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A Man without a Mistress (The Penningtons Book 2) Page 2
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“Of what, precisely, do you stand accused, besides the abuse of perfectly good pens?” He lifted the feather to reveal the top of its shaft tipping over at a drunken angle.
“Why, of encouraging your most unnatural tendre for me, of course, dear boy,” Dulcie replied, his lips quirking in amusement. “For what other reason would the ladies of the ton believe you would squirrel yourself away in our house, eschewing all their charms?”
Per uttered a silent curse. Dulcie typically took care to keep his liaisons far from the public eye, wary of allowing any whiff of scandal to touch his family. But had Milne’s increasing insistence that his son marry and produce an heir led Dulcie to rebel and deliberately court scandal? And was Per to be sacrificed on the altar of Dulcie’s dramatics?
If such rumors—no matter how patently false—were to reach Lord Milne, Per’s dream of sitting in the House of Commons would die a speedy death. And how then would he work toward parliamentary reform, toward giving the people of England a real voice in the running of their own government? How would he ever make restitution for the suffering he had caused?
“Surely, Dulcie, you didn’t— you haven’t—”
“Of course not. You think I’d share the story of your crushing rejection?” Dulcie gave a dramatic shudder. “Why, no man’s amour-propre could withstand such a blow! If only I’d known then how often you frequented whorehouses that first year you came up to town, I’d never have mistaken your true proclivities. You must tell me, why ever did you stop?” The viscount settled in Per’s chair, chin propped on his hands, eyes wide with curiosity.
How the hell had Dulcie caught wind of that old scandal?
For a moment, Per had the urge to give in to temptation and confess his own past mistakes. But if he spilled his budget to a gossip such as Dulcie, the entire ton would soon know that he’d haunted London’s brothels and gaming hells during that ghastly year after he had come up from Cambridge for reasons completely unrelated to his own amusement. A rumor of lewd behavior with Dulcie would be nothing to the revelation of those sordid secrets.
If, in fact, such a rumor even existed . . .
He took a step toward Dulcie, frowning as suspicion grew.
“Now, you’ve no need to punish me for bearing bad tidings,” Dulcie said, jumping up from the chair and holding out his hands in supplication. “Indeed, I bring you the means to dispel such scandalous tittle-tattle. All you must do is drag yourself away from this tedious pile of papers and accept the dinner invitation my parents will so kindly extend. Chat amiably with a chit or two, turn a page of music for another, and you’ll quiet the gabblemongers forthwith.”
“One dinner invitation? No balls? No routs? No tedious musicales?”
“Only dinner, Per. Lady Butterbank will be in attendance, so if you snub me, we’re certain to dispel this scurrilous scandalbroth brewing among the gossips. Lord knows that woman loves to tattle.”
“Yes, almost as much as you do.” He retreated to his chair, crossing his arms in disgust.
Dulcie chuckled. “Lady Butterbank does give me a good run for my money. But I see no reason not to throw her a juicy bone now and again. You’ll attend, if only to give her a reason to rise the next morning?”
He found himself unable to maintain a grudge in the face of Dulcie’s good humor. “If I must,” he conceded.
“And, if you would,” Dulcie added in a suspiciously offhand manner, “you might consider a Miss Pennington as one of the recipients of your somewhat dubious charms. Another nobleman’s daughter up from the country, ready to make her bow to the king, my mother tells me. Ill dressed and whey-faced, I’ll wager. And from bucolic Lincolnshire, no less!”
“Dulcie,” he growled, eyes narrowing as he rose from his seat to tower threateningly over the far shorter viscount. “If I discover you’ve created this ridiculous rumor only to extricate yourself from yet another of your father’s matchmaking schemes . . .”
The viscount raised one eyebrow as he backed through the door. “Why the earl thinks I’d have anything to say to a schoolgirl who has spent far more time communing with cows and cabbages than engaging in intelligent conversation, I cannot begin to imagine. But you, Sir Peregrine, should be more than suitable.”
Per lunged, but caught only the sound of laughter as the viscount beat a quick retreat.
