A Little Deception Page 2

  It was true that Rose was unaccustomed to male attention, and as a result unnerved by Lord Rampton’s lazy, confident smile. Oh yes, he certainly looked like a man used to getting his own way.

  Well, Rose knew how to get her own way too. And Success—no, survival! —depended upon managing Lord Rampton in the same artful manner with which she managed her stubborn brother and her volatile, unpredictable sister-in-law. She must play the seductress, as naturally and consummately as Helena, who was the reason behind, and inspiration for, this whole charade.

  Leaning slightly across the table, she contrived a faintly seductive pout, surprised at how easily it came … and by how much she enjoyed the results.

  Charles had tried, several times, to interject. Characteristically he had allowed himself to be quelled on each occasion by an impatient response from Lord Rampton. Rose felt vindicated. Of course she had had no choice but to have come this evening. Her brother was completely out of his depth.

  And he looked it. But was he, Rose wondered, aware of the almost conspiratorial smiles that their host continued to direct at her? Her skin tingled.

  Rose had always been surprised that Charles was not firmer with Helena on the subject of Helena’s conduct and wardrobe, though until now she had never realized how much licence marriage gave one to behave as one chose, rather than as one ought.

  Dropping her eyes beneath another of Lord Rampton’s searing gazes Rose encountered her reflection in the highly polished silver epergne that formed the table centrepiece. Edith had worked wonders with her appearance. The plain creature she’d always thought herself had been transformed into a society beauty with her wide-set bright eyes, pert nose and creamy complexion the equal of Arabella’s pale innocent charm and Helena’s lush allure.

  With the kind of confidence that now buoyed her she felt capable of anything. Even armed combat with Lord Rampton. Well, she had his measure. He was rich, bored, careless of others, no doubt having never suffered a moment’s angst or deprivation in his entire life.

  On reflection, the thought was not bolstering. Charity or leniency were not characteristics of such a character, nor had Rampton been given any good reason to extend either to the struggling Chesterfields.

  She resisted the urge to slump in defeat as she acknowledged the size of the debt owed to this man which would suck the lifeblood out of even their marginal existence. What was Rose doing, dreaming of gilded futures when it was not too extreme to say a life in debtor’s prison or the workhouse was a distinct possibility if she could not win over this man?

  She took a deep, sustaining breath, flicking her tongue over dry lips. Lord Rampton, she realized, was waiting for her to broach the subject which had brought them to his dinner table.

  ‘I realize, Lord Rampton, that you are owed rather a lot of money. Mr Babbage, however, indicated that …’

  The beautiful Lady Chesterfield’s hesitation, and the sudden colour that flooded her cheeks piqued Rampton’s curiosity. He waited for her to finish, recalling Babbage’s colourful account of this young woman’s conduct one wild night during the previous week. It was all the more intriguing for, while Lady Chesterfield, with her lustrous chestnut hair, pretty mouth and high cheekbones beneath intensely blue eyes was as beautiful as she had been painted, her demeanour did not accord with Babbage’s description. In surprising contrast with her gown there had been lapses in her mien, indicating that Lady Chesterfield’s confidence was not as iron-clad as she would have him believe.

  ‘What did Mr Babbage say he was prepared to be, Lady Chesterfield?’ Rampton prompted, unconcerned that, to his own ears, he sounded condescending. His efforts were rewarded as he watched the blush deepen and noted the difficulty she had in responding. He had not expected such sport when he’d asked the beautiful Lady Chesterfield and her lily-livered husband to dinner.

  ‘Patient, Lord Rampton.’

  ‘Ah, but there we differ, Lady Chesterfield. You see, Mr Babbage is a very patient man. At least, he is where beautiful women are concerned.’ Rampton took a sip of his wine, savouring it, and the moment. ‘I, on the other hand, am not.’

  With amusement he observed the way her fingers clenched the stem of her wine glass and the obvious effort with which she forced herself to relax. She toyed with her glass before glancing at him over the rim, flirtation in her tone as she murmured, ‘Mr Babbage is a gentleman.’

  His lips curled at the implied rebuke. ‘Whereas I am not?’

