“Mark.” All her fears came rushing back. “Mark, I am a courtesan. I don’t fit in your world. Your reputation—your good name—is at stake.”
“So far as I can tell, I would greatly benefit if my reputation were to suffer. No reporters following me about. Nobody writing about my household refuse.” He sighed and leaned back. “It sounds idyllic. We could live in the country. Would you mind that?”
That notion she’d once had, of a cottage in the country, came back to her. But this time, she wasn’t alone. Mark was with her. And that made her country cottage not a place to hide away and lick her wounds, but a place to start afresh, the situation for a new life where she was liked and respected, where she had Sir Mark, where she found herself Lady Turner and not some woman who would be snubbed by the meanest letter carrier. It was so powerful a thought that she was staggered.
“Do you love me?” he asked casually. “You said you did.”
She gaped at him, unsure how to answer.
“Thought so.” He grinned at her. “I can understand that you may feel some trepidation now. But wait until you meet my brothers. They’ll adore you.”
“Awk,” Jessica managed.
“Don’t worry.”
She shook her head. “Those are the two most ineffectual words ever put together by man—don’t worry. I can’t stop worrying just because someone assures me it’s unnecessary.”
He blew out his breath. “Then do worry, if you prefer.”
His assurance did nothing to calm the fluttering confusion she felt. It peaked, sharply, as the crunch of wheels on gravel sounded, and the carriage jerked to a halt. A few moments later, a liveried footman opened the grimy door. Mark handed her down, onto a pristine half ring of white rocks outside a Portland stone building. He took her arm and then swept her through the front door as it opened.
“Sir Mark,” the butler greeted him. He did not seem to think anything was amiss with Mark’s wrinkled attire. Still, Jessica could almost envision the headline that afternoon. Sir Mark: Turning to Dissipation at Last?
“Is Ash still at breakfast? Is Smite here?”
“No, sir, and yes, sir. Mr. Smite Turner is at breakfast.” The butler paused, contemplating his words. “Mr. Smite Turner informed me that you’ve spent the last two nights with him, and that I’m to expect you to be out of sorts.”
That latter, Jessica decoded, was a hint that his brothers were already spinning stories to save his reputation.
“Ah,” Mark said. “I see. Is Ash in his office?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Busy, is he? Could you have him duck into the blue parlor when he’s got a chance?”
“Yes, sir.”
“This is…” Mark paused and cast a look askance at her. How awkward. He probably didn’t even recall her true name. “This,” he said again, “is my fiancée. Do tell Ash.”
There was a slight pause, as the butler turned to look at her. He waited, no doubt expecting a name. When none was forthcoming, he nodded. “I’ll do that.”
“Oh,” Mark added, “please send a tray up, as well.” He conducted Jessica into a room on her right.
She’d known his family was wealthy—he had, after all, thrown five thousand pounds her way without thinking. But she hadn’t quite understood the extent of it until this moment. She felt as if she might have been in a royal palace. Blue velvet cushions lay on delicate rosewood chairs. A tapestry covered one wall; a globe sat on a table, the countries fashioned of amber and turquoise and lapis lazuli.
Jessica didn’t even have a name worth giving. She set her finger on Africa and gave the globe a spin. Mark came to stand by her as it whirled.
“I didn’t introduce you properly,” he said in a low voice.
“I noticed.” Continents passed under her gaze.
“Until I speak with Ash, and we determine how to proceed, I thought it best to wait.” He reached out and stopped the earth as it turned on its axis. “Once we tell the servants who you are, there’s no going back.”
“Of course.” It all made perfect sense. Still, it heightened the feeling that she might not truly be present. This was a room for other people—wealthy, respectable people. Even the candle sconces were decorated with crystals that sent rainbows shimmering about the room.
In the hall, footfalls sounded, heavy and fast.
“That didn’t take long.” Mark turned.
The door burst open. “Mark,” the man in the doorway said, “what in God’s holy name can you have been thinking?” The man crossed the room in three strides and engulfed Mark in what looked like a ferocious hug. “You idiot,” the man was saying. “You mope for a week, and then you disappear for forty-eight hours without leaving word at all. I’ve heard nothing of you but what Margaret was able to glean from the papers. Have you any idea how worried I was?”
“Stop fussing, Ash. I am an adult. I told you where I was going.” Mark pulled away, and Jessica got her first good look at the newcomer. The two men looked…nothing alike. The Duke of Parford was broader than Mark and taller—a physique that seemed suited more to a laborer than to a peer and a businessman. His hair was coffee-dark; his skin tanned.
“Fuss, fuss,” Parford muttered, and he reached out and ruffled Mark’s hair.
Oh, to be part of a family again. It almost hurt to watch. It hurt more when Parford looked over and his eyes fell on her. She could see the wariness creep into his expression, the tight lines collecting on his cheeks. Not much reaction from him, but she felt as if he’d slammed a door in her face.
