Margaret Moore Page 3

  Perhaps that was another reason she haunted his dreams, where she was always waiting for him. She stood in a luxurious bedchamber, a large room lit by several candles, the bed wide and covered in pristine linens.

  She wore a simple white garment, like an angel, her hair loose about her shoulders, and her eyes shone with welcome. Then she smiled and came toward him slowly, until she was close enough for him to take in his arms.

  How he kissed her then! The scent of roses lingered about her, growing stronger and stronger as their kiss deepened. With impatient desire he picked her up and carried her to the bed.

  Light in his arms, she laid her head against his chest as if she knew he would always protect her and never, ever abandon her.

  Not like Janet.

  With a sigh, he once more forced himself to study the contract before him. He could not help Janet anymore. Nor could he help the unknown beauty.

  But he could help Mistress Dimdoor. She had been abandoned by her husband, who had sailed to the New World. One of the husband’s former associates claimed that he had also left a sizable debt unpaid, and he was suing Mistress Dimdoor to recover it. It was not difficult to see why Mistress Dimdoor was in difficulties. The promissory note before him held more prevaricating language than he had yet encountered in his career.

  Fortunately for her, the signature of the creditor at the bottom was clear enough, indicating that the debt and all the interest had been paid in full. At least her husband had not abandoned his debts along with her when he had sailed.

  Sighing again, Rob leaned back in his chair, the wood hard against his shoulders. Would that everything in his life could be so easily concluded and he could forget the past.

  The singular smell of goose grease made him open his eyes.

  Bertie Dillsworth’s deferential face appeared around the door, his hair sticking up as it always did, despite the goose grease he insisted upon using in his vain attempts to get it to lie flat. “There’s a man here, Rob—Mr. Harding,” he sheepishly corrected, remembering that Rob had instructed him to use a formal address when there were clients to hear, “and if you please—”

  “Of course he pleases,” a languid, upper-class voice drawled. “I’faith, man, I’m bringing him some business, so he better damn well please. And what in the name of St. David is that stench?”

  Bertie’s head disappeared abruptly and the door flew open, revealing Bertie staggering back as if he had been shoved while another man, the very picture of a well-dressed, well-fed, well-wined courtier, sauntered into Robert’s office, regardless of the other people waiting to see him in the anteroom.

  As Rob rose, the man looked around, his expression one of mild disgust, before his bloodshot gaze settled on Rob. “You are Heartless Harding, I presume?” he asked in that same languid voice, as if speaking were really too, too much trouble.

  Or perhaps it was only so when he was addressing his social inferiors.

  A vein in Robert’s forehead started to throb; otherwise, he gave no outward sign that he was even slightly disturbed by the fellow’s haughty attitude. “I am Robert Harding. Dillsworth, please ask Mistress Dimdoor if she would mind waiting a moment.”

  The arrogant stranger looked at Rob as if he had uttered blasphemy, while Bertie quietly spoke to the middle-aged seamstress waiting on a bench. She looked at Rob and nodded her head, eliciting a rare smile from him that made her flush to the roots of her hair.

  “Since Mistress Dimdoor is so good as to accommodate you, please sit down,” Rob said.

  “You are the chap who arranges such wondrous contracts and settlements and wills,” the fashionable fellow replied. “Ironclad and faultless, so I’ve been told.”

  “So some people claim. I do my best.”

  “Of course you do. Your servant.” The man swept the broad-brimmed, plumed hat from his head, which sported one of the more extreme style of wigs currently in fashion among the court. The dark curls extended well past his shoulder, over his embroidered scarlet velvet jacket.

  Rob wondered what color his hair really was, for he suspected the black was a compliment to the king’s own fulsome—and natural—locks.

  “Your servant, sir,” Rob automatically replied.

  The man’s superior smile seemed to indicate that he took that social pleasantry for truth before he sat in the chair opposite Rob’s desk.

  “Dillsworth, be so good as to close the door,” Rob said, glancing at his inquisitive clerk and incidentally all the rest of his clients, who were listening with unabashed interest.

