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Higgins met her nearly a mile away, where prying eyes would not know her, driving one his Lordship’s unmarked carriages. He informed her that after she had changed her gown at the inn, they would be meeting and transferring to a second, finer carriage in another part of town, and then finally make their way to Lord Robert’s home. His Lordship’s care in concealing her identity was gratefully accepted by the lady.

When Elizabeth had emerged from the door of the inn, dressed in the gown she had once worn to the theatre so long ago, poor Higgins could not help but gape at the loveliness before him. She shyly bowed her head. “I had forgotten you have never seen me as myself, have you, Higgins?”

“Yes Ma’am. I have actually; ages ago in the winter. I once saw you with your aunt and cousins, playing in the snow, but, well, you didn‘t look like you do now. I must say his Lordship has once again proven his ability to find beauty where most folks would not have thought to look.” He suddenly looked aghast for having voiced his opinion. “Beg pardon, Miss Bennet.”

“You are forgiven. However, from now on I am to be addressed as Miss Chantal Moreau by his Lordship’s staff. And I would not mention your observations in future if I were you. Rest assured, I shall not”

“Yes, Miss Moreau. And Ma’am, you should know, I have served his Lordship all my life, and have kept all his secrets as well. I just want you to know, well, Miss Bennet and all that, only me and the attorneys know, and I will keep your secret safe, too.”

Her surprise was evident. She extended her hand and, shaking his, she sincerely answered, “Thank you Mr. Higgins, your promise means more than you can know.” He swallowed hard, quite taken with this remarkable young woman. “And when do we leave for Surrey?” she asked, lightening the air.

“I believe on the morn, Miss Moreau. For now, the carriage awaits you, Ma’am.” he said, bowing with deepest respect.

The staff tried valiantly to not peek out the windows every few moments, intent on looking busy, when all they wanted was a chance to espy his Lordship’s latest conquest. More than one gentleman in town had given standing orders that, should a footman of Lord Caldhart’s learn of a new mistress at his home, the well placed, early conveyance of said information would be worth a fair bit of tuppence. Unfortunately, only a select few servants had been in on the secret of his newest acquisition. And it was only a matter of an hour earlier that the entire staff had been informed, therefore none could leave their posts in time to collect the reward.

His Lordship proudly greeted the beautiful Miss Moreau and welcomed her to his home. His staff were introduced to their new mistress, nervously curtseying and bowing to her. He then conducted a tour of the house, whereupon she was honestly able to express her wonder at the place. They were to partake of a very early dinner, which surprised Elizabeth until his Lord Caldhart explained himself more fully.

“My Dear, I have a rather unusual request to make of you this evening.”

“My Lord?” she questioned.

“Tonight a ball of some import is to take place. The Blakely’s have hosted it for years and it is the highlight of the end of the Season. It is a masquerade costume ball, and is always attended by the crème de la crème of the ton. I would ask, as a personal favour to me, and not as a stipulation of any agreement we have entered into, you accompany me tonight, so I may have the pleasure of showing you off to society before we retire to Surrey.” He saw her startle and panic.

“Rest assured Miss Moreau, your costume will allow you the anonymity you have always sought. Your own mother would not recognize you.” She was not pleased. He attempted to assuage her fears.

“Chantal,“ he began sweetly, “allow me to tell you some things about yourself. Your beauty does not strike most men in the usual way. It is your essence that attracts; the aura, spark and vitality which emanates from you. You have a stark sensuality in all you do, every move you make, every sentence you utter, which attracts a man, and draws him to you. Then your beauty, in all its variations, ensnares them. Without the hindrance of looking for a wife, a man wishes for a woman exactly like you. A woman to stir his loins, a woman he would make love to all night without thought to his health; that is what you are. You were made for love, Chantal, I knew it the first day I saw you.

“Tonight the men at this ball will know who you are. You are my new mistress and as such you will create such a stir, such an interest, only the king or the regent will have known the like. You can do as you please, talk to whom you please, flirt with whom you please. This one night you will be the elite of society and everyone there will seek you out with a vengeance. Would you not find it amusing that the proprietress of Johnson’s House of Cigars will be the belle of the largest ball London has ever seen?” She looked at him earnestly, trying to find deception in what he said, but she could see none. He tenderly grasped her hand and beseeched her, “You are the flame the moth is drawn to, and men are the moths. Will you not agree to come tonight and be my flame? Would you not find it diverting and help to assuage the sadness you are suffering?”

She informed him that, providing her costume proved adequate disguise, she would go.

She sat in front of her dressing table, wearing only a heavy silk robe. She watched the rose hues in the garment play off the warmth in her complexion under the soft flickering candlelight as she thought about how triumphant dinner had been. His Lordship had obviously gone to great lengths to please every possible taste bud on her tongue and could not have been more successful. Her exquisite costume had proved more than adequate to disguise herself, and now she sat in her new dressing room, getting ready for the Blakely’s ball.

Gemma, her new maid, had just unwrapped the towel she had used to keep her hair from getting wet in her bath, when the adjoining door opened.

Elizabeth looked into her mirror and startled at the sight of Lord Robert gazing steadily back at her. “That will be all for now, Gemma. Your mistress will summon you when she is ready to finish dressing.” The maid hurried out the servant’s entrance door. They stared at one another through the confines of her mirror. He slowly approached her, his eyes were searching her face, looking for fear and, seeing none, smiled down at her.

She smiled nervously back. “Your obvious … interest in my person makes me slightly unsettled, my Lord. Please forgive me.” There was a charge in the room, not unlike their encounters in the cigar shop, yet not tension, it was merely an energy; unsure where it should go.

“Without an ‘interest’ in you, our bed would be very dull indeed. But I can stimulate your interest as time goes on, and make the experience very enjoyable for you. You have to be willing to open your mind to new ideas, and toss out all the warnings your mother no doubt told you. The world would not be populated if all ladies kept their knees locked, Chantal. Maidenly modesty will have no place in our bed.”

A deep blush spread instantly across her face and neck as she whispered, “You speak of such things as if they were nothing, like talking of the weather.”

“It is perfectly natural for lovers. Would it not be better to be open and easy, conversing on the subject? I would never bring it up but when we two are alone. I mean to educate you.”

“I see. I suppose it only makes sense, as you… have the experience.”

He laughed lightly. “Yes, I do have the experience. I shall be happy to impart all I know in improving your education.” He moved nearer, close enough for her feel his breath against the back of her hair, the sound of his clothes rustling next to her. Now he spoke quietly, endearingly, seductively, “I have always admired your superior tactile senses; use them. Allow them to open up those parts of you not yet awakened.”

He stood behind her still watching her in her mirror. It was as though she was in the theatre, watching someone else be touched and spoken to. It was not an unpleasant experience. She felt movement in her hair as he picked up the heavy length of it. “Your hair is a cascade of rich dark chocolate.” He buried his face into its mass, breathing deeply. She observed him, fascinated, as he rubbed the length of it across his face, as she had once seen a cat do to a soft pillow. His eyes were closed, seemingly relishing in the feel, the texture of her tresses as he repeated the action once again. “It smells of rosewater, and feels like warm silk.”

He moved closer, she could feel the warmth of his forearms at her ears, his breath on the top of her crown. She watched as he took both of his large hands and, starting at her temples, his inverted fingers ploughed deep furrows into her head, moving towards the back. He then grasped his fingers hard; her curls still imprisoned, and held them there for several seconds. She thought she would feel pain, but instead, felt relief as the tension flowed out her body and into his strong hands while he repeated the act over and over. Her eyes closed involuntarily; it was heavenly.

“I have something for you,” he whispered into her ear, his hands still clenching her, his lips almost touching her. “I wanted my first gift to you to be special, memorable, and something I knew you would appreciate above all things.” Her eyes opened, mesmerised at the sight of this man still entwined in her locks, his face next to hers as they both looked at each other in the glass. He languidly drew his fingers down the length of her curls until he was finally free.

Then he drew a small jeweller’s box from his clothes and set it in upon the dressing table in front of her as he knelt next to her. “Please, open it; I think you will like it.”

She took the box in her hands hesitantly. She had little enjoyment of jewels, and wondered how she could keep her face from betraying her indifference and embarrassment. Still, he had made an effort on her behalf, and he was trying to please her. She could draw from that. She slowly opened it and could not help the laughter which escaped her. “It is truly exquisite, my Lord. A more perfect effort I could not imagine.”

He grinned and reached for it. “May I?”

“Yes, please.”

He then cautiously picked up the delicate little ball and held it tantalisingly in front of her lips. They were both watching the morsel and then looked up into one another’s eye at the same time. He silently pleaded for her to do what she already desired. She licked the dark chocolate as he held it, relishing once more in the delight it afforded. He watched her, fascinated, as she took her pleasure at his fingertips, still never touching him.