In truth, this Pennington girl must be a gorgon if Dulcie required his help to free himself from her clutches. Perhaps he would attend the Milnes’ party, if only to watch the sport as the earl tried once again to entice his son into the matrimonial lists. And might he even teach Dulcie not to tease him with false gossip?
The corner of his mouth quirked as he tapped his quill against the table. Just what words should he whisper in the ear of the whey-faced Miss Pennington to suggest Viscount Dulcie harbored a tendre not for Per, but for her?
Before Per could ponder the possibilities, a noise from the hallway caught his ear. Had Dulcie been so unwise as to return?
The door opened to reveal not the slender viscount, but the man’s far more rotund father. “Peregrine, my boy, come quickly. I’ve need of that logical brainbox of yours.”
Lord Milne waved an elegantly clad arm in his direction as he bustled into the library. Praying that his rash promise to count fleas had not come back to bite him so soon, Per followed the earl into the library. After shutting the door, he took a seat opposite his patron.
“Sayre, we’ve got to do something about this attack on the salaries of the lay Lords of the Admiralty,” Lord Milne said, his long fingers drumming on the arms of his chair. “I’m all for retrenchment, you know that, but damn it, my wife’s cousin will lose his post if this bill passes.”
Per tamped down a grimace. Lady Milne rarely took any interest in her husband’s political maneuvering, except when family was involved. Then, whatever the countess asked, the earl would demand, no matter his own party’s position on the matter. Or Per’s.
“Whom must we persuade to vote against it?” Per asked, resigning himself yet again to the need for compromise.
“That idiot Calthorpe, of all people. He and his cronies have agreed to side with us, but only if I can garner enough votes for his ridiculous amendment to the Vagrancy Bill.”
“Amendment?”
“The one that will allow watchmen to turn over any prostitutes arrested under the new vagrancy law to Calthorpe and his Guardian Society do-gooders. Do you remember, they’ve set afoot a scheme to reform streetwalkers by housing them and teaching them trades?”
At Per’s nod, the earl continued. “Apparently they’re having difficulties persuading enough doxies to agree to repent. Hardly surprising, that—as if a depraved female could be reformed at the snap of Calthorpe’s skinny fingers.”
Per frowned, not liking the direction his thoughts were taking. “He wants lightskirts arrested for vagrancy turned over to the Guardian Society, rather than sent to gaol?”
“Yes. And not just for being offensive in public, but also if they can’t give a satisfactory account of themselves. Can you believe his gall? Why, half the women in London couldn’t give a satisfactory account of themselves if asked.”
Per cursed under his breath. The reform-minded MPs whom he had taken such pains to cultivate would be outraged if Milne voted in favor of such a proposed infringement of the immemorial liberties of Englishmen. Or Englishwomen as the case may be. But the mulish set of Milne’s mouth told him that the rights of anonymous masses would come in a distant second to the immediacy of family ties.
His mind raced. How could he frame Milne’s throwing his weight behind Calthorpe in a way that would justify it to the liberals?
A few moments of furious thought, and Per had the answer. He leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Milne’s. “You need numbers, my lord. Good, solid numbers.”
“Numbers? What numbers? The number of whores in London? The average price they charge? How many are infected with the pox?”
“No, sir. Evidence that will
justify locking up the doxies in Calthorpe’s asylums. Exactly how many of those whores he’s taken in have truly stopped whoring? Calthorpe can wave his hand and say they’re meeting with success, but you’ll need facts and figures, ones that show his plan actually works. Otherwise you’ll never be able to explain why you’re supporting Calthorpe, not to liberals such as Brougham. Or to the new Lord Saybrook, if he follows in his father’s footsteps and takes on a leading role amongst the Whigs. He’s out of mourning now, I hear.”
“Yes, yes, I see.” Milne’s tapping fingers stilled as he took in the implications. “Interview ’em, use that newfangled political arithmetic to count ’em up, prove that Calthorpe’s claims are not just a lot of hot air. Brougham won’t be able to plague me for crossing party lines if I’ve solid facts to hand, will he?”