“We do have a great deal to talk about,” the duke said.
Mark was turning to her. “Ash, this is Jessica Farleigh. She is—”
The duke looked her over, and then slowly, he crossed to her and put out his hand. Jessica blinked at him and then took it.
“So. I suppose we’ll have to figure out how to keep you from hanging in the court of public opinion.”
“I…I suppose we will,” she said.
He nodded politely to her. But as he did, he spoke under his breath. “Hurt my brother,” he told her, “and I will hang you up myself.”
For some reason, the threat made her feel more at ease than mere friendliness.
The duke pulled away and gestured. “Come, Mark, speak with me in my office.”
“Don’t try and exclude Jessica. This is about her, too, and—”
“Leave off, Mark.” Ash rolled his eyes. “Margaret arrived here yesterday—didn’t you hear me say so? She wants to talk to your Jessica. It’s some sort of woman conversation. We’re supposed to take ourselves off and leave them alone.”
“Oh, well, then.” Mark brightened. “You’ll like Margaret. And she’ll love you—I’m her favorite brother.”
In Jessica’s estimation, duchesses didn’t take kindly to women who preyed on their virtuous younger brothers. Especially not when the brother in question was her favorite. “Hmm,” she said. “How comforting.”
Mark was already half out the door.
The room seemed darker after he left, and smaller. She’d come to know Mark when he lived in an isolated house, all by himself, with a few servants to come in and look in on him from time to time—as if he were mere gentry, surviving on a few hundred pounds a year. Even then, the gap between their stations had seemed enormous.
But this… The candelabra on the wall were edged with faceted crystal. The dark, polished wood of the wainscoting met gold and cream and red paper. And when she craned her neck, she saw a ceiling of clever plasterwork, gilt-and-blue edging cunning landscapes. She felt as if she’d walked into a royal hall while wearing a sack. She reached out one finger—not because she wanted to stroke the impossibly delicate vase before her, but just to make sure that it was solid. It couldn’t be real. None of this could.
A tap-tap sounded behind her. Jessica whirled around, knotting her hands together behind her back. She felt as if she were a thief, caught in the act of slippi
ng valuables into her skirt pockets.
But this wasn’t the Duchess of Parford standing in the doorway—not unless the duke was even more broad-minded than Mark had represented.
“Mrs. Farleigh.” The man who stood before her was thinner than Mark, and taller. He was dressed in dark blue. His hair was ebony, his eyes blue. She could see traces of Mark in his face—and none of Mark’s innocence in his eyes.
“You must be Mr. Sm—Mr. Turner, I mean.”
“I see my brother has disclosed my appalling name.” He didn’t smile at her, and she swallowed. They stared at each other a long time, like strange cats, not sure what to make of one another. If she looked away, she feared he might be upon her in a second, rending her fur.
“I don’t bite,” he finally offered, and he came into the room.
“No? You are the magistrate, are you not?”
He sat next to her. “Guilty conscience? Never fear. My jurisdiction doesn’t extend to London.”
She swallowed and looked away.
“That,” he said, “was supposed to be a joke. I’m starting this off completely wrong.” He scrubbed his hand through his hair. “Welcome to the family.”
That had to be some kind of trap. “You can’t want a connection with one such as I.”
He shrugged. “Has Mark told you about me at all? I live alone in Bristol, and I infuriate the local gentry by letting various ragtag scoundrels go from time to time, simply because I believe they’re innocent of the crime with which they’ve been charged.”
“Oh.”
“They’ve taken to calling me Lord Justice,” he said. “Which normally I would object to, but it’s a damned sight better than Smite.”
“So you and Mark have both captured the ton’s imagination.”
“Ah. It’s the common people who call me Lord Justice.”
He still wasn’t smiling, but Jessica caught something suspiciously like a twinkle in his eye.
“What do the gentry call you, then?”
“Your Worship,” he said, drawing himself up. Then he winked at her. “To my face. Behind my back, now…”
She laughed, then, and finally he did smile at her.
“That is all that matters,” he declared solemnly. “Let them say what they wish behind your back. You need only be strong enough that they don’t say it to your face.”
Jessica swallowed. “Well. Then. Lord Justice, what should I do?”
“You had better marry my brother.”
She stared at him. “You can’t hope that. The scandal—”
“Will be tremendous.” He shrugged. “But not impossible. I would list my brother’s many sterling qualities, but if you are not yet aware of them, you don’t deserve him. You appear to be intelligent, but so far you’ve exhibited the decision-making capabilities of a lizard.”
“A lizard!”
“Don’t misunderstand me. Lizards aren’t stupid. But they also drop their tails and flee at the first sign of danger.”