He finally held it back, and she obeyed his request by opening her little mouth and he placed it upon her tongue. She waited for the joy of the confection melting in her mouth while watching as he sensuously licked the chocolate remaining on his fingers. He looked back to her and finally saw the beginnings of desire stirring within her as she regarded his actions.

“Close your eyes,” he softly entreated. He licked one chocolaty finger and drew the wet digit slowly across her bottom lip. He then watched her, knowing her automated reaction would come. Indeed, she had little conscious knowledge of what she did, when her own tongue started across the span of her velvety lower lip, taking up his offering of the food he had already had in his mouth. He shuddered.

“Keep your eyes closed,” he begged. He stood up behind her, and folded the cuffs of his dressing gown back several times, baring his lower arms. Slowly he ran his smooth inner forearm across her upper and lower lips.

“Skin touching skin. There is no other sensation like it. Use all of your senses, smell it, feel it on the sensitive patches of your face.” He ran his flesh gently across the tip of her nose and her chin, before moving back to her lips, settling his wrist against them.

“Press your lips against it, do you feel my blood?” She opened her eyes, to find his locked onto her face. She was surprised at the intensity in his look. She tentatively did as he asked, and could feel the strong beat under her lips.

“Your beauty makes my heart race,” he confessed. ”Taste me. Allow your tongue to feel my pulse.”

She started breathing more rapidly now, worried he was going to consummate their relationship right there in her dressing room.

He must have seen her panic, for he assuaged her worry, “Do not be afraid, my Dear, we have years to explore all the ways of love making. It is no small undertaking, I assure you. You have already read some upon the subject, I daresay, but practical experimentation is the only way to learn its lessons. Now close your eyes, and let your tongue, with all its sensitivity, taste its first man, and feel my blood’s song.”

He swept the fingers of his other hand gently down her eyes, closing them carefully and sighed as he felt the warm wetness of her shy tongue tentatively meet his wrist. His skin was soft and tasted slightly salty. She could smell the faint remnants of spices, no doubt from his bath. His pulse beat strong against her tongue, and she was surprised how intimate it felt to touch him thus.

His other hand grasped the length of her hair, and twisted it gently around his wrist, then laid it carefully up over her shoulder and neck to eventually fall across her front down to her waist. She could then feel his fingers at the base of her neck, slowly pulling the collar of her robe down her back. It had no tie and therefore the more he pulled, the more the front of it inched up her body. The feeling of the smooth silk sliding across her bare skin underneath was exhilarating and she could not help the breaths which came more quickly now. He continued pulling until a fair portion of her back was exposed and, although hidden by her dressing table, her legs and feet were now exposed to the air in the room, which she noticed was decidedly warmer than when she had left her bath.

He removed the wrist she was no longer tasting to attend to her newly exposed skin. She stared blatantly at him in the mirror, though his gaze was completely devoted to the beauty of her exposed flesh. She felt his fingers, a mere whisper of a touch, along her spine. Her shoulders drew back involuntarily, setting her even straighter. His hands were supple and warm, and knew where to touch her to best make her feel so…… lovely, yet he seemed to barely make contact with her. How could such limited contact make her feel so many wonderful sensations she did not know, but all of her skin seemed attuned to him each time his finger tips came near.

“Massage is the art of rubbing or kneading the body to lessen pain or stiffness. However, when the body is not in pain, and when the artist applies his hand to bring pleasure to the subject, in a much lighter, much more sensual manner, that is different. The French have a word for it, which I forget at this moment, especially when I gaze upon the glory your skin is. You have a beautiful back, Chantal. It is strong from all the exercise you give it, but it is also strongly feminine, it curves and sways, it moves to its mistress’ ways and, even sitting still, it is uniquely you, and devastatingly appealing.”

He then drew up and gazed upon her image one last time in the mirror. Her eyes were now closed, her lips were parted, her chest rising in rapid waves. He took a deep, restraining breath. Lowering himself slowly down, he placed his hands around her small waist, and his nose brushed over the indents exposed at the bottom of the small of her back, as he inhaled her essence deeply into him. Then, directly over her naked spine, her lifeline, he softly kissed her for the first time.

The next sound Elizabeth heard was Gemma asking her about the manner in which she wished her hair to be done. She looked around the room; Lord Robert was nowhere to be seen. If not for the disarray of her robe and her hair, she would have thought it all an erotic dream. She also saw a box upon her table not previously there. She opened it to reveal a magnificent ruby and diamond choker and earrings with a note:

Please forgive my presumptions, but I thought my second gift should at least try to live up to the standards my first brought you. I think they will compliment your gown tonight beautifully, but all the accoutrements are nothing compared to the woman wearing them. -R

“A rather expensive speculation,” she thought as she admired them. They were obviously made in the eighteenth century; their style was a perfect accompaniment to the period costume she was to wear. She briefly wondered what he would have done, had she not agreed to accompany him this evening, but quickly dismissed it. When had Lord Robert not gotten what he wanted?

Her maid had exhausted herself putting up her hair in an elaborate style, then powdered her locks completely. They struggled getting her into her corset and panniers, then finally the decadent silk gown. Elizabeth was not used to the large protrusions at her hips, and spent many minutes walking up and down her chamber to accustom herself how to move. Turning was the largest problem, but she soon discovered how much room she needed to allow to do it without knocking into the furniture. She and Gemma giggled at her efforts.

She sat one last time to adorn her throat and ears with her jewels. The rubies were beyond anything she had ever seen, much less worn. He had chosen well; the colour was perfect for her and set off the dark red hues of her dress. The final touch was a Venetian mask covered in rose silk that covered most of her face. Only her fine mouth, chin and jaw were exposed. Her eyes could still see be seen and see perfectly well, though a little of her peripheral vision was obscured. They finally secured it into her hair; enabling her to spend the night with her hands free to move. She almost jumped at his voice.

“From the time I saw you that night at the theatre in your garnet gown, I knew I wanted to drape you in rubies,” he said from the connecting door to their chambers. Gemma curtseyed and disappeared.

“You are stunning. I fear you will break many hearts this evening.” His pleasure also evident in his gaze.

“I believe you will be well pleased if I do, will you not, my Lord?”

He laughed at her boldness. “You begin to understand me, enchantress. I do indeed relish the idea of other men envying me. Come, I have one thing more I wish to share with you,” he said as he led her through to his chambers. He retrieved two glasses from the table near a handsome leather sofa, and bade her drink. Bubbles tickled her nose while she took in the pleasure of the fragrant cool liquid. She giggled and he joined her.

“The finest French champagne that could be smuggled out from under old Bonaparte’s nose. A decadent luxury I can only indulge in occasionally, but I thought it appropriate to welcome you with a bit of your home, my dear Chantal.”

Her brow rose in the playful, impertinent manner that so bewitched him. “Merci beaucoup,” she responded, with a surprisingly good accent.

“Ha!” he laughed. “I should have known you would not pick France without a command of the language. Am I to assume you have no worries over your skills in that area?”

“Non, aucun,” she answered easily.

“My dearest Chantal, you will simply have them eating out of your hand.”

Chapter Seventeen

Posted on Friday, 2 December 2005

London, May 1813

The night air was warm for mid May, but the gentlest of breezes kept it from being stifling. Elizabeth fidgeted in Lord Caldhart’s luxurious carriage, a fact he did not fail to spot. He took her silk gloved hand in his. “My Dear, tonight is your night. You can say whatever you want; no one will expect a prim and proper lady. They know me, and they will wish to know the woman I bring with me. If it pleases you, indulge yourself to the fullest. Imagine such freedom, such entertainment and such power!”

It was an exhilarating proposition. The freedom to be whomever she wanted, free to say and do for one evening, and then disappear, and never be held responsible; this piqued her vanity.

A small, wicked grin began at the corner of her mouth. “Very well, my Lord, for your sake and the sake of my ‘education’, I shall perform for you this evening. Though I guarantee no success, only earnest effort.”

He laughed again. “Chantal, you have never failed me yet.” He raised her hand to his lips, kissing it and then gently pulled. His head bent ever closer to her until he was almost at her mouth, when the door suddenly flew open. They had stopped at the entrance to the Blakely’s and had not noticed. She shyly smiled and he straightened back up, disappointment plainly written upon his face, before he grudgingly descended from the carriage and then turned to hand her out. Many gasps could be heard around her as Chantal Moreau made her first appearance in London‘s highest society.

“Have you seen her yet?”

“Who?”

“Look, over there, in the circle of men. The French woman.”

“My word!”

“Hmmm mmmm.”

“Who is she?”

“Caldhart’s.”

“No!”

“Oh Yes.”

