she was beautiful. It was eighteen years since he had seen her, eighteen years since he had set foot in these rooms, yet even now he could almost see her floating across the chamber, hear the echo of her bright, heartless laughter.
As a child he had adored his mother, and was grateful for the casual gestures of affection she sometimes made, despairing when she would turn angry or petulant. He had been too young to realize how little her moods depended on him, and had blamed himself for his failures to please her.
In his mother’s sitting room, still decorated with faded panels of the rose silk she had favored, hung the portrait. Gervase stood in the doorway with one hand braced against the frame and studied the painting. It had been done by Sir Joshua Reynolds and was full-size, so lifelike that it seemed Medora could step down from the wall. The viscountess was dressed in figured white silk and had disdained hair powder to let her natural golden hair fall in ringlets around her shoulders.
Gervase was also in the picture, six years old and gazing up at his mother with his dark head in profile. The child’s presence lent a false impression of maternal feeling. The real reason Medora wanted him there was for his worshipful expression. She was a woman who needed to be worshiped.
Even after twenty-five years he remembered the sittings vividly, how her friends came to visit and she would laugh and joke with them, to Reynolds’s intense disgust. Gervase himself was silent, happy to spend so many hours in her presence and determined to do nothing that might cause him to be sent away.
Once a friend had complimented Lady Medora on how well-behaved the boy was, and she had said carelessly that her son had been born middle-aged. He often wondered if that was a compliment or an insult. Even now he didn’t know. Doubtless it was merely a quip, with no deeper meaning.
For all her look of white-and-gold innocence, Lady St. Aubyn had been a wanton, an expert at indulging her appetites within the broad range permitted the nobility. She had dutifully given her husband two male heirs. The elder had died in early childhood, and the younger now stood and studied his mother’s face, trying to understand what had made her what she was.
Medora Brandelin was the only person Gervase had ever loved, and that fact had meant nothing to her. Less than nothing. Thinking back, he believed that her crime against her son had been unthinking and unmalicious, a casual product of curiosity and boredom. It was doubtful that she ever knew or cared what she had done to him.
It was gratifying to learn that he could finally look at her dispassionately, the scars so well healed that he felt no more than a distant ache. Now he could bury his mother in the same dark well of memory that held the farce of his marriage.
That lesser catastrophe had haunted him on and off for years, but he had done what he could to mitigate the damage. According to his lawyer, the afflicted child he had married was alive and in good health.
Even now, he hated to think of what a fool he had been to let himself be trapped into a travesty of marriage. If he’d not been drunk, it would never have happened. But in retrospect, the incident was less disastrous than he’d thought at the time. The girl, Mary Hamilton, had received an income and probably better treatment than she’d known earlier in her life, and Gervase had learned a bitter lesson in self-control. In the years since, he had governed himself with an iron hand, never once overindulging in drink or any other disabling vice.
The marriage was also a perfect excuse for withholding himself from the mating rituals of society. If he were single, Gervase would be considered highly eligible, a tedious and time-consuming fate that he was now spared. While he revealed to no one the true facts of his marriage, a few discreet hints about a mad wife in Scotland had discouraged fortune hunters.
He was tired now, ready for bed, but he took one last look at his mother’s portrait and found himself snared by the mocking eyes. Her full knowing lips were slightly parted, as if about to divulge secret thoughts, thoughts he had no desire to hear.
Gervase turned sharply away. Tomorrow he would have the portrait boxed and shipped to Aubynwood. The housekeeper could hang it somewhere, anywhere, as long as Gervase would never see it again.
* * *
A night’s sleep cleared Gervase’s gloomy thoughts, and he was filled with anticipation as he rode through Mayfair, leading a trim gray mare behind him. He wondered if the mysterious Mrs. Lindsay might have changed her mind. Dawn rides were not common among her kind.
The Charles Street address she had given him was a handsome, discreet house nestled in a street of aristocratic residences only a few blocks from his own mansion. On the outside there was nothing to indicate the occupation of the inhabitant; Mrs. Lindsay must be very good at her trade to have earned such luxury. Or perhaps a man leased it for her, a thought that didn’t please Gervase.
As he swung from his gelding and looped its reins over the iron railing, the door opened and she came down the short flight of marble steps. Gervase had wondered if she could really be as beautiful as he had thought the night before, but in the clear morning light she was even lovelier than he remembered.
If the glow in her deep blue eyes meant anything, Diana Lindsay had slept the sleep of the just. Her darkly shining hair was primly pulled back into a chignon and she wore a severe navy blue riding habit with a matching hat, its curling cream-colored plume the only frivolity in her appearance.
The very simplicity of her dress emphasized her stunning face and sensual figure. Gervase’s pulse increased at the sight of her. It was an effort to keep his voice even. “Good morning, Mrs. Lindsay. You are very prompt.”
She glanced up demurely. “I guessed that one of the many things you do not tolerate from your inferiors is tardiness.”
She halted a yard away, and he found he was having trouble with his breathing. If she wanted a thousand guineas for a single night, it would be worth it. “You’re quite right, Mrs. Lindsay. I dislike being kept waiting.”
He gestured to the gray mare. “Here is your mount.”
Her eyes widened, as well they should. The mare was as fine a thoroughbred as any in Britain. “What a lovely lady! What is her name?”
“She’s called Phaedra, but you may change that if you wish.”
Diana turned to him questioningly. “What do you mean?”
“She is yours.” Gervase was gratified by the further widening of the woman’s eyes. Her confusion was some compensation for the havoc she was wreaking on him by her mere existence.