  The man opposite him twisted slightly in his chair and watched as Bertie obeyed, giving Rob another chance to scrutinize him.

  He had a long thin face with a slender, aquiline nose, a thin upper lip above a fuller lower one, and narrow eyes overshadowed by brows that Rob guessed had been dyed to match his wig, for the shade was unnaturally dull. His complexion also seemed unnaturally pale, as if he rarely saw the sun. He sported small patches of black taffeta cut in the shapes of diamonds and circles on his chin and cheek. Judging by the red skin at the edge of the one on his chin, they were there both because they were fashionable and to hide blemishes.

  As for his clothes, they were not quite so fine upon closer examination. The embroidery had obviously been mended and his gauntlet gloves and hat were far from new, although Rob thought the plume had recently been replaced.

  So, he was not as wealthy as he would like people to believe. That was unfortunate.

  After Bertie closed the door, the man turned back to Rob. “I am Sir Philip Martlebury,” he announced, by his air suggesting that Rob must have heard of him.

  He had not. Still, a nobleman was a nobleman, and he might know yet more noblemen in need of a good solicitor. “How may I help you?”

  “I am about to become engaged to the niece of a canny old buzzard and want you to negotiate the marriage settlement for me.”

  As Sir Philip steepled his fingers and smiled with smug satisfaction, Rob commanded himself to betray nothing.

  Not surprise. Not dismay Not envy.

  After all, there was nothing—nothing at all—to indicate that this had anything to do with the young woman he had met in Bankside. No doubt there were many young women in London who were in a similar situation.

  “You say nothing, Mr. Harding.”

  “I am taken aback, Sir Philip,” he replied, trusting that the man before him would apply his own flattering interpretation to that remark.

  Judging by Sir Philip’s widening smile, he did. “I gather you don’t get many men of my station coming to you on such errands. Still, I hear you are the best, and if you are the best, I certainly shall not be the last. I have several influential friends at court.”

  “May I ask, Sir Philip, how you came to hear of me?”

  “The whole court was buzzing about how you outsmarted that playwright when he married the rich widow.”

  At the recollection of the marriage settlement between Sir Richard Blythe and Elissa Long-bourne, Rob’s lips twitched. He had indeed drafted a very one-sided document which the groom had signed without reading. Despite his amusement, he kept his voice carefully level when he replied. “I understand they are very happily married.”

  Sir Philip had one of the most disgustingly evil chuckles it had ever been Robert’s misfortune to hear, and he had heard several evil chuckles. “He’s happy bedding her, no doubt, as I will be when I take my bride.”

  It was all Rob could do to keep his lips from curling with scorn. Rob had known men who lived in filth and poverty who would never speak of a woman with such disrespect.

  Rob wanted to tell him to get out, but Sir Philip’s next pronouncement made him hold his tongue.

  “There will be a fine fee in it for you, of course, for it will likely take several hours of work. Her uncle is the kind to haggle for days over something. Still, if all turns out as I plan, there will be a premium in it for you. I wouldn’t be surprised if you earned over fifty pounds.”


  Fifty pounds. That was nearly as much as Rob had made in the whole of the previous year. He needed the money this man was offering, and he would surely benefit from a pleased nobleman’s reference.

  As for his personal aversion to the man, he had searched through the stinking muck of the Thames to earn his bread once; surely he could put up with Sir Philip.

  It would be even more ridiculous to turn him down on the remote possibility that the man was going to marry a woman Rob had only met once, if memorably. “I accept your offer.”

  “Excellent!” The nobleman reached into his jacket and pulled out a white piece of cloth, which he sniffed delicately. The scent of a heavy, flowery perfume made Rob want to cough.

  “I shall, of course, require a portion of the fee today,” he said.

  Sir Philip frowned. “How much of a portion?”

  “Generally, I ask for a sovereign upon commencing.”

  Sir Philip snorted most inelegantly. “Gad, man, is that all? I thought you were going to ask for half!”

  “Then obviously you will have no trouble providing the sovereign. My clerk will be happy to take it.”