“Again? How does he do it?”

“You are assuming he does do it.”

“I’m surprised he doesn’t have an entire boys’ school of illegitimate offspring.”

“You are assuming, again, the first two legitimate ones were his.

“Have you spoken with her?”

“Yes, she’s a fiery one. Be careful not to arouse her ire; she has quite a bite. But clever as the devil.”

“I hear there’s a bet going around that no one can stump her. It is already over two hundred pounds.”

“I wish you luck! The short time I was near her, I heard her remark in her native French, then German and Italian, on subjects from Napoleon to Cowper. She even corrected one gentleman’s biblical quote.”

“A bluestocking?”

“Hardly! And even if she were, who cares if she can fill a dress so enticingly.” Both sighed.

“I thought the parts she was not wearing were enticing.”

“I suspect stumping her is not the only bet going around.”

“Shall we stop for a write up in the book at White’s later tonight, then?”

“Indeed! Death, or incapacitation?”

“Does it matter?”

“One of the first times I ever met her, she tried to poison me.”

“Surely you jest?”

“Oh, no! I am quite serious.”

The gentleman bowed his adieu and left Lord Caldhart to chuckle over his great good fortune. That rat would no doubt spread this juicy bit of gossip around the room faster than the North wind blows.

He had been vastly amused at the conversations overheard in the packs of wolves that lined the ballroom. The women were equally fascinated with his lady as well, but were careful to keep their bites to themselves, for now. He knew the drawing rooms would be full tomorrow of dull rich women trying desperately to tear his lover to shreds.

“Let the old crows fight,” he thought. “My jewel stands out above them all, and they know it.” He had his glass refilled and took a spot upon a nearby chaise where he could watch the show progress at leisure.

She was beginning to understand the lure of power. The men who encircled her seemed willing slaves to her every whim. Even those who had been sent or came of their own accord to best her eventually succumbed to her wiles. It was a feeling she had not known before, and quickly realised its potential to destroy a person’s soul, should they become a slave to it.

She continued on through the evening, enjoying herself more and more. Eventually, she noticed one man, always on the outskirts of her growing entourage. He never spoke to her, and if she tried to meet his eye he looked away. He was tall, with long dark hair, much longer than what most gentlemen wore. The tips of the curls could be seen peeking out under his hood and mask. His skin was very dark and she pondered if perhaps he was a Spaniard, or an Italian? She hoped he would speak with her, as he was increasing her curiosity every moment.

Her chance came later, when her admirers were momentarily distracted and she bravely strode directly to him and, curtseying, said, “Buenos Noches, Señior.” He looked shocked, then amused, and shook his head.

“Buona sera signore?” He shook his head again.

“Excusez-moi, but I do not speak Greek, only read it; perhaps I could write it down for you?”

“Good God, you think I am Greek?” he exclaimed in perfect English.

She laughed delightedly. “Not anymore,” she slyly replied, while looking up at him through her thick lashes. Their eyes met for a moment until, feeling heady under his intense gaze, she sought to distract herself from the flutters she felt.

“Forgive my bad manners, but your skin, I have never seen an Englishman so dark, your mother, she was perhaps Spanish or Italian?”

He looked down at his hands as if seeing them for the first time, and the truth of her observation. “No, I have just returned from the Mediterranean. I spent long days in the hot sun there and have become unusually tan.”

“And will you not join your fellow Englishmen in conversation? I notice you stand away; you listen, but you do not talk.”

“Forgive me, I did not mean to be rude.”

“I do not think I said you were rude, Monsieur. Perhaps you are merely shy?”

“I confess I do not conduct myself well with strangers.”

“I am a stranger, and you are conducting yourself very well.”

“Thank you, I am trying to improve. And if I may be so bold, Mademoiselle, you make it very easy. ”

“It is a very foolish woman who does not like a compliment. And I can easily return the favour, for you have been a delightful partner to converse with, and seem at perfect ease.”

“No, that will not do for a compliment. My dearest friend has often chided my habit of standing by myself in a stupid manner, when I had much better dance, or at least converse. I am afraid my fastidious habits have often robbed me of the pleasures of good company. Label me a beginner, and tell me I am learning well, but I know I have not mastered this skill, nor behaved in a completely gentlemanlike manner.”

He spoke lightly, laughing good-naturedly at his own deficiencies. But he would not have continued had he paid closer attention to his partner. He would have stopped his self-admonishments had he noticed Mademoiselle’s face drain of all colour and the panic set upon her as she attended his hands more closely. He would also have kept quiet and offered to be of service to her when her legs began to give way and she tottered dangerously towards the floor when she noticed the telltale signet ring upon his finger.

Instead, he was only able to help her when she finally grabbed his arm in panic, knowing she could no longer support herself.

“Good God! What is the matter?” he cried as she crumpled against him. He helped her to a nearby bench, around the corner and out of the main ballroom. He snatched the fan that hung from her waist and applied it to her face and neck. She knew he would be wondering what she could possibly be thinking while she looked at him with such intensity, yet she could not stop herself.

“How can I help you, shall I fetch you a glass of wine?” he asked in real concern. She slowly shook her head.

After a several agonizing minutes she seemed to finally calm, and was able to answer him with some semblance of composure. “No, I am well. I was just, the heat, it is overwhelming. And this costume…” Her hands flitted in front of her. “I am afraid I am not used to such things to torture women, or so much.. much… dress.”

He chuckled. “How can you make light, when you nearly fainted just now?”

“How can I remain serious when I see you waving a laced fan in front of me?”

He laughed again. “May I know the name of the lady I have rescued this evening?”

“It is a night of masquerades, Monsieur, we need only share what we wish.” She held out her hand to him. “Chantal,” she said simply.

He took her hand and pressed his lips to the back of it. “Enchanté, Chantal. Mon nom est….. Will.” He finally decided. She smiled beautifully, her eyes softening, radiating the love she felt, but knew he would not recognize.

“Will,” she sighed lovingly, thrilled that for once in her life she was able to address Fitzwilliam Darcy, the man who owned her heart, by his Christian name. His face betrayed happy confusion when she had practically caressed his name. He stayed by her for most of the evening, contributing to the conversations occasionally, but mainly watching her, studying her, and making her fall even more in love with him.

At one point, a group of ladies stood near her, and she could hear some of their conversation. Two dressed in Elizabethan gowns and draped in jewels started, “Really Louisa, this is just madness, I cannot tell one gentleman from the next, and so many of them refuse to use their proper names. I have met two William Shakespeare’s and even a Sophocles tonight. How is one to know where one’s proper set is?”

“Caroline, do not distress yourself. Enjoy the night for a change. I do not believe Darcy is even here. I’m sure Charles is not. Meet new people, see if you can find a partner for a dance. You tire me out with your complaints, and I am sure they can do you no good. You are developing a large frown line through your brow, you know.” Caroline gasped and excused herself to look for the line. Elizabeth laughed to herself. Perhaps this evening would prove more entertaining than she had expected.

Later, when she stood among her male harem she saw the two women again nearby and, feeling the effects of her power, began her revenge. She turned to the unsuspecting gentleman staring puppy-eyed next to her. “What do you Englishmen do when you find a woman who is really a man?” she innocently asked. There were several coughs, and some snickers, until one man braved to ask her to explain herself.

“In France, we have men who enjoy wearing the clothes of a woman. Sometimes they will come to a ball trying to pass themselves off for the whole of the evening as a woman. I have seen such a man tonight, and wonder how you Englishmen find them? “

“How do you know she was really a man?” another asked.

“I could tell right way as she was so, like a lamppost, oui? We French have little use for women who are, who resemble the Milo stalk. You see, they are not suited for love, I fear. But this woman, despite her jewels and her orange gown from Shakespeare, was definitely a man. I am sure I saw,” She pointed at Will’s cheek, where his sideburns showed slightly beyond his mask.

“Comment appelez-vous ceci?” He blushed.

“Whiskers,” he whispered.

“Oui, yes, I am sure I saw whiskers on her, his cheek.” Elizabeth could hear a shocked squeak behind her as she delivered her final insult. “He would do well to grow his whiskers better and find ‘imself a good wife or a mistress. He does not make une dame trés… appetissant.”

Darcy hid his laughter behind the back of his hand, while the other men, with blank looks on their faces, stared at him. He whispered to the man next to him, careful that should Caroline Bingley actually be there, and nearby, she should not hear his voice and recognize him.

“Appetizing woman,” he told him. The secret soon made its way around the circle of her admirers and the laughter then began in earnest.

The ball was hardly begun, yet half the men in the room were indeed already in love with Lord Caldhart’s newest mistress. She danced when she felt like it, and refused more than one man when she felt like it. When one dim-witted fop protested she would have to forgo dancing for the rest of the evening if she refused him, she laughed gaily and asked why.