  The seductive gleam that lit up her large blue eyes, and the curve of her mouth – shaped more like a rosebud than the full, sensuous look he generally preferred – went a long way towards explaining the effect this young woman had had on Rampton’s erstwhile debtor. He felt a moment’s exultation as he held her gaze. He could read compliance in their depths. Yes, he thought with satisfaction, with the Chesterfields as hard pressed for ready funds as rumour had it there would be no difficulty coming to some mutual agreement with the beautiful Lady Chesterfield whereby no money need be exchanged. Unconsciously he ran the tip of his tongue over his top lip as he returned a somewhat wolfish smile, gesturing to the footman who hovered at the sideboard to bring more wine. Here was the return on his investment this evening, considering the other diversions he had sacrificed.

  ‘A gentleman?’ repeated his lovely guest with evident amusement. ‘I am forced to reserve judgement, Lord Rampton. Time alone will tell.’

  It could be an entertaining season, thought Rampton, anticipation surging through his loins. He was without a mistress and she was an exquisite-looking creature, long married and clearly disenchanted with her husband who had no doubt been chosen for her.

  ‘Yes,’ he considered. ‘But Mr Babbage has no head for business. Which is why he is perpetually in debt and I am not. Nevertheless, Lady Chesterfield,’ he inclined his head, smiling, ignoring Charles, ‘I am confident that we can come to some arrangement.’

  Yes, he was sure of it. He would not call in the debt. Once Lady Chesterfield had launched her sister-in-law, she and her husband would return to the West Indies. All that differed from the original plan was that, between now and then, he and Lady Chesterfield would have enjoyed a little more pleasure than either of them had anticipated. One only had to spend five minutes in their company to see that neither Sir Charles nor the lovely Lady Chesterfield were likely to object.

  The time had come, he decided, to give his current mistress, the fiery, exquisite but no longer incomparable, Lady Barbery, her congé.

  ***

  ‘You missed a rum do at Baroness Esterhazy’s this evening, Rampton!’

  Hesitating on the threshold to the library, Rampton turned, narrowing his eyes in greeting. It was hard to tell whether his brother were foxed or not.

  He waited as Felix was relieved of his outerwear by Lavery before preceding his brother into the library. ‘I had dinner guests.’

  ‘Important dinner guests for you to have refused the baroness’s invitation.’

  ‘I turned down three equally enticing invitations, I assure you, Felix.’ Rampton’s tone was dry as he went to the sideboard, asking carelessly, ‘And did the baroness enjoy her evening?’

  ‘Well, she did her best to appear unconcerned by your absence.’ Felix waited while his brother poured them both a drink. ‘But I wasn’t fooled for a minute. Of course, at the first opportunity she holed me up in a dark corner to ask what you were doing.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Rampton handed his brother the tumbler half-full of amber liquid, then settled himself on the leather sofa, stretching his long legs in front of him to gain maximum benefit from the small coal fire that burned in the grate. He felt a little guilty that he had trouble visualizing the baroness’s bounteous charms when she’d been out of his life for less than six months before she’d been replaced by Catherine Barbery, his very first lover, who had waltzed back into his life.

  Well, now it was time for Catherine to go, too, he reflected, conscious of a very potent surge of desire that made him cross and r
e-cross his legs. Since last night, all he could think of was Lady Chesterfield’s fair and fragile beauty. And those eyes: clear and incisive, as if she knew exactly what was on his mind and was both intrigued and terrified. He was surprised that concern tempered his lustful thoughts. Concern that he must go about his wooing with care. So many of his mistresses had thrown themselves at him but Lady Chesterfield was an altogether different proposition. He was visited by the interesting thought that she might be sizing him up as her first conquest. Her lapses of self confidence might attest to that. Also, five years married to that dandelion baronet who agreed with everything anyone said—if they said it with enough force or conviction—must mean poor Lady Chesterfield, who was clearly a spirited little thing, was panting for a forceful lover. Having been incarcerated on the West Indies most of her life she’d have little knowledge as to how to go about the whole business.

  Amusement and anticipation flickered in his self-acknowledged carnal depths and he realised, unrepentant, that he was licking his lips, already relishing the sport to come. Indeed, there’d be much of that, and he was quite happy to lead the way. And soon.

