Clandestine Passion (The Lovelocks of London Book 2)

Shaved and dressed by his valet Enfield, James walked from his rooms near the still-unfinished Burlington Arcade, up Bond Street, toward his family’s town house in Grosvenor Square, the heart of Mayfair. His father and mother, the Duke and Duchess of Middlewich, had asked him to partake in some early-afternoon tea. It was rather unusual for them to be in town in October, but his father had been feeling poorly, so his mother had delayed the trip back to the duchy.

James dreaded the meeting.

He himself did not stay at the family town house and had not for years. In the Season, the house was crammed to bursting with his seven sisters as well as his father and mother. There was not an ounce of privacy to be had. Much better to be far away from all the family clatter and fuss. And the parental criticisms and expressions of disappointment.

And the location of his rooms was ideal—right around the corner from his club and less than a mile from Madame Flora’s. He might take a seven-year lease on the rooms, with an option to buy. Why not? He had no plans to marry.

For a moment, in his mind’s eye, he saw golden curls, blue eyes, the top of a bosom that surpassed the beauty of all others. He shook his head as if to clear it. None of that, now.

As he walked up Bond Street, he passed a busy modiste’s shop and as usual, there was a flurry of pretty women going in and out. As the door opened for a dowager he didn’t recognize, he could hear the tinkle of the bell and a lively chatter. It’s too bad it would be considered strange for him, as a male, to go into the modiste’s. He would be sure to pick up some gossip there. He was always trying to suck up chat and rumors and whispered confidences.

Because Mr. Bulverton, the man he most wished to please, craved all gossip.

I could disguise myself as a woman, a very tall woman, and go into the modiste’s shop to buy a new gown. Rather like a reverse Twelfth Night.

He smiled briefly at that absurd idea and hurried toward what promised to be an unpleasant encounter.

“When are you returning to Middlewich, James?” his father asked. The duke looked over his teacup at James, raising his bushy white eyebrows. “Haven’t you been in town long enough?”

“Dear William always brought a big party of his friends up to the castle for the shooting in the autumn, didn’t he, dear?” his mother asked his father.

His father harrumphed. “Yes, your brother William knew better than to spend all his time in town with wastrels, getting drunk every night.”

James, sprawled across a sofa, looked up from the cooling tea in his teacup and smiled indolently. “Don’t forget getting drunk every day, Your Grace.” The duke’s eyebrows mashed together in fury. “And I’m not William, Father.”

“Yes.” Derision dripped from the word.

“We just are worried about you, James,” his mother said, her lips twitching. “We hear such stories. Bacchanals. And you have always been so easily led by your friends.”

“Weak,” his father said.

The duchess began again, “We know you are still young—”

“I’m eight and twenty, Mother.”

“—but shouldn’t you be done—what is the phrase? Be done with the wild oats.”

James, still smiling, put his cup in the saucer and set it down. “I’m sorry you don’t approve of my habits, Mother.”

His father roared, “It’s not your habits, it’s you! You’re not half the man your brother was!”

There. The stab of the knife in the chest. After all these years, James was surprised that his father could still hurt him. Surely, he should be calloused to it by now? There was nothing for it but to give a sneering grin and infuriate the duke even more.

James stood and bowed with an exaggerated flourish to his father. “Your Grace.” He made a mock-curtsey to his mother. “Your Grace.” He staggered to the door of the drawing room and put his hand on the knob. Then he turned.

“Yes, we agree that my brother was a fine man. But was is the relevant word, Father. William is dead. I am your heir. I am sorry to be such a source of dissatisfaction to you both.” He smiled and ran his fingers through his hair. “But, as disappointing as I am, I am all you have, what?”

“Good-for-nothing.” His father snorted and turned his head in dismissal.

His mother dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

James, still smiling, bowed again and left the room. As soon as he was a street away from the house, his grin faded.

He walked to Madame Flora’s, not far from Covent Garden. He climbed the stairs to the parlor where gentlemen congregated and selected their courtesans. It was a comfortable room, strewn with sofas, wing chairs, tables where customers might drink and play cards while they waited for their favorite doxy to become available or for their desire to return.

But at three in the afternoon, the room was largely empty. Three women in near-translucent gowns clustered on a sofa, chatting. As James entered the room, the women continued to chat but stood, pushed their shoulders back, adjusted their shawls so that their bosoms were more fully exposed, giggled a bit more loudly. However, when they saw it was James, they relaxed their shoulders and pulled their shawls back up. James had a well-known and long-held preference for the almond-eyed brunette Isabella. James hadn’t selected a different whore in years.