“Proper English ladies do not dance again once they have refused a gentleman for a set.”

“Ah I see! Thank you for this information. ‘ow fortunate I am not an English lady, nor proper, Monsieur; it is most advantageous for me, is it not?” He stormed off in a huff, amidst the sniggers of the men who swarmed round her.

At one point, when they found themselves in a moment without others, she whispered to her new friend. “I see you do not dance, Will,” she questioned, her face very near his again.

“No, I find little pleasure in it most times, but tonight, in particular, I do not wish to dance.”

“Should I feel insulted?”

He cringed at his obvious faux pas. “I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle. I truly did not mean to imply... I simply, that is, I do not wish to draw attention to myself.”

She frowned at him and he blushed under her scrutiny once more. Suddenly understanding dawned on her. “You are hiding from someone.”

His blush deepened. “Yes,” he confessed. “A woman. She chases me relentlessly and I am at my wits end to be rid of her.”

“And she is here tonight?”

“I believe so.”

“Is there anything I can do to help you?”

He leaned into her face, very close, and with a hushed voice said, “Not unless you have a foil under so much …much dress.”

Her mouth dropped open. Was he flirting with her? She had not thought it possible. Her fan flew open as she giggled sweetly behind it; a dark blush stained her throat. “If I did, you would be the only one I would allow to borrow it,” she teased back.

“How long were you away from England?” she asked. He looked away, pained. He felt her small hand on his arm, “I am sorry, I am too personal?”

“No, of course not. I have just returned and am simply not used to answering questions about my trip. I was gone over nine months.”

She calculated quickly; he would have left in early August. “Nine months! But you would have been travelling in August, how miserable that would have been.”

“We actually started out in July from the north, then eventually crossed the Channel by early August.”

“You did not go alone?”

“No, I brought my sister, and my closest friend and his family. I am afraid I learned the truth in the old saying, ‘if you wish to know the true character of someone; travel with them‘.”

“Your friend was not what he seemed?”

“Yes, he was himself as always, it was his family whose presence tormented me and unfortunately my sister as well.”

“I see. I pity you and your sister. I hope your trip was not completely ruined?”

“No, we made arrangements to spend time apart from them. My sister and I enjoyed our private time together very much. I have come back a much happier man.”

“You left because you were sad?” she asked, her voice almost betraying her heartache.

He weighed his reply carefully, “I left because there was no more reason to be in England at the time.”

She nodded sympathetically. “I understand. You need not say anymore, my friend. I too, have known loss, both a loved one, and the loss of my true love.”

“But Caldhart…”

“Ah, no…. he does not ask for my heart, and I could never give it. Nor does he give me his. Such is the way sometimes,” she sighed heavily. “I wish for some fresh air, and solitude, I think.”

She turned to him, dismissing him. “Thank you, Will,” she said with sweet aching sadness. And then she left.

The stone bench in the garden was cool, but the heat of the evening, and the pain in her heart, made her hot and uncomfortable. Her tears were silent and stoic, and fell as much for herself, as for Fitzwilliam or Lydia. She was glad she had seen him. She was grateful fate had allowed her the chance to stand in his presence, speak with ease and friendliness and especially with the tiny bit of tenderness she felt they had shared. She held onto the precious memory and willed herself never to forget.

Caldhart had come to her, and asked if she needed anything. She had told him she was merely a bit overwhelmed and need some minutes to herself, to which he readily agreed. She looked up to the vivid moon, a fat slice, beaming down to her. She felt suddenly very small, and not at all powerful. Another noise at her side brought her out of her reverie. She looked up and saw Fitzwilliam Darcy standing before her.

He had taken off his mask and hood, and now she could see him clearly for the first time. He was startlingly handsome. He had let his hair grow out far longer than she had thought; never had she seen a man with hair that length. His face was indeed very tan, but it gave him a beauty she had not considered possible in a man. Her hand involuntarily reached for his jaw, touching it with just the tip of her finger.

“You are very beautiful,” she said without thinking. He returned her gesture.

“Not when compared to you,” he whispered, as he ran his fingers down the exposed edge of her jaw. She jumped at the contact, panicked, and immediately ran down the path deeper into the garden.

He followed closely behind, alarmed. “I am sorry, Chantal, I should not have done that,” he pleaded after her, until she finally stopped.

“No, no, I did the same. I can only claim losing my wits for a moment as an excuse. You were perfectly right in believing I was giving you permission. Only,” she sighed, “I am not alone tonight.”

“Why are you with him?”

“We come to it at last,” she muttered.

“Yes, please, I want to know.”

“Always, a man wishes to know why a woman has fallen. The intrigue of why she has chosen, it seduces, no? He thinks up stories in his head, imagines many kinds of tales to bring her to such a state. He maybe thinks he would have saved her too, if he could have been there. My tale is just such a one. My story is as wild as any in your head. But you were not there, and he was.

“I am here because he provided me with what no other could: revenge, mon Cher, against the man I hated most in the world. The man who ruined my family, and enjoyed it. A man who taught me to be cruel and turned my heart to black, when he tortured me with his actions. A man whom I would have been happy to watch die.”

Her eyes were on fire. They sparked and flamed and tore through to any soul near her. Her chest was rising and falling so quickly he could see it straining against the confines of her daring dress, as her venomous speech against her enemy continued unabated. It was as if her confession and hatred opened a new door to her spirit and, though in evil conceived, the energy fully enveloped her like a sensual devilish halo.

He stood mesmerized at the sight of her. She watched his face, trying to read him, when she finally plainly saw something she had never recognized in him before; desire, white hot, burning desire, for her.

For the rest of her life she would never understand what instinct took over at that moment. She did not know that, like every woman throughout time, the knowledge of the power she suddenly held over the man she loved, the man she herself desired, spurred her needs into involuntary action and her lips spilled without effort, "Vas-tu me détester maintenant *? Does this make your blood burn in your veins and make you wish to strike me?” She paused, letting him consider.

“Or do you burn to do something else? To feel my lips against yours? To touch my skin? Does it make you want me less?” Still they stared at one another, their chests rising in unison, quickly, painfully, almost hyperventilating. Breaking their locked eyes, she turned her head away and, daring him to take the final step, in the most delicate of whispers she added, “Do you burn even half of how I burn for you at this moment? Will you..”

But her next words were never heard. He grabbed her hand and in one fluid motion spun her around and instantly into his arms and under his mouth. His hand was like a vice on her back, smashing her hard against the length of his body, his other hand at her jaw forcing her head to meet his assault, his fingers on her neck and into her hair touching the smooth finish of her mask.

He kissed her as though he wanted to exorcise the demon that filled her with such passion. His tongue filled her mouth, thrusting and sucking at her as though trying to capture the spirit threatening to take him down with her. Her first real kiss. Not a kiss on the hand, not a kiss on her back, but a kiss on her welcoming mouth by a man with whom she was desperately in love with.

She suddenly had to see his face; imprint this glorious memory firmly in her head. She grabbed his face in her hands and wrenched him away. They looked intensely into one another’s eyes, their breath still ragged, until, satisfied she finally begged, “Please! Encore une fois!” And he took her mouth in his.

They heard voices heralding someone coming from the house, causing Darcy to withdraw from her. He grabbed her hand and dragged her to the back of the garden, where the trees grew thick and tall and dark. There he found an alcove, sheltered on three sides, covered in thick vines and pushed her into the wall, claiming her mouth once more. She whimpered at the feeling of his lips upon hers, the velvety softness of his tongue when he sucked her lower lip into his mouth and ran it over her.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked, concerned at her sounds.

“If this is pain, I will gladly endure it forever,” she sighed.

“Chantal,” he whispered, his warm moist breath continuing to sweep her lips. “I wish, I want to..”

“Yes,” she hoarsely choked out. No sooner had the word begun to leave her lips, when she felt his hands upon her. She groaned and tensed from the decadent shock that coursed through her body. She tried to concentrate on what he was doing to her, trying to fathom what she was experiencing. Her mind was flooded with so many messages; all astounding pleasures that assaulted her senses at once.

“Let me give you more,“ he pleaded. “There can be more for us.”

She looked up to his earnest face, so torturously beautiful, and knew, in that instant, there was something they could share, something she could give to him. The one thing no shame could take away and the only thing a woman truly owned. She only had this to give to one man, and she knew that now she had the chance to bestow it upon him, she would. She knew there would be no shy explorations. If she was going to have one time with Darcy it would have to be here, now, passionate, intimate, urgent, but without comfort, tenderness or delicacy, despite her innocence. She leaned forward and just before she connected with his lips, she whispered happily, “Yes, Will. Take me.” And she kissed him fiercely.

