Page 5 of Sinfully Daring

“Because she’s had lots of lovers?” Rosamund asked curiously.

Jules laughed and shook his head. “No. I don’t see why a woman can’t enjoy her lovers if she wishes to, though only if her husband agrees with the arrangement. As Hargreaves has still not produced an heir, I cannot think he likes the situation, though, and I dislike that. I dislike deception and causing trouble in a marriage. She does not seem to care for propriety or discretion, but then again Hargreaves appears not to give a damn about what she does either. It’s just all a little… odd and… oh, I don’t know. It’s none of my business, but I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could throw her, not enough to take her as a lover anyway. Good luck to her, I say, but she’ll not enslave me, that’s for certain.”

Rosamund nodded, relieved Jules meant to keep away from her.

“Ah, the next dance is imminent. I promised it to Kathy de Beauvoir. Have you seen her?” he asked, looking about the ballroom. “I thought she seemed a bit out of sorts.”

“She was with Hart in the refreshments room earlier,” Rosamund offered, as he headed off in search of her.

She was glad her brother was dancing with Kathy. He was right, she had seemed out of sorts. Rosamund wondered if it had anything to do with Lord Vane. She’d seemed very taken with him at the St Clairs’ ball, but he was not here tonight. Perhaps that was the reason for her distraction?

Rosamund looked up to discover Lord Hargreaves heading towards her.

“Back so soon, my lord, and what have you done with my mama?” she asked, quirking an eyebrow at him.

“Heavens, you make me sound positively villainous. I have returned her safely to the duke,” he replied indignantly. “What did you imagine?”

“Oh, I don’t know. My imagination is a terrible distraction when I’m bored. I’m sure it comes from having a writer for a mother.”

“Bored, are you? Well, I must do my best to be diverting, then. Did you remember to save me a dance?”

“Of course I did. I do not suffer from such problems as plague the aged, like memory loss, my lord.” She bit her lip, struggling to keep her expression placid.

Hargreaves tsked at her, shaking his head. “Oh, for shame, my lady. You would mock a man of my advanced years?”

“I would, I’m afraid,” she replied with a sigh. “It’s very bad of me, I know, but the temptation is irresistible.”

“Wicked creature,” he exclaimed. “And what dance have you deigned to give this decrepit article? I hope it is coming soon or I may expire before I have the chance to take it.”

She laughed at that, too entertained to maintain her grave expression. “My lord, you are too much. I saved you the next waltz. Now do behave, such a lack of decorum is unbecoming in the elderly.”

He narrowed his eyes at her as she muffled a snort of laughter and escorted her on a turn about the room.

Chapter 2

Louis,

Time passes, and I have heard nothing more from you. I assume you are married by now? I cannot conceive of a woman who would not throw herself at your feet at the possibility of becoming your countess. Tell me the deed is done and I shall announce it to all of Paris and watch the hysteria the news brings to the female population. There are many neglected ladies languishing in your absence, I doubt the addition of a wife will deter them for long. Come, tell me the news. I tire of repeating that I do not know when you will return, though I have done my best to keep them company, naturally. So where are you? Why have I still had no word? You promised me a visit, old friend, or shall I come and see you, after all?

I have in my possession a quantity of exceedingly fine cognac and the best champagne I ever tasted. I sent some over to Rouge et Noir. You may set it against the outstanding debt your brother owes me.

I think Jacques passed on the information, but you must know by now that someone has been digging up the past here. From Paris they travelled southwest. I suspect I know where they went, don’t you? Who knows what they’ll uncover. Watch your back.

―Excerpt of a letter from Wulfric ‘Wolf’ De Vere to Louis César de Montluc, Comte de Villen.

10th June 1842, Adelphi Theatre, London.

Rosamund fanned herself as the curtain fell for the interval. The theatre was hot and stuffy, the overpowering scent of too many bodies, some with questionable hygiene, filled the space to the brim, adding to her discomfort.

“A good production,” Jules said, which was high praise, as he was prone to be critical if the stage did not do justice to one of his favourite books. The Pickwick Papers had been up against it, but seemed to have pleased him.

“You mean to say it meets with your approval?” Rosamund replied, arching an eyebrow. “Astonishing.”

Jules shrugged and made a show of preening and adjusting his cravat. “What can I say? I have high standards, and it is a rare event when the book is not better. However, it was a splendid effort.”

Rosamund rolled her eyes. “I shall send word to the theatre manager, I’m certain he will be in alt.”

“Ha! You may mock, but I shall tell him myself,” Jules replied with a smirk, getting to his feet and hurrying from their private box.