  Sir Philip reached into his jacket and pulled out a rather tattered purse. He fished around for a moment, then tossed a gold coin on the desk. “There you are, my man.”

  “I said you may give to my clerk,” Rob reiterated, making no move to touch it.

  With a sour frown, the nobleman’s hand darted out and he took it back again. He rubbed it between his fingers.

  “Perhaps we should celebrate your good fortune with a drink?” he proposed, his gaze surreptitiously scanning the room, no doubt for a bottle or decanter.

  The need for a drink might also explain his nervous twisting and turning of the coin.

  “I think not.”

  Sir Philip reared back in astonishment. “Gad, are you a Puritan?”

  “No. However, I keep no wine or spirits in my office, and I have no time to visit a tavern today.” Rob gestured at the document still on his desk.

  “Oh, I see,” Sir Philip grudgingly replied. “I have a meeting with my bride’s uncle, Elias Burroughs, tomorrow afternoon. Sup with me at noon and we can discuss the terms to offer. We’ll go to see him afterward.”

  “Very well,” Rob agreed, rising.

  Sir Philip likewise got up. “I live in the Strand, Martlebury House.” He chuckled his nasty chuckle. “I can hardly wait to see Burroughs’s fat face when he finds out I have Heartless Harding in my purse.”

  Holding his hands stiff at his side, his fingers slowly curving into fists, Rob made a small bow and watched as the nobleman sauntered out the door as if he owned all of London and a good portion of England besides.

  “Bloody jackanapes,” Rob muttered under his breath as he returned to his desk and once again silently vowed to forget a beautiful young woman with lively blue eyes and passion in her kiss who refused to marry to a man she did not love.

  Chapter 4

  “So there I was, my dear, absolutely bankrupt and not a farthing to my name and Edmond glaring at me in the worst way,” Lettice Jerningham said as she put another French bonbon in her bow-shaped mouth and giggled. “’But Edmond,’ I said, ‘I thought I was going to win!’ I mean, really, Vivienne, what else did he think I was betting for?”

  Vivienne nodded absently as she sat beside Lettice in the Jerninghams’ drawing room and watched Lettice consume a plateful of sugar-covered confections.

  Lettice Jerningham was the daughter of one of Uncle Elias’s business associates. She had married a minor courtier, of nearly the same age as Uncle Elias, and been presented at court last year. She rarely mentioned her much older husband, preferring to talk about the court and especially the king.

  She also apparently found some compensation in eating bonbons while petting her spaniel, Lord Bobbles, whom she had purchased in imitation of King Charles, who was known to adore his dogs.

  Normally, Vivienne avoided Lettice as much as she could. Unfortunately, she had not been able to find out much at all about Philip in the past week, and so had come to Lettice as a last resort. Even more unfortunately, although she had come to visit Lettice for the sole purpose of asking about Sir Philip, the very notion of giving the loquacious Lettice even a hint of Sir Philip’s intentions was so distasteful, she hadn’t yet been able to mention him.

  Nevertheless, the mysterious solicitor had been right—she had been going about dissuading her uncle from making the match the wrong way. She had been trying to force him to see things her way, something that was utterly impossible. Instead, she must discover things about Philip her uncle would find objectionable. Ever since she had returned home on the night she’d tried to run away and climbed back into her room, she had thought of little but the solicitor and his advice. He even haunted her dreams.

  In those dreams, she was always running down a dark and foggy street. At first she was frightened, sure she was being chased. She would see the handsome solicitor standing in a blaze of light and her fear would disappear. She ran into his arms, feeling cherished and safe.

  Then they were magically in her bedchamber. In her bed. Naked. Together.

  He would caress her body and kiss her with his marvelous lips, and she would touch him, feel his flesh hot against her hands—

  “Would you like some wine, Vivienne? It is a trifle warm in here,” Lettice said, yanking Vivienne from her reverie.

  “No, thank you,” she replied, commanding herself to remember why she was here, and to forget her dreams.