Elizabeth later lay against his shoulder, trembling from the aftermath of their pleasure and the torture of her heart’s sorrow. “Forgive me, Fitzwilliam, I love you,” she meekly whispered, still gasping for her air.

Darcy was finally beginning to come out of his own haze, his brain starting to register just what had happen and what this lovely seductress in his arms, was saying to him. Forgive her?

His memory was reminding him of what she had been saying just a few minutes before. I love you… Fitzwilliam… forgive me… and most disturbing of all, madam’s French accent was no longer there. Indeed, a very British accent was replaying in his head, a dreaded whisper was creeping over his conscience: he knew that voice. Startled, his head flew up. He looked squarely at her, attempting to discern exactly who he was looking at. Her white hair piled upon her head, her lovely silk mask covering over her face, and her eyes, her fine eyes with their long thick lashes, now shrouded in deep concern as they gazed back at him. Like a carriage speeding to run him over, his next actions and thoughts occurred as in a blur, he could not stop what he was thinking or doing, however horrifying to him it might be.

“No, no it cannot be…..”

His hands moved of their own accord, as he violently tore the offending shell off her face.

But there she was, tears in her eyes, as he dropped them together to his knees, there was his love, his Elizabeth in his arms.

“Oh my God!” he cried, whilst thinking, “My lover! But no, not mine, she is Caldhart’s mistress. What was she doing?”

“Why? Why would you do this?” His voice choked with emotion. Holding himself in check was taking every ounce of his strength.

“I love you,” she hushed. “Please forgive me, I love you Fitzwilliam, truly I do.”

He brought his arms around her and held her shaking to his chest. Her tears fell unabated.

“Elizabeth, what have you done?” he sighed. They sat holding each other for several moments. Her tears finally stopped, as she realized they could not stay as they were, each moment brought the possibility of discovery closer. Elizabeth carefully smoothed her clothing, shyly avoiding his gaze. He caught her chin, and gently, lovingly, kissed her lips. “You are so beautiful, so magnificent,” he whispered.

Elizabeth almost began to cry again at his tenderness with her as she winced in pain when she began to stand up. Darcy frowned to see her face in such obvious agony. Once again his mind replayed the recent past; had she not stifled a cry?

Elizabeth quickly averted her face, embarrassed by what he had seen. She had no idea he would have been able to discover her secret. He looked up to her, the tears now running down her cheeks again.

“How can this be? Is it true, am I really the first..?”

“It is what I wanted, Fitzwilliam, it was the only thing of worth I could give to you. It always belonged to you, along with my heart, and it is the last decent thing I may ever do. Tonight was like a miracle for me, to be able to give you this. I cannot regret this, but I do regret if I have hurt you. Please forgive me Will.”

Darcy was trying to make sense of it all. Lord Caldhart was known for his mistresses, how could he not have consummated his relationship with Elizabeth? It did not seem possible.

However, he would not lose her now. If Caldhart was too weak to make Elizabeth his, he no longer cared if he stole the man’s mistress right from under his very nose.

“Elizabeth, you must come away with me! This moment! You are by rights now mine. Please say you will come! You do not have to continue under his protection. I love you, Elizabeth. I always have.”

Elizabeth’s head was spinning, here was Darcy, her one great love, telling her he loved her, he always loved her! Her eyes betrayed her elation to him as she looked up to him while he made his plea.

He was so overjoyed he hugged her fiercely against him as he cried, “Thank you Elizabeth, thank you so much! Thank God you have accepted me at last! I swear I will never let you regret this moment for the rest of you life. Perhaps someday we may be brave enough to tell our children the story of their parent’s extraordinary marriage!”

And suddenly Elizabeth’s spinning ended with a dull thud. The future. Their future. Fitzwilliam, their children, Georgiana Darcy. With Elizabeth connected to them, there was no future, there was only estrangement, shunning, vicious gossip, whisperings and shame. Anyone connected to her would share in the shame her family had already experienced; Lydia was barely recovered and decent. As a lowly family the Bennets were bound to marry clerks and lawyers, no one would wonder or care much at the hint of scandal now conveniently covered up, but as the illustrious wife of Fitzwilliam Darcy, they would snoop.

Lord Caldhart alone could ruin her reputation with the sweep of his hand. She was his mistress, she had signed a contract and, even now, some of her things were in his townhouse. She may not have consummated their relationship, and she may be incognito, but what did it matter?

And what of Wickham; what if he chose to come after her? If she was married to Darcy he would not hesitate to blackmail her, or her husband. He could have her thrown in prison for what she did to him. No, she could not have him; she could not hurt him, or his family in such a way. A future with him was not possible.

Now she had to do what she had only just claimed she did not mean to. She had to break his heart, refuse him, and truly make him hate her. The only way to do that was to go where she had already promised herself. She had to become Lord Caldhart’s mistress in truth tonight, and stay with him as long as he wanted. She had made her demands and he had acquiesced to them all. She had her revenge, she had her family restored, her sister’s death avenged, and now she had to pay the piper. Her price had never included a future for herself, it was always meant to benefit the rest. Now that the possibility of her own happiness was sitting before her, unattainable, it was a bitter moment.

She swallowed hard and, in as calm a voice as she could muster, answered, “Fitzwilliam, you have honoured me more than you can ever know, but I cannot marry you.”

His embrace froze. He pushed her roughly back and stared hard into her face, his own flushing red as his breath was held. She continued, “I am bound to him and cannot leave him; I have made a promise which I intend to keep.”

Darcy could not believe his ears. His tempered raged so quickly his body began to shake.

“Keep your promise to him?” he snarled as his hands squeezed her rib cage. “You did not keep yourself for him tonight!” He was so angry, he needed to lash out, and Elizabeth was about to bear his full abuse. “Even in dealings of ill repute, it seems you have no honour,” he spat at her.

“Our arrangement begins on the fifteenth of May, which is tonight, at midnight. He, he wanted to show me off before returning to his home tonight. I had made no promise as to my…. condition when I finally came to him.”

“A thin excuse for a clear betrayal. You have used me ill, Madam.”

Elizabeth was starting to get angry herself. “You thought I was his mistress, and yet you did not hesitate to take advantage of me! You used me for satisfaction of your lust, thinking I belonged to another man!”

“Advantage? You seduced me and then say I took advantage of you? Oh no, I assure you, your arts are well-tuned madam, your allurements on fine display,” his hands indicated her décolletage. “No, I did not seduce you. And now you dare refuse me? Now you deny us, and start your new profession as harlot? How dare you speak to me of love! What profit did you hope to achieve with this? Does Lord Caldhart not give you enough allowance? Did you hope to gain another benefactor on the side and improve your situation even more handsomely?”

His venom cut her to her very core, but she knew she also deserved every insult.

“Yes, my love, use your emotions! Deny none of the strength of that hatred and use it to cast me off, it is the only way,” she thought. She wished he would strike her, put her in her place. She was a harlot, and not good enough to wipe his boots. She had to make him leave, give her up, and never regret her, so she struck back with the one thing she knew he would never forgive her. “He is the only man who would have me after finding me with Wickham,” she spat.

Slowly he rose to his feet. He straightened his clothing silently, never taking his eyes off her. The bile rose in the back of her throat, and she fervently prayed he would leave, as she could not keep from sobbing much longer.

Finally, he looked away shaking his head back and forth. She thought she spied a tear in his eye as she watched his profile. His voice began, broken and barely above a whisper, “I know not how you came to be with him, I no longer care. But I warn you; never seek me out or speak to me again.”

He walked away, never stopping, never looking back. When the door into the ballroom closed again, Lizzy was free to let her emotions run wild, and her racking sobs did not stop for what seemed an eternity. She finally re-emerged, her dress straightened, her mask back in place, her French persona etched into her brain. She immediately sought out Caldhart and asked if they could retire for the evening. He was smugly happy at the invitation of his impetuous new mistress and happily led her to their carriage.

* Translation of the French: Do you hate me now?

Chapter Eighteen

Posted on Friday, 2 December 2005

London, May 15, 1813

The carriage ride was frustratingly short, in Elizabeth’s opinion. She had kept her head turned away from him for its duration, thankful for the mask that hid her red eyes and swollen nose. Her mind was in a constant state of turmoil, her complexion a ruination from excessive emotions, and now she had to face a night in the bed of a lover. For the first time in over six months, she suddenly longed to be at Longbourn.

She was startled out of her thoughts by his taking of her hand. “My dear Chantal, you are trembling,” he said, concerned. She could only nod. “You are nervous about me, about us?”

“Yes, of course,” she whispered, still not daring to meet his eye, lest he see her clearly.