Per sat back, a smile hinting at the corners of his mouth. “Which men should we set to the task, my lord?”
Milne looked up with a frown. “Sending a bunch of fellows to muck about Covent Garden and the like will cause talk. One man, though, will hardly be noticed. May I rely upon your discretion, Sayre?”
It had been a long time since Per had felt that acrid edge of disgust, deep in his gut. With a quick swallow, he forced back the bile that rose at Milne’s ghastly request. Not that it would strike the earl as ghastly; any other man but Per would probably consider it a lark, chasing down and interviewing purportedly penitent prostitutes.
“My boy, I know you don’t typically consort with ladies or lightskirts,” Milne added, a note of caution tempering his usual genial tone. How long had Per remained silent?
Per jerked up from his seat and walked over to stare out the library window at the back garden, still barren in the rainy March gloom. Lord, was his lack of intrigues with the opposite sex a topic of gossip not just among Dulcie’s set, but among their elders as well? Perhaps he should start attending more ton events, if only to prevent speculation. But to return to the stews of London, to perhaps catch sight of Mary Catharine after all these years . . . His gut clenched in protest.
Milne’s hand on his shoulder interrupted the refusal poised on Per’s lips.
“Peregrine. I know this task isn’t to your liking. But you’re the only one I can trust with such a task. Do this for me, and you’ll earn my undying gratitude. And that of Lady Milne. Such supporters are not so easy to come by for a man eager to earn a seat in Parliament . . .”
And just as easily lost by a man unwilling to do his mentor’s bidding, Per understood, though Milne graciously forbore to utter the words.
He turned and gazed steadily at his patron. So this was the way it would be. His peace of mind, perhaps even his good name, all in exchange for a seat in the House. A devil’s bargain, to be sure.
But he had not spent the last six years of his life cultivating Lord Milne only to be dropped for refusing a seemingly harmless task. And if Milne had no inkling of what such a search might cost his protégé, then it would be wise not to raise suspicions with any further delay.
With a short, sharp nod, Per damned himself to the distasteful task.
A smile of relief lit Milne’s face. “I’ll get a list from Calthorpe, with names and addresses of all the penitents who have passed through the Guardian Society. You will interview them and find out whether the claims of reform put forth by the Society are at all close to accurate.”
Milne returned to his desk, clearing his throat as he sat. “Just be sure you keep your activities to yourself, Peregrine. Wouldn’t want any of the eligible ladies to get wind of such goings-on. A wife may look away if her husband visits a demirep, but no woman wants her spouse cavorting with the bunkers and bulk-mongers of the street, does she?”
“A wife, sir?” he asked, confused.
“Yes, a wife,” Lord Milne said with a grin. “Mr. Courtald, I have heard, will not be standing for his seat in the Commons during the next election. That seat is under the control of my earldom. You’ll need a wife, won’t you, to entertain and woo potential supporters? That is, if I’m correct in assuming you’d care to take his place?”
Pasting a civil smile on his face, he bowed to his patron. “Yes, you are quite correct, my lord. I would be most proud to represent the people of Essex in the Commons.”
Lord Milne smiled. “Well then, Sayre, count up these prostitutes for me, and we’ll see what we can do about satisfying your ambition. And come to dine at Milne House on Thursday. We’ll see about finding both you and Dulcie suitable wives.”
Per nodded and left the room, stifling a groan. Prostitutes! This ridiculous project of Milne’s would take an exorbitant amount of time and trouble, never mind the painful memories revisiting the dregs of London would likely waken.
He’d almost rather it had been fleas . . .
CHAPTER TWO
Nudging a knee against the long-tailed gray he had hired from Tilbury’s Mount Street stable, Per wove through the drays and carts that crowded the early morning Piccadilly street. Blast it, more than two hundred names appeared on the list of penitent prostitutes Milne had handed him three days ago. Most of their addresses lay in the dankest parts of London. And in all likelihood not more than one in ten of the girls still resided at her last reported abode. Not only was this undertaking distasteful, it was damn near impossible.