  Vivienne made a small, companionable smile and shifted away from Lettice and Lord Bobbles, who was shedding all over her skirt. Uncle Elias would not be pleased if she returned home with her pale pink gown covered in black hairs. “I thought your husband didn’t approve of gambling.”

  “But everybody gambles! The king gambles,” Lettice declared with a shake of her blond head that set her ringlets bouncing, as if that decided the matter.

  “The king does many things many people do not approve of.”

  In the act of lifting another confection to her lips, Lettice halted and stared at Vivienne. “You sound just like one of those horrid old Puritans!” She giggled again. “And your expression is just like one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting.”

  “I have heard they don’t approve of the English court.”

  “I should say they don’t,” Lettice agreed with disdain as she popped the confection in her mouth and spoke while delicately chewing. “They refuse to learn even a word of English, they wear nothing but black and their expressions are so sour and their gowns so old-fashioned, they look like effigies. They should all be lying on a tomb somewhere. Indeed, I always have to assure myself they’re actually breathing! And they are so very proper, it’s … well, it’s ludicrous. They say they won’t sleep in any bed a man has ever been in.”

  “Given what I have heard of the court, they must had had to order several new beds.”

  Vivienne immediately wished she hadn’t mentioned beds, because beds made her think of her dreams, and the lawyer’s hands, and his lips, and their passion….

  Lettice giggled her agreement and brushed a bit of sugar from the lace around the curved neckline of her satin bodice. “That is a very pretty gown.”

  Vivienne was glad of the change of subject. “Do you like the color? It is one of my uncle’s new dyes.”

  “No lace?”

  “You know he does not deal in lace, so I never wear it, Lettice.”

  “You should be glad he sells such lovely silk and ribbons, though,” Lettice noted. She examined the silk damask and nodded her approval. “Very pretty. Lady Horrace was wearing something rather similar in court.”

  “Have you been to court recently?”

  Lettice preened a little as she put the last bonbon into her mouth. “Just last week, for a masque. It was very exciting. And oh, how handsome the king looked! I swear to you, Vivienne, he is the finest-looking man in the kingdom.”

  Vivienne had s
erious doubts about that, unless the king resembled a certain solicitor of her acquaintance.

  “To see King Charles dance! And his legs, my dear.” She leaned forward again. “His legs are really quite muscular.”

  Vivienne wondered about her solicitor’s legs. In her imagination, they were as muscular as the rest of him.

  “There’s no need to blush, my dear. I assure you, we were all properly attired, some more than others, though,” she finished with another giggle. She lifted her dog and rubbed his nose against hers. “Isn’t that so, Lord Bobbles? Didn’t your mama have on a very lovely dress?”

  That was it. Embarrassment or no embarrassment, Vivienne couldn’t stand this much longer. “Lettice, what do you know about Sir Philip Martlebury?”

  Lord Bobbles fell back to his mistress’s lap with such unexpected swiftness, he yipped.

  Lettice moved forward and smiled broadly. “I was wondering if you were ever going to mention that,” she said, stroking Lord Bobbles’s head.

  Vivienne didn’t hide her surprise. “You have heard that he wishes to marry me?”

  “He talks about you quite often. He thinks you’re very beautiful, you know. He is very eager to make you his wife.”

  And get the dowry, no doubt, Vivienne thought with a sigh.

  Lettice eyed Vivienne. “I should think you would be delighted. He’s a good-looking fellow and a nobleman, too.”

  “I am suspicious of his attention,” she answered with cautious truth. “After all, what have I to offer him?”

  “Oh, you mustn’t underestimate the power of beauty, my dear,” Lettice said with a companionable smile.

  Lettice herself was quite pretty in a florid sort of way. Nobody would ever overlook her in a room full of women. “He brags of you, you know. Well, not to me, but to other men, or so I’ve heard. You’re going to be a very lucky woman. To be sure, he’s not the king, but then the king is already married,” she finished with yet another giggle.

  The fact that Charles was married probably wouldn’t bother Lettice if the king invited her to his bed.