“My darling girl, I am a patient man. Take all the time you need tonight. Do not feel anxious. I promise this night will end happily for us both. When we arrive, I suggest you retire directly to your rooms and bathe. At the very least, you will want to rid your hair of that dreadful powder.”

To this she could not help but give a slight laugh, grateful for the chance to lighten her mood in anyway. “Thank you my Lord. I should like that very much.”

“You need only ask, and your wishes will be attended to, my Dear. Do not forget your role in my household or with myself. We are a couple, not master and servant. I want you to act as mistress of my home; it is now your right.” She bowed her head, acknowledging his generosity.

Gemma helped her out of her dress first, in an effort to keep the powder off of it. She began to undo the laces down the back of the heavy silk gown until it was finally removed. Elizabeth groaned and stretched her arms. She was desperate to feel some freedom again, but could not until her corset was removed. Next the maid removed the pins that held her hair, and brushed out as much of the powder as she could unto a linen sheet spread around the floor of her mistress’ pretty dressing room.

As the maid carefully began to untie her, the corset creaked, straining to be unleashed.

“It wants to be removed as much as I wish it,” replied Elizabeth.

Finally, the last lace pulled, it dropped down and into her maid’s waiting hands, who had looked up and gasped at her mistress’ back. There on her side, was a deep purple bruising of a large handprint, clearly marking her. Her mistress turned to see what her maid had gasped at and saw it too.

“That will be all Gemma,” she quickly said. “You may draw me a bath, and then leave. In half of an hour you may then return to empty it. I will bathe, and then later finish dressing myself, alone. Thank you.” The maid curtseyed and left hurriedly.

Elizabeth walked to her mirror; examining herself. “What am I to do now?” she whispered.

She found a box waiting for her when she returned from her bath. Inside, it revealed an exquisite negligee of finest pale pink silk, nearly the colour of her skin, and a matching dressing gown. She donned the pair, relieved to see it was not as immodest as she had dreaded. The sensuous feel of the softest material she had ever known was lost to her, as her anxiety increased with every moment that past. Finally, resolved to allow this to agitate her no more, she reached for the handle to the adjoining room.

Caldhart sat on the sofa in front of the fire in his room. He wore a dressing gown of brocade silk in sapphire blue which suited him admirably. Had she any notion of trying to feel anything for the man, such agreeable sights would have helped tremendously.

“You are a vision,” he said simply. She rounded the sofa and sat hesitantly on the far end.

“There is more champagne, still sparkling. Would you care for another glass?”

“Yes, thank you. I believe I would.”

“I have also had some strawberries brought up. They compliment this libation very well, and I think you would appreciate the delicate nuance the combination affords.” He handed her a tiny red fruit, encouraging her to partake. She did so, and as soon as she had swallowed, she realised she was quite famished. So much had taken place that night, so many emotions spent, she barely had strength left and needed to replenish herself. He seemed to understand her needs as he then uncovered a large platter upon the low lying table in front of her; cold meats, cheeses, fresh bread, blueberries, strawberries and the ever seductive chocolates greeted her. She sighed in grateful relief.

“I thought you might need something of this sort.”

“You are very attentive, my Lord. Thank you. It is exactly what I would have wished.”

She spent the next minutes satiating her hunger with a vengeance. He was right, the strawberries, and then the chocolates proved to be a superb combination with the champagne. He sat observing her devouring the plate, seeming to take delight in each bite she took. She was too hungry to be embarrassed by his stares. She finally gave a great sigh and closed her eyes; her body finally satisfied and ready to obey its mistress’ commands without complaint. She delicately wiped the corners of her pert little mouth when his voice cut through her contented air.

“George Wickham is dead,” he said.

Her napkin hovered in mid rise.

“No, that is impossible; he could not have died from my blow.”

“You are correct my Dear, that did not kill him.”

She studied him. He sat still as stone; no hint of emotion on his face, while her own heart hammered in her chest. “But you know how he died. You are not in the least surprised.”

He did not answer. Her mind went immediately back to the tavern, how he had acted, as well as his behaviour in the coach afterwards. “What are you keeping from me? When did he die? How?”

“He died this morning, or yesterday morning as it is now Saturday, from injuries he suffered in a fight.” He was once again leaving whatever information he wanted out.

Images of that night flew like sparks from a bonfire through her head as she spoke her thoughts. “The men in that tavern, I thought I recognised two of them. Were they merchants from Meryton? Who were the others that were there?”

“I suspect many of them were merchants, my Dear. Some others were tradesmen, from many different towns; all of them had one thing in common.”

“Wickham.”

“Yes, Elizabeth, they all were very well acquainted with Wickham.”

She shivered thinking of how full the tavern had been. “You made him the pawn; you knew what that mob would do to him.” He did not answer.

“You lied to me.” She swallowed hard, recognising the bitter truth of what he had done. “You knew he would never leave there alive. It seems I have been too naïve in some ways, and not enough in others. You led me to believe that you agreed I had chosen a more noble path; that I had walked away from damning my eternal soul by not taking his life! His death is on your head- it was because of you!”

“No Elizabeth, it was because of you!” his voice rose. “You made the request! Have you forgotten so soon? Your obsession with revenge against him facilitated my enabling you to indulge it. We two are bound by the fate he suffered. It was your price to be paid, and it was my efforts that led you to gratify it.

“How can you be angry with me over this? I would not have expected this reaction. Did you feel you carried no guilt as to what might happen to him? You have never inquired once about him since we left. As far as you know, he could still be sitting tied to that chair, bleeding his life away. We are both guilty and you know it. We are bound together by this, and nothing you can say will change it.”

“You twist the truth to suit your needs Sir!” she cried. “If I had asked for ten thousand pounds and then reduced it to five thousand, you would not have paid the ten. You had the ability to save him. You alone could have gotten him out of the tavern without further injury. You kept the truth of his destiny from me, and therefore you sealed his fate!”

He grabbed her roughly but she kept on, “And Lydia! I wonder now, when did you find out Lydia was dead? Did you really just discover it that night? Did you know about it before? Days before, weeks before? Tell me!”

He released her and answered calmly as if she had enquired after his health. “I found out in April a few days before I had met with you and given you Lydia’s handkerchief.”

Elizabeth gasped, shaking her head. “Did you ever see her? Did she ever know her rescue was imminent?”

“Higgins found her grave in Lophook. She had died last fall of a miscarriage on her way to Portsmouth, thinking she was meeting up with Wickham to sail to America.”

She groaned aloud, distressed and angered beyond all her reason. “Lies, all lies, and deceptions. You never showed your cards. I should have known, I should have been more clever. I was always frank with you. I played this game of yours fairly. But your premeditated contempt for my morals was too much for you. You wanted me to kill him! You purposefully goaded me with my sister’s death in the hopes I would exact my revenge! You wanted me to be as evil as you are. Curse you! Curse you to the devil!! You do not deserve anything you have, least of all me!”

“Are you backing out on our agreement?” He was very angry now.

“Our agreement is void sir; you have violated every written and unwritten aspect of it. You have failed to acquire that which I desired; you have not fulfilled your end of the bargain. You have no honour even among whores, thieves and murderers.”

“Your sister’s reputation is restored; she is believed to be a married woman.”

“My sister is dead!” she screamed. “You merely bribed a ship captain to lie and say she was married to a rake.” She grabbed her jewellery box off her dressing table. “How much does it take for something as simple as a wedding license to be obtained; twenty pounds, thirty?”

“Fifty pounds; a years’ income of your precious dowry,” he spat.

She threw the money at him. “And before you accuse, that is my money, I earned it making your filthy cigars! Anything more? Higgins did all your dirty work for you, didn’t he? His salary cannot amount to more than 20 pounds a year, here is six months salary for him, then,” she hissed, while throwing another wad of bills at him.

“Did you pay for the mob to be at the tavern? Somehow I cannot imagine you giving them all transport into London.”

“No. I merely sent letters advising them where Wickham would be and when. They came of their own accord.”

“Fine,” she said, throwing more bills at him. “For the post,” she seethed.

“You are the most despicable person I have ever had the misfortune to meet. Wickham seems almost honourable compared to you. I did not think my contempt for another human being could be greater than for him, but you sir, are the lowest. I rid myself of you. I will not stay, I choose my freedom. I leave now.”

“You are mine and only I can say when you may leave.”

“How wrong you are; I have repaid my fees, and given you none of my person. I am not yours. I choose who I will share myself with, and you, Caldhart, will never be one of them. ”

“Oh, very good! The maiden refuses her first conquest! How quaint. Do you think you will get to pick and choose who will be your next lover after I tell them who you really are? You will be lucky to even know the name of the man who next takes you, after I have broken you.”

“I hardly think anyone will listen to the rantings of a criminal from Newgate Prison, do you? Enabling a murder must carry a rather stiff sentence, would it not?” He shuddered.