  ‘Come now, Rampton, don’t assume that casual tone with me. Three months ago you were wild for the baroness.’ Felix lowered himself into the wing chair opposite, his mouth curling in a boyish and far less cynical imitation of his brother’s. ‘I told her I had not the least idea what you were up to this evening but that I was there in your stead and hoped she could regard me with similar affection.’ With a shrug, he added on a philosophical note, ‘She was unmoved. Even flattery, far in excess of her merits, made no difference. And then the baron arrived, all husbandly solicitation, so that was the end of that. Such a shame you always fall for the married ones.’

  ‘My dear boy, you cannot pretend to be so naïve!’ Rampton gave a short laugh. This was not a topic he wished to entertain with his brother. ‘I’d be a fool to do otherwise.’

  ‘You can’t shrug off your matrimonial duty for too much longer, surely?’

  ‘I endured a tedious evening at Almack’s last night, in case you had forgotten.’ Almack’s was bursting with debutantes at this time of year. Rampton decided not to add that he derived greater sport from the more comely chaperones than he did from their gauche young charges, fresh from the schoolroom.

  Felix, however, was well aware of his elder brother’s predilections, for he said, almost testily, ‘You need a wife, not a mistress, Rampton. Soon you’ll be considered even more ramshackle than our dissolute papa.’

  The amused smile froze. Rampton drained his tumbler. ‘Why, Felix, I do believe you are serious.’ Collecting himself, he assumed a tone that was far more light-hearted than he felt as he pointed out, ‘Ramshackle I would be indeed to saddle myself – and the rest of the family – with an unsuitable bride. I long ago learned that duty and pleasure are two very different matters. And matrimony, you would do well to remember the next time you find yourself in thrall to the latest goddess, does not fall within the latter category. Rest assured that in the meantime, unless some worthy contender for my affections drops from the sky into my lap, I intend to take my pleasure while I can.’ Yawning, he added, ‘I’m off to bed. Unlike some, I no longer have the advantage of youth.’

  Felix pulled a face as he watched his brother rise. ‘God forbid, I’d better make the most of the few good years left to me, I daresay. Looking at you is like looking at myself in a mirror in five year’s time, all craggy and going grey.’ He grinned. ‘But without the boyish charm. Little consolation that the women seem to find a viscount in his dotage a more enticing prospect than his younger, far handsomer brother.’

  Rampton snorted as he headed for the door, tossing over his shoulder, ‘I think my pocketbook accounts for that.’

  ‘I understand your caution, Rampton.” Felix’s tone grew serious. ‘But are you so afraid of parson’s mousetrap? Surely you’ll confess to having been intrigued by just one unmarried miss tossed in your direction?’

  Rampton turned slowly, forcing amusement to his lips, at least. ‘The short answer, little brother, is no.’ He hesitated. ‘I have never been in love and my desire is whipped up only when I am assured my quarry is safely unobtainable.’

  ‘But don’t you get fagged with Mama forever charging you with your neglect in securing the family line?’

  ‘Mama will have to be satisfied another ten years for that is when I plan to retire quietly to the country and breed sheep ’ – he grinned - ‘Amongst other things. In ten years a pliant, suitable wife will fit nicely into my plans. So if these questions are on mama’s behalf, you can tell her that the nursery will not need redecorating for at least a decade.’

  Felix looked unimpressed. ‘You really are just like Papa. Still, it can’t be too bad having all these designing mamas trying to entice you with their daughters. I wish I were so popular!’ He sighed. ‘At least you’re more discerning and discreet than Papa and, lucky for you, it seems there’s no shortage of pretty matrons panting for your attentions.’

  Rampton shrugged as he stroked the door knob. ‘It’s hardly surprising I’m not inclined to chase innocent virgins, given the astonishing number of bored, highly desirable married women who make plain their desire for a little dalliance with a viscount in his dotage – as you put it.’

  Once again, his thoughts strayed to the enchanting Lady Chesterfield. The messages she had sent him that night might have been mixed but mutual attraction had charged the air. He couldn’t wait until their next meeting.