As he crossed the room, James stumbled and almost fell flat but he recovered himself. “Upsidaisy.” He bowed extravagantly to the women who curtsied in return. “Good morning, Miss Lydia, Miss Nancy, Miss Sally.” He knew all their names but had bedded none of them.

“Good afternoon, Lord Daventry,” the three women chorused and giggled. Sally, the youngest of the three, a busty, plump temptress with very full lips, pushed those lips out into a pout. “Lord Daventry, when are you going to give one of the rest of us a chance? I know tricks that Frenchy Isabella has never heard of.”

Nancy elbowed Sally. There was a code of conduct, and the strumpets did not try to poach customers from each other.

James fished for three coins in his pocket and pressed one into each woman’s hand. “I’m set in my ways, you lovelies,” he said and leered slightly, “but I can’t say I’m not tempted by what’s on offer.”

“Thank you, my lord.” The three women all curtsied. James nodded and crossed the parlor to the long hall that led to many doors. He walked quietly, knowing that many of the women behind these doors had worked all night and were now sleeping.

At Isabella’s door, he knocked—two quick raps, a pause, and a third rap. He heard a key rattle and the door opened to the dark-haired, dark-eyed, olive-skinned Isabella DuMornay. She wore a thin gossamer-like gown like the others in the parlor, but had covered herself with a robe embroidered with flowers. She smiled lazily at James and waved him into the room.

He stepped in, and Isabella closed the door and locked it.

There was a man already in the room.

He was an ordinary, short man of indeterminate age wearing a very poor sort of wig, dressed in plain clothes that were dusted lightly with flour, highlighting the patches sewn on both elbows of his coat sleeves. His fingertips were stained with ink. He looked like a senior clerk and indeed, he was one. Or at least that was his official title in the ministry of the Home Secretary.

He squinted, stood, and bowed his head briefly. “Lord Daventry.”

“Mr. Bulverton.” James bowed more deeply than Mr. Bulverton had. When Mr. Bulverton resumed his seat, James drew up a chair and sat down.

Isabella meanwhile had gone into the little chamber that served as her dressing room and was singing softly to herself in French about planting cabbages.

James dug into his tailcoat pocket and took out a silk-handkerchief-wrapped bundle. He handed it to Mr. Bulverton. Mr. Bulverton opened the handkerchief to reveal the golden locket and sapphire ring, the spoils of James’ adventure last night. Mr. Bulverton took the locket and put it in his waistcoat pocket and handed the handkerchief and the ring back to James.

“Yes. All’s well that ends well. Keep the ring, Lord Daventry. You see, the ring is valuable in a monetary sense but has no sentimental value to, uh, the family. And the, uh, the person in question was planning to give the lady the ring, but she stole the locket first. Ha! That put a stop to any idea of gifts. But in a moment of weakness, the, uh, person in question allowed a degree of access and the Most Honorable Marchioness of et cetera stole the ring. And this, uh, person’s mother would be quite upset to find the locket gone so that was the important item to retrieve. The, uh, person in question wants you to keep the ring. As a reward for your service. Well done.”

James knew—and by extension, Mr. Bulverton knew that he knew—that the, uh, person in question was actually the Prince Regent. He had a well-known habit of ill-advised dalliances, including most recently with the light-fingered Marchioness of Painswick.

“I wondered,” James said slowly, shoving the ring into a pocket in his trousers and carefully folding the handkerchief, “if perhaps there might be something else, some other service I could provide for the crown.”

Mr. Bulverton raised his eyebrows.

“I know that I serve at His Royal Highness’ pleasure,” James said. Mr. Bulverton cleared his throat at that. James added hastily, “And of course, at His Majesty’s, his father’s, pleasure as well. I just was hoping that after five years, I might be asked to do something more than tidy up the indiscretions of my future king.”

Keeping his elbows at his sides, Mr. Bulverton shrugged and put his hands up, spreading his fingers. “You are free to put an end to our meetings at any time, Marquess. As you know, your service is entirely sub rosa, unofficial, and voluntary.”

James thought about what his life would be like without this.

Empty. Meaningless.

“No, Mr. Bulverton,” he said quickly. “No, you misunderstand me. I want to do more, not less.”

“Lord Daventry. You are uniquely positioned. Heir to a duchy. You move in circles that none of our other agents can. You are of greatest use as you are.”