“As for breaking me, my Lord,” she fairly hissed, “you are rather tardy in your attentions, I have already granted that privilege to one a thousand times more worthy than you.”

And with that, she opened her peignoir and negligee, giving his Lordship an incomparable view of her heavenly form, before she tied it back up. For a brief moment he was awestruck; he had never seen such a siren of seduction before. But quickly it turned to unmitigated rage, for all over her were the signs of the activities in which she had indulged.

“You harlot!” he screamed, as he lunged for her.

The servants in Lord Caldhart’s home had often been called upon to attend to matters of unusual requests, and at unusual hours. However, nothing could have prepared them, nor accustomed them, to the sight and sounds of his Lordship and Miss Moreau fairly flying through the house, in such a state of undress, and screaming such words of venom at one another. They had no idea what to do under these circumstances.

They felt their first loyalty was, of course, to their master. But as he brandished a whip and tried unsuccessfully to use it upon their new mistress, they could do little else but stare in horror, and try to stay out of the way, lest they themselves be struck. Their only respite would come when the lady, who was significantly faster than the gentleman, would duck into an unoccupied room and quiet would seem to once again reign over the household. Unfortunately, it did not last long, as either the shouts of one, or the screams of the other, would be followed by a quick departure from the sanctuary.

The noise reached a fevered pitch when the unlucky lady ventured into the game room, with his Lordship close upon her heels. His misplaced strikes rendered many pieces of his precious collection to ruin as he chased her around the room. They ended in front of the windows which, unbeknownst to her, happen to face full west and daily allowed the brilliant blazing afternoon light to illuminate the room and the fine crystal chess pieces that now stood between her and her attacker. She hesitated and he lunged once again, sending the prized set shattering to the floor. He took a brief moment to register the destruction of his favourite possession, unheeding of the significance of the act, before racing after her retreating figure as it sped out the door.

“Who is he?” he yelled at her.

“A far better man than you!” she retorted, as she started the climb up the grand staircase.

“You will not find better!”

“I would find a man I love.”

“You love no one, save yourself, you jezebel. Now tell me his name, so I may skewer him later.”

“I will go to my grave, before I tell you that.”

“You will suffer the same fate as any tart, you stupid chit!”

“At least I will have known a man who did not deceive to get me into his bed!”

“You are mine, and no other’s.”

“I am his, and I will never be yours! Not now! Not ever!”

They were both upon the staircase now. He started the assent at the bottom while she spat her contempt as she backed up quickly, keeping him always in her sights.

“You have lost, Caldhart! You have no more grievances with me. In all your finite dealings, your manipulations of everything to suit yourself, all your compulsive attentions to details, you failed to stipulate under what condition I would come to you. Your inflated ego could not comprehend that I would be anything but a maid; for you to baptise on the font of your hedonistic bed! But I get the last hand. I move the last piece. The game is over. Checkmate, Robert; I win!”

She shouted her last words while her chest heaved from the run. As she stood towering above him, daring his retort, his eyes suddenly bulged in his head. They had run from one end of the house to the other, no small feat for her, but impossible for a man just turned two and sixty. He stood on the landing between the two sets of grand staircases he had chased her up, and drew a strained breath. The servants above and below them in the great hall stared in disbelief as he grasped his arm, his face twisted in wretched pain, and fell to his knees, then slumped to the floor in a heap.

“Doctor,” Elizabeth whispered. Then recovering somewhat, she yelled, “Someone fetch the doctor!”

They stood like frightened sheep, alarmed at her fury. She pointed to the nearest footman. “YOU! Go fetch the doctor NOW!” she screamed, as she flew down the steps to him.

Charles Bingley settled gratefully into the soft comforting leather of the chair at Whites. He was exhausted after his futile attempt to persuade Darcy to remain in London. After staying up half the night with him, he had risen early to sadly seen his friend off to Pemberley that morning. Darcy was in quite a state. Despite Bingley’s entreaties, he could not get him to confess the source of his obvious distress, nor agree to any ideas of continued fellowship with him there in London. He did not think it a good idea for Darcy to go off alone, but there was nothing to be done. He had seen his friend despondent before, aloof certainly. But this time he seemed to be both dejected and keeping a surging anger just below his outward composed countenance. Bingley wisely decided to leave the man to himself.

He stared sleepily into the fire, wishing to wipe the unpleasant memories from his head, when a commotion was heard in the hall. It started small, but grew quickly to a large ruckus. By the time he had turned in his seat, he saw many men, shouting and moving together towards the famous betting book. Many looked cheered, yet some were obviously perturbed. A servant passed by his elbow, and he stopped him to inquire what this tumult was about.

“Haven’t you heard, Sir? Lord Robert Caldhart is dead!”

End Book One

Posted on Thursday, 8 December 2005

Book Two, Chapter Nineteen

Sitting across from him, a kind, elderly lady saw his agitations and tried to comfort him. “It can be a bit overwhelming, lad, can’t it?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he answered.

“And where will you be going to?”

“Lambton. Do you know it?”

“No, I have never been that far north. And did I hear yer Da say you were going to family?”

“Yes, my cousins, whom I have never met.”

“Still, that should be a comfort to you; to be with family.”

“It is. I thank you.” He closed his eyes then, his lack of sleep the night before finally catching up to him, and fell into a fitful rest for the next several hours. At the various stops he woke and stretched his legs, then went back to sleep as soon as he was back inside. That night, he took a room at an inn, but was still up an hour before dawn and could not find sleep again. The coach continued its passage northwards for the length of the next day. At the end of the long journey, after seeing many different passengers come and go, the coach pulled into the final stop for the night; Lambton. Bidding farewell to the drivers who had been helpful and hard working, Michael then slipped off into the night, away from the bright little village.

There were no Dunbarton cousins in Derbyshire, but the story of their existence proved helpful to his peace of mind. People would be less likely to bother a youth who had relatives awaiting his arrival. Following the instructions he had been given, he walked to the smithy and finally spotted the trail that headed west. He knew he had a long trek ahead of him, and was at least a bit lucky in there being a half moon to help light the way.

Almost four hours later, Michael finally arrived, nearly exhausted, in Oak Hill. There was a small inn, strangely named The Crow’s Nest, where he took the cheapest room. The innkeeper had a bit of food and ale left over to sell him, for which he was grateful. It was hearty and filled his empty stomach. The name of the inn soon became apparent while he sat eating, as the walls were covered in sailing paraphernalia; a tribute to the unfulfilled dream of the innkeeper. He finished his ale and went to bed.

The next morning was crisp and clear; the sounds of farm animals in the distance could be heard, making him smile. Fresh clean air and the relative quiet of the country was not something he was used to after living in London so long, but now he rejoiced that he had the leisure time to relish the calming effect it had upon him. He bid the lady of the inn a happy good morning on his way out the door, intent on exploration and search for employment.

He walked through Oak Hill, inspecting the shops, inquiring if they had need of a worker, but was unsuccessful. Market day was set up in the town centre, and he joyfully perused the carts, purchasing ripe fruit and vegetables that could be washed and eaten raw, and would serve as his midday meal.

Later, while he ate his goods, he watched the people of the town. He could be anywhere in England right now, he conjectured; the towns and the business of its people did not change. Only the names and faces were different to other places he had seen.

One of the vendors, whom he had avoided earlier, was in full voice, coaxing a hesitant woman to buy his fruits and vegetables. Michael had not shopped at the man’s cart, for he had discerned as he walked by that the produce was not as fresh as others. The lady had her empty basket, and the man was quickly beginning to bargain with her, appealing to her purse, instead of her taste buds. The woman hesitated still, and soon the seller was starting to lose his patience, grabbing the woman’s arm and insisting she buy something, now that she had wasted so much of his time. Michael did not hesitate.

“Leave this good woman alone!” he berated as he stepped between the two. “She has every right to turn down your goods, and right she is to have done so. You dug those carrots more than a week ago, your peas were plucked too early and your beans are already dry on the inside. If you want to do a brisk business, start with the quality of your goods and tend your fields and orchard better.”

A small crowd had gathered around him, always happy to witness a good fight.

“You know nothin’ about my fruits and vegetables, so blow off, and mind yer own business.”

“He’s right, Taylor,” answered one of the bystanders. “I seen you out last week digging carrots, and you ain’t been in yer field since.

“Well, how can I harvest more, when I ain’t sold this lot, eh?”

Michael sighed and rolled his eyes. “Sell your goods today for half price. They are only good for a bad stew now, so think of who will be willing to buy them.” The man stared back at the youth, astonished at his advice. Michael continued, “Accept the loss for now and pick a small amount of what your fields have and only the ripest and best. You can ask more money for better goods, and you will not have to break your back carting them into town. More money, fewer goods to have to sell, and you will not be forced to feed any of your cash crops to your pigs. Do you understand?” He looked around, suddenly cognisant of the faces staring back, astounded.

