Page 40 of Venus in Disguise

I received a note from a friend this morning. I believe you know the Lady Fidelia Ponsonby. Perhaps you have not yet heard, but she eloped with Mr De Beauvoir. They are married now, and I wish them truly happy.

Why have you not written to me?

Yours, ever,

―Excerpt of a letter from the Hon’ble Miss Violetta Spencer (cousin and adopted daughter to The Right Hon’ble Kitty and Luke Baxter, Countess and Earl of Trevick) to The Hon’ble Cat, Mau.

14th March 1850, Albany Street, Regent’s Park, London.

Narcissa watched as Mr Anson left the room, her heart thudding too hard. Married? It was what she had wanted, of course, only… she had not wished to force him into it. Though it had been foolish, she had hoped for a romantic reunion, for him to be overpowered with emotion at her bravery, for him to declare himself in love with her and ask her to be his wife. Well, he had apologised. He had even said he wanted her, but there had been no talk of love, no tenderness, simply that she was ruined now, so they would be married. He was simply doing the decent thing.

She ought not to have come here. Yet another mistake, Narcissa, she thought wretchedly, her empty stomach squirming with misery. Tentatively, she lifted the mug to her lips and took a sip. It was sweet, and tasted of lemon and honey, and something powerfully alcoholic. A little puddle of warmth began in her belly and eased through her veins, and so Narcissa settled back against the pillows as she drank and allowed some of her tension to unravel.

He said they would talk later, so she would reassure him that there was no need for him to marry her. No one knew she was here, after all. If he could help her get to Delia’s house, she felt certain Delia’s brother, the marquess, would offer her his protection until a solution could be found. At least Mr Anson had not seemed angry. He had even kissed her when he’d said he’d wanted her, but what else could he have said or done in the circumstances? She had forced herself upon him and, as he was an honourable man, she had left him no other choice than to make the best of it.

Her thoughts became less coherent as the drink took effect, the alcohol chasing away her worries as exhaustion overcame her. Narcissa closed her eyes and was about to allow sleep to claim her, when a woman she assumed was the housekeeper bustled in.

“I’m sorry to wake you, my lady. I’m sure you’re done in, but I’ve a nice hot bath waiting for you. Do you think you can manage it if I help you? I’m afraid we’ve no lady’s maid here, but I’m quite able to assist you, if you don’t mind it. I’ve raised two girls of my own. They’re older than you now, mind.”

Narcissa nodded and, though she would much rather have slept, the idea of washing the filth of the past days from her body was not unappealing.

“I don’t if you don’t,” she managed with a weary smile.

The housekeeper gave her an approving nod. “That’s the ticket. We’ll get you clean and tucked up back in bed in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

Narcissa smiled at the woman’s motherly manner and allowed herself to be hustled into the bathing room. It was all very modern, with gleaming white-and-green tiles and a deep bath from which arose a deal of scented steam.

“I took the liberty of adding a few drops of his sister’s favourite bath oil,” Mrs Fenchurch told her confidentially. “She left it the last time she stayed here, but she’s a dear creature and I know she wouldn’t begrudge it. I suppose you’ve had a difficult few days?”

Narcissa smiled, eyeing the lady who was clearly fishing for information. Well, it would be common knowledge soon, no doubt.

“I ran away from home,” she admitted. “My father was forcing me to marry Lord Wishen.”

“That fat old goat!” the woman exclaimed in shock, and then clapped a hand over her mouth. Retrieving her composure, she said politely, “I do beg your pardon, my lady.”

Narcissa let out a short laugh. “There’s no need, for I quite agree, Mrs Fenchurch. Though I must tell you he is a kind man. My father tried to marry my sister to Lord Malmsey, which is far worse, for he is truly a brute. She ran away too,” she added with quiet satisfaction as Mrs Fenchurch steadied her while she stepped into the bath.

“Hmph. I have heard Malmsey is not a gentleman, for all his fine title. Lord Wishen is old enough to be your grandfather, though,” the woman said, her eyes wide, an expression of revulsion on her plump features. She shook her head, her expression contemplative. “I know girls are supposed to obey their fathers, but I can’t help but think you did the right thing. Disgusting it is, marrying young girls to old men like that. I thought we was more civilised these days, but it seems—” Mrs Fenchurch sucked in a sharp breath before she finished the sentence. “I was wrong,” she said, her voice hard.

Narcissa turned, wondering what had made her sound so angry.

“Your father do that?” the woman asked, her tone softer now, a pitying expression lingering in her eyes. She gestured to the back of Narcissa’s thighs, to the red stripes that crisscrossed the delicate flesh.

Narcissa blushed and gave a taut nod. “Yes. I’m afraid the duke is somewhat archaic in his views and his treatment of his daughters,” she admitted wryly. She let out a sigh of pleasure as she sat down, and the hot water eased her aching limbs, relieved that the red welts were healed enough to no longer sting. “Mr Anson seems to be a very honourable man. At least, he has been most kind to me. Have you known him long?” she dared to ask, for she had given Mrs Fenchurch the information she was dying for, so it seemed a fair exchange.

“Since he was a little bit of a thing,” the woman said with a smile. “I worked for his parents. He is honourable, a gentleman to his bones. A better man you’ll not find, nor a kinder employer. People don’t know what to make of him oftentimes. What with his mixed heritage and his love of fancy clothes and all that nasty fighting he does. How a fellow can love to make things beautiful, himself included, and then go and knock the daylights out of another fellow and come home all battered and bloody… well, I gave up trying to understand men a long time ago. I shouldn’t bother trying if I were you, it’s a hopeless endeavour.”

Despite the exhaustion tugging at her mind, Narcissa smiled. “I’ll bear it in mind.”

Once Narcissa was bathed and wrapped in one of Mr Anson’s shirts, which hung down past her knees, Mrs Fenchurch tucked her back into bed, fed her a large bowl of vegetable soup, and instructed her to sleep. Narcissa had no problem obeying the command, her eyes closing before the housekeeper had even left the room.

When she woke, the curtains had been closed and she could tell it was nighttime. Only the light from the fire illuminated the room and it took a moment before she realised she was not alone.

“How do you feel?” Mr Anson asked her.

“Better,” she admitted, suddenly shy and awkward with him, and wishing she knew what he thought of her being here. His expression was inscrutable, but the firelight gilded his beautiful profile, lovingly casting his high cheekbones in colours of warm bronze and flickering in his eyes in a manner that made him appear rather satanic. He wore a black silk banyan over his shirt and trousers. Heavily embroidered with colourful silks, it was a work of art all of its own, and yet could not detract from his masculine beauty. He wore no cravat, and Narcissa’s gaze fell to the little triangle of golden skin at the base of his throat, heat rising to her cheeks as she wondered if his skin was as silky as the robe.

“You sleep like the dead,” he observed. “The doctor came to see you and you didn’t bat an eyelid.”