James choked down his disappointment and succeeded in keeping his face stony. He nodded and put his hands on his knees, as if to stand.

Mr. Bulverton went on, “And you have developed such a reputation. No one suspects a debauched marquess.” He put a hand on James’ shoulder briefly.

“I would be lying, my lord, if I didn’t admit that I have passed many an uneasy hour thinking of you and your situation. You must never forget you are pretending. You must be careful not to allow the role to merge with the man. That would be a loss because the James Cavendish I know is fine and remarkable and valiant.”

James swallowed and blinked his eyes a few times. Mr. Bulverton had never offered much more praise to James other than “well done.” And James lived for those “well dones.”

Mr. Bulverton gazed out the window. “And I am quite sad for you. I think you must be very lonely.”

James was startled into a laugh. He had to disabuse Mr. Bulverton of that idea. “Lonely? I have had to take rooms away from my family’s town house just to get some privacy. And you of all people know that my nights are taken up with all manner of society and socializing. I don’t have the time to be lonely.”

“Yes, you are surrounded by people. None of whom know you. And you are accountable to none of them. It seems to me that might be the loneliest position of all.”

James left Madame Flora’s and walked west along Piccadilly, back toward his rooms. He wanted a drink. No, he wanted a whole bottle.

With the change of seasons and the chill of autumn in the air, James had thought that his friend Thomas, the Earl Drake, might ask him out to the country, to his estate Sommerleigh, so he could get blind drunk with him there. Only in that sheltered place away from London, and with Thomas, his friend since childhood, could he be as intemperate in real life as he was by reputation. He could lose control, knowing that if his facade dropped, Tom would still just see his boyhood friend Jamie.

And if Thomas did notice some alteration in James, would not he be the best person to know the truth? Tom loved him. Besides his sisters and his valet Enfield, there were few other people James could say that about.

It would be such a relief to be at Sommerleigh.

But Thomas had married four months ago. If James went now to Sommerleigh, life there would be different from what it had been when Thomas was a bachelor. There would be new constraints. James would have to watch himself.

And, besides, no invitation had been forthcoming.

Thomas still came to town once a week to use the services of the doxies of Madame Flora, and James might meet him there in the evening for a drink. But Thomas was always gone by the next day. And James had missed Thomas last night because of the pursuit and seduction and burglary of the Marchioness of Painswick. Thomas would not be back for another week.

Thomas and his wife Harriet “Harry” née Lovelock had a most unusual marriage. Thomas said that the Countess Drake—an eccentric invalid of sorts from what James could tell—did not mind his whoring. That liberalism toward her husband’s habits and the one hundred and forty-five thousand pounds she had brought to the marriage were apparently her chief attractions. The wedding last June had been after a nonexistent courtship and a three-week engagement, so desperate had Thomas been for funds. James, of course, had been one of the two witnesses at the wedding and the other witness . . .

But James absolutely refused to think of Thomas’ mother-in-law.

One hand toyed with the blue sapphire ring still deep in his pocket. A lovely rich blue, quite like the eyes of . . . but no.

He really must chirk up. The Theatre-Royal, Drury Lane had a production of Twelfth Night on right now. He might go and lose himself in the comedy tonight. The clowns were always so amusing. And the Viola might capture his imagination. He always had such a weakness for a well-played, intelligent Viola. Witty. Teasing. Strong. Devoted to her man, that fool Orsino who couldn’t see a good thing right under his nose. And of course, the erotic value of seeing a woman’s shapely bottom in tight breeches. Mmmmmm. One might almost think he wasn’t a breast man. And James was a breast man, definitely.

And see here, the ring was a reward, and he had never actually earned anything before. Even better, the ring was evidence that he had actually done something of use, no matter how silly it had been. No matter how addle-pated he had had to be in pursuit of his mission. He had been angling at the seduction for weeks, and it had all come together beautifully. He thought even his false inebriation had been perfectly calibrated.

Yes, well done.

James stopped and looked in a haberdashery’s shop window. He appeared to be admiring a very fine waistcoat on display, but he was using the reflection of the glass to see back into the street. All was as it should be. He walked on.

But if all was as it should be and all was well and well-done, what was this feeling of discontent? What did it mean that he so craved obliterating his senses and losing himself completely?

Perhaps Mr. Bulverton was right. James needed to be careful or he was going to turn into an authentically debauched marquess.