Finally Taylor, the fruit and vegetable farmer, swallowed and answered. “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir!” He looked on the young man with wonder. “But, if you please, Sir, how did you know about my goods?”

The young man smiled and merely tapped his nose as he turned to the elderly lady. “Can I be of any assistance, Madam?”

She smiled brightly at him, and gestured into the market. “If you would indulge me, lad. Would you be willing to help me with my shopping?” He laughed, and agreed.

They slowly walked back and forth along the rows of carts. She inquired after his name and situation, then informed him of hers. Michael picked up items as they strolled, feeling them and breathing in their fresh aromas. She gave him her requirements, and he delighted in filling her basket. When they were done, she inquired what had brought him to Oak Hill. He explained that he had only just arrived, and was staying at the inn while searching for work. When she asked if he should like to come back with her to Fairhaven Manor where she worked as cook, and partake of the goods he had helped her procure, he was happy to agree.

Mrs. Keane had been employed by Mr. and Mrs. Thurgood of Fairhaven Manor her entire life. She had slowly worked her way up the rungs of the ladder of seniority that existed in kitchens, from lowly scullery maid, scrubbing pots all day, to head cook. In its day, the house had been a bustle of activity. Mr. and Mrs. Thurgood often entertained, and the kitchen staff was large and industrious. Now, with Mr. Thurgood gone for so many years, and Mrs. Thurgood’s advancing age, the kitchen staff, as well as the entire household, was significantly diminished. She enjoyed her work, especially the ties with her fellow servant; Mrs. Edwards the housekeeper, her closest friend in the world and her sister.

As Mrs. Keane studied this handsome youth across from her, she was struck with desire to see if there might be a place for him at Fairhaven Manor. After their conversation in the market and travelling to the great house, she regretted his skills with consumables did not extend to any knowledge in the kitchen arts. The staff was setting up for afternoon tea, and she bid Michael join them all. Her sister was introduced, and she delighted in watching the reactions the young man was having upon the housekeeper. Several hours, inquiries and teapots later, Michael was finally allowed to return to the village. Mrs. Keane knew her sister would be bubbling to have a private conference after he left. She did not disappoint.

“Edwina, wherever did Mr. Dunbarton come from?”

“I have not been able to winkle it out of him, sister, but is he not a find?”

“I believe so! He is very fine, despite his clothing. I wonder what his story is.”

“He claims only to be looking for honest work, though I dare say he has not seen too hard of times. Did you notice his hands? He has never had to do rough work. I’m sure he is a gentleman, Constance. You should have heard him in the market today, defending me, and helping that nasty Mr. Taylor at the same time. The old codger was put in his place and had to thank Mr. Dunbarton at the same time.”

“He defended you? Were you threatened?”

“Good heavens, no, sister! I merely meant he very gallantly came to my aid.”

“So curious!”

“Indeed.” They both sighed.

“How I wish we could keep him,” Mrs. Keane stated simply.

“But what could we do with him?” The housekeeper thought for a moment. “We do not have a position for him to fill. He is too clever to be a footman, not to mention too slight. And Mrs. Thurgood’s steward is more than capable.”

“I know! It vexes me to think some other family or place will snatch him up.” Constance kept thinking.

“Mrs. Thurgood is most in need of a companion. If Miss Richardson had not left so abruptly, we could have a replacement already here.”

“Well, one can not hate Miss Richardson for falling in love, my dear.”

“Maybe not, but I can still be angry she has left me in need, as well as given me extra work.”

“True.”

Constance was suddenly inspired and exclaimed, “What if we presented Mr. Dunbarton as a personal secretary to the mistress?”

Edwina laughed. “You mean like some Grand Duchess who needs someone to arrange her social calendar?” she asked.

“Exactly! If Mr. Dunbarton can sit through an afternoon with Mrs. Thurgood, and not mind the mutterings of ladies, he would do quite well. And if he is half as clever as we think, he could also help the steward with his business, or at the very least, help Mrs. Thurgood understand it.”

“And could I still have him to go to the market with me? I do not exaggerate his skills there. Think of what he could do to improve our table!” the cook added jubilantly.

“Sister, I believe we may have found our solution.”

The next morning, Michael was surprised to receive word a messenger had arrived and asked if Mr. Dunbarton would come to Fairhaven Manor at his earliest convenience. The innkeeper and his wife were quite impressed with their guest who had garnered an invitation to Mrs. Thurgood’s home and now treated him deferentially.

He presented himself at the kitchen door of the great manor house later that morning.

“Mrs. Keane, how may I be of service to you?” he inquired, bowing to her.

“I believe I may be of service to you today, young man,” she answered happily.

Michael had never been interviewed for employment before. Now faced with the prospect, he felt a fluttering in his stomach he was not typically subject to. He chastised himself inwardly and, after taking some deep calming breaths, finally affected a serene countenance and entered the drawing room containing Mrs. Cecily Thurgood.

Her housekeeper and cook had practically waylaid her the evening before, singing the praises of a youth they had found who was looking for employment. The mistress was a good judge of character, and though the sisters had a tendency towards some silly outbursts, they could be full of good common sense and values as well. If the two had seen something above the ordinary in this young man, at the very least she would take the time to be acquainted with him to see if there was a place for him in her household. Between the three ladies there would be enough opinions to make one sound judgment.

Mrs. Cecily Thurgood was a lady who, even upon introduction, made one smile. She was very petite, with round spectacles upon her nose, which matched the roundness of both her cheeks, as well as her middle. It was not her penchant of resembling a tiny pumpkin that pleased and made one at ease with Mrs. Thurgood; it was the smile that always graced her features and made her dark blue eyes twinkle when she looked upon you. She was simply a woman not made for unhappiness and beaming came as naturally to her as breathing. Therefore, within minutes of meeting the mistress of the house, Michael was at perfect ease, and completely contented to be speaking with her.

Mrs. Thurgood could sense the intelligence of her prospective employee, as well as the comfort he felt in her presence. After an hour’s conversation, the two felt a bonding of kindred spirits between them, for her kindly deportment did not belie an underdeveloped mind. Quite the contrary, she was well read, and enjoyed stimulating conversation, which Michael was all too happy to provide.

The only fault she could find in him was the young man’s unwillingness to be forthcoming with regards to his personal history. He dodged, evaded and circumvented the subject with expert skill, much to the fine lady’s discontent. However, she felt whatever circumstances had led him to leave his family or situation, he was not of malicious or dangerous tendencies, and felt no fear or anxiety in having him around.

“Well, Mr. Dunbarton,” she exclaimed as she started summarizing the situation. “What do you think you could do for me here at Fairhaven Manor; how would we keep you busy?”

“I would be happy to do whatever you ask, Mrs. Thurgood. However, I think I would be most useful to you as an assistant or companion to you each day. I know it is out of the ordinary to have a gentleman wait upon a lady, but my youth would perhaps excuse the ‘bending’ of society’s rules shall we say?

“I see. Then you admit you are a gentleman, do you?”

He realised his error, and now was unable to correct it. “I… I was raised as a gentleman, Madam, though I have not had the benefit of a university education. I regret I am unable to expound my history any further than I already have. Please believe me when I say in earnest that attending you would in no way be out of the ordinary for me. I think we two would get on quite well in that regard. I am happy to read whatever you might like, and provide whatever conversation in which you would care to endeavour. I can also help Mrs. Keane with her marketing, as well as act on your behalf with your steward, if you should ask it of me. I should like to learn more about the running of an estate. I have had some minimal experience with it and can always benefit from more knowledge, especially if it would help you in anyway.”

Mrs. Thurgood’s smile grew wider as the young man’s speech continued. As he spoke with such unabashed sincerity and honesty, she knew that spending her days with this interesting youth would provide her with a contentedness she had not felt for some time. Her housekeeper and cook had been surprisingly astute; here was a true find. “If that be the case, Mr. Dunbarton, I think you should return to The Crow’s Nest.”

“Madam?”

“You will want to pack your things as soon as may be if you are to start working for me immediately.”

Michael broke into a smile which matched his new mistress’ as he stood and thrust his hand rather impetuously at her, and then shook her hand vigorously. “Thank you Mrs. Thurgood! Thank you very much, indeed!” he gushed.

She laughed at his youthful exuberance. “Go on, now. Be sure to stop by the kitchen and let Mrs. Keene know you are coming to live with us, though if I know her, she and her sister are standing outside the door as we speak.” Her last words rose in volume, and slight shuffling could be heard outside the room. They both looked to the door, and then back at one another, and shared a knowing chuckle.

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