  Felix tossed back his drink, then rose to pour another, saying in falsely sympathetic tones, ‘Poor Rampton, to be leg-shackled by such mistrust must be a terrible thing. As long as caution remains your mistress you’ll never find a wife. Anyway, what are your plans for tomorrow that you have to be up with the birds?’

  Rampton contemplated the question. ‘My plans for tomorrow’ — anticipation turned up the corners of his mouth — ‘and perhaps those for the next few weeks, will be to mix a little business with pleasure.’

  ‘But you said—’

  ‘I never said,’ Rampton grinned, ‘that pleasure and duty were mutually exclusive. And it just so happens that tomorrow is one occasion when they are not.’

  Chapter Two

  ARABELLA LEANT BACK against the threadbare squabs of their hackney carriage, facing Rose, her eyes wide. Despite her new clothes she looked much more the schoolgirl than the debutante who must make a good marriage before Rose could return to her beloved island, having discharged her duty towards her little sister.

  ‘You flirted with Lord Rampton? Just like Helena?’ She giggled, ignoring Helena’s darkling look. ‘Rose, I can’t imagine it. When you’re with a gentleman you’re always so …’ she floundered for the right word, ‘prim.’

  Helena was not in a similarly light-hearted frame of mind. Tossing her glossy dark head, her eyes flashed as she muttered, ‘Well, when it came to my clothes, Rose was as careless of those as she was of my feelings regarding this ridiculous charade.’

  ‘Edith noticed the tear in the skirt when she fetched it from your room. She made a beautiful job of mending it, didn’t she?’ responded Rose, smoothly. ‘I believe you caught it on a rosebush during Mrs Caversham’s card party the other week.’

  Helena turned her head away from the two sisters on the seat opposite, her normally sensuous mouth a rigid line. She watched the handsome Park Lane residences pass before them.

  ‘I daresay I’ll never be allowed to forget that night,’ she said, bitterly. ‘I knew how it would be. Charles has never reprimanded me. With his experience of the world he understood that I was in an impossible position. Everyone had a wager. People would have assumed that Charles keeps me on short rations had I not kept up; or would even have accused me of putting myself above the rest if I had offered my excuses.’

  ‘A shame you didn’t know what fast company you were keeping, Helena,’ remarked Rose. ‘Or that you slipped out of the house and left Charles sleeping withou
t asking his permission, for he’d have explained that gaming in England is very different from gaming at home, where people were a little more understanding of your … vices.’

  ‘Gambling is not a crime … unless an unmarried woman plays for stakes which can only be honoured by those upon whom she is dependent,’ Helena muttered.

  Rose forced back her anger. The implication was clear. When Helena married, her father had settled a modest sum upon her. When Rose’s father had died he had been so deeply in debt there was no dowry to settle upon either her or Arabella. Unless Charles took care of them, or they could find husbands for whom fortune did not matter – a slim chance indeed – they were entirely at the mercy of their closest male relative: Charles, whose finances they knew little about, but who never seemed to reproach his feckless, beautiful wife.

  ‘Yes, but back home you’ve been gambling with the same people since you were seven years old, when your father first encouraged you to place a wager. You’ve only ever gambled with friends. Until now.’

  Rose was not going to concede anything. Helena had never been properly called to task for her behaviour. Charles had begged his sister not to labour the incident, despite its repercussions for the rest of the family, saying Helena was deeply upset and likely to dissolve into remorseful tears. Rose only wished she could see it.

  ‘Did Lord Rampton laugh at you when you tried to flirt with him?’ Helena asked, changing the subject.

  ‘He flirted straight back at me,’ Rose laughed, recalling the evening with a surprising jolt of pleasure.

  ‘He would not have bothered if you’d been dressed the way you are now.’

  All the pleasure drained out of Rose as she contemplated her drab apricot velvet walking-dress; apricot was a colour that made her look horribly sallow. The dress had once belonged to her mother, who had been taller and, at the time she owned it, stouter. Rose, who was not naturally gifted with a needle, had made a gallant effort to remodel it, but it had never been a great success. Not that that had mattered … until now. Their social life had been limited in the last few years of her father’s declining health. Rose made few calls and rarely received them. Besides, it was not as if there had been suitors for whom she must make an effort.