“That’s amusing,” she tossed back. “Mark told me once that I reminded him of you.”
“Really?” He glanced at her, then twisted up his mouth. “I’m not sure this reflects well on either of us.”
“You are not the cruel, sober magistrate I was led to imagine,” Jessica said, shaking her finger at him. “I have been deceived.”
“I’ll only say this once.” His voice was very quiet. “You will not understand, because Mark does not see it. We want very desperately to like you, and for you to like us. If I had an appalling wife, it would make little difference to…” He spread the fingers of his hand, indicating the household. “But Mark. It would be too impossible, you see, if Mark’s wife disliked me. He keeps every one together.”
He met her eyes and looked away. She didn’t know what to say to that, and yet she could see it so easily, just as she could see Mark smiling at her and telling her he liked himself. Of course he did; everyone liked him.
“Besides,” Smite said, his voice shifting slightly, “I am the trustee of the funds that Mark has given you. I can hardly be your trustee if you don’t trust me. This is all a piece of my plan to put you at ease.”
“About that,” Jessica began. But she heard something behind her. She turned her head and then jumped to her feet with a noise that sounded suspiciously mouselike.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you.” The woman who stood in the doorway wore a dark green silk day dress covered by a net of black lace. Her hair was pulled into gentle curls, and she observed Jessica with wide, mobile eyes.
“Margaret,” Smite said. “Mrs. Farleigh. I’ll be off, and let you two converse.”
“I—” Jessica bit her tongue. What was she to say after all? Please, scary magistrate, I’m frightened of another woman.
“You can stay,” the duchess said as she walked in.
Smite shook his head. “No, dear,” he said firmly. “I’m quite certain I don’t dare.” On those words, he disappeared.
“Sit back down,” the woman said, patting the cushion next to her.
Jessica sat uncomfortably, as far away as she could.
“You should call me Margaret.”
“Your Grace.” Mark’s sister by marriage didn’t say anything about her use of the title, but her eyes narrowed slightly.
“You must be Jessica. Mark’s written to me about you. As soon as I heard what had happened in town, I came down. I’ve never seen him in such a tangle, do you know?”
“I’m so sorry—”
The Duchess of Parford dismissed this with a wave of her hand. “My husband would advise you never to apologize in polite society. They’ll take it as permission to savage you.”
They sat in silence, Jessica gripping her knees. A servant came in with a tray and the duchess turned to it.
“Do you take cream? Sugar?” The duchess was a perfect lady—born to the position and then married as highly as possible. Jessica wasn’t sure why the woman was treating her so politely. “No. Thank you. I…I don’t take tea.”
“Coffee? Chocolate? I can ring for something, if you’d like.”
Apple brandy would likely be out of the question. Jessica shook her head. The duchess poured herself a cup. “Of course I have an ulterior motive in coming here. I want to meet the woman who has turned Mark upside down.”
“Did he tell you I was a courtesan?”
“Well, no.” She set her cup down. “Not directly. But Ash did. Really, if I’m to introduce you to every one, we’re going to need a better story. Which is why I am here. Mark is too much of a gentleman to ask, and Ash would never think to do so. But…how likely is it that you’ll be recognized?”
“I…I wasn’t a particularly famous courtesan.”
The duchess made an annoyed sound. “Pardon my directness on what must be a delicate and uncomfortable matter. Nothing else will serve. If you’ve lain with half the men in London, please tell me now, so we can pack you off to the country before the truth inevitably comes out.”
“Oh.” Jessica shut her eyes. “Not half.” Her voice was quiet. “Not a quarter. Not any sizable fraction. My friend Amalie and I, we had a rule. You see, every man is a risk, so…”
She opened one eye and bit off the rest of the sentence, before she offered the Duchess of Parford an explanation of how to pick a protector.
“But it doesn’t matter. It takes only one,” Jessica said, her throat closing. “And…and more men knew of me than knew me, so to speak.”
The duchess nodded sagely. “So it shall be a small family wedding, then, and a formal wedding trip abroad. Then you can retire to the country to start a family. Is Jessica Farleigh your true name, or was it one you adopted for the profession?”
“I’m Jessica Carlisle.”
“Good. We’d best use that, then. That way, the announcement won’t cause a stir in and of itself.” The duchess picked up her cup again and took a tentative sip.
Jessica shran
k back in her seat. “I… If I marry Mark, Your Grace, I promise not to intrude too much. You’ll not need to see me—”
The woman set her cup down. “Not see you? My dear, Parford Manor is in the country. I’m afraid I’ve given you the wrong idea.” She took Jessica’s hand. “You must excuse my forwardness. I have been thinking of you as a potential sister ever since Mark wrote and asked whether it would be proper to take a walk alone with you outside. I never had any sisters, and none of my brothers have shown the slightest inclination to provide me with one up until this moment.”