At least today he needn’t guard himself against cutpurses or soiled doves. Much to his surprise, some quite fashionable addresses had been written beside the names of a handful of the women on his list, including the address of Lord Milne’s former opponent, Viscount Saybrook. Had Saybrook, like other charitable supporters of the Guardian Society, offered a reformed woman employment? Or had he lured a penitent away from the path of righteousness?
A sudden rush of hooves and horseflesh sent the question, and his hat, flying from his head. A horseman careened past, in through the gates of Hyde Park.
Damned fool!
But the rider was sitting sidesaddle, not astride. A lady unable to control her mount, with no groom to hand to help her? He wheeled his horse in pursuit.
His blood pounded in time to the hooves thundering beneath him. The gap between himself and the bay quickly narrowed. Urging his horse to keep pace, he moved the reins to one hand. As he drew level, he stretched toward the runaway, grabbing its bridle, forcing it to slow.
Amazingly, the rider had somehow kept her own riding hat atop her head. Its lacy veil had streamed out behind her like a streaky summer cloud until he pulled both animals up sharply. Now he shook his head, trying to dislodge the lace from where it lay tickling against his nose.
He caught his breath, readying himself to calm hysterics or tears. A gentle reminder of the importance of choosing a mount suitable for a lady might also be in order. But before he could utter a word of either comfort or rebuke, two small fists began pummeling him in the chest. What, was the chit hitting him? And after he’d saved her from a probable fall?
Layers of fabric protected his body from the blows, but still, they stung his pride. As a sharp elbow nearly sent him from the saddle, he scrabbled to maintain his balance. Somehow the rider tipped off her horse and onto his, where she landed in an untidy heap, her bottom pointing up into the air. A quite round and shapely bottom, he found himself noting with unwonted, and unwelcome, heat as it wiggled and twisted teasingly under his nose.
His horse, less than pleased by the sudden addition of extra weight, sidled uneasily, forcing his attention away from the lady. Taking advantage of his distraction, she twisted out of his grasp and slid down the horse’s flank, landing in an ungainly heap in the grass.
Per dismounted, then crouched down beside her, pulling back sharply as a toss of her head again swung the lace of her hat in his direction. Once out of range of the dangerous frippery, he looked down to find a round face quivering with indignation.
“Do you mean to kill me, sir? Or is it simply your habit to assault the nearest woman to hand as she takes her morning ride?” The girl—no, woman—glowed with an angry she
en, the color of her cheeks nearly matching the cherry red of her riding habit. He watched warily as her crop whipped at the dirt beside her. Why wasn’t the baggage thanking him for risking his neck to save hers?
Per took a deep, calming breath. “Your pardon, ma’am,” he said, extending a conciliating hand. But the lady, mistaking his intentions, sidled backward, raising the crop threateningly between them.
“Do not think of taking further advantage, you ruffian. I don’t often need to use this on Lady Jane, but I assure you I am well able to deploy it against a blackguard such as yourself.”
Her breath rose and fell rapidly, pushing the fabric of the riding habit tightly across her chest. Why, in the midst of such a ridiculous situation, was he compelled to dwell on that particular sight?
“Why would I be interested in taking advantage of a chit too silly to command her own horse?” Intent on self-protection, he grabbed the end of the crop. “A vixen who threatens a well-meaning rescuer with a beating?”
He yanked on the whip, but the woman, uncommonly strong, pulled back. Per tripped over her heel and found himself tumbling down atop her. The warm curves beneath him sent an unexpected frisson of awareness flashing throughout his body. As he stared into her brown eyes, his fingers, without stopping to consult his brain, clutched at the turn of her waist. If only they had stopped there. But no, they kept moving, as if to shape the roundness of that bosom pressed so close against him.
Damnation! He’d thought he’d trained his unruly body these past six years to disregard any such carnal urges. What the hell was it doing?
With an embarrassed grunt, he pushed up off the ground and came to his feet. Wary of offering his help again, he thrust his wayward hands behind his back, willing them to mind their manners.