Josephine
"Whatever happened to your hand?" Amelia asked.
"Whatever happened to your chin?" Josephine responded.
They were in the library at Amelia's residence where they'd planned to address the invitations to their ball. But Josephine was still having difficulty holding a pen, and she was no longer in the mood to discuss the plans for the ball anyway.
Amelia rubbed her chin. "I ran into a door."
"Oh, Mia, how stupid do you think I am? Where else are you hurt?"
Amelia squeezed her eyes shut. "Nowhere else. He slapped me because I didn't want to perform my wifely duties."
"Slapped? More likely punched. Is that his idea of the best way to entice you into his bed?"
"Please, don't say anything more. It should be gone by the ball. And if it's not, you're the only one who won't believe I ran into a door. Everyone else thinks I'm clumsy."
Because she'd so often blamed any visible bruises on small accidents that hadn't happened. "I detest Avendale," Josephine groused.
"So you've said on more than one occasion, but he is my husband and I must honor him. Tell me about your hand."
"I cut it on a piece of glass. It was an accident."
"It appears I shall have to address all the invitations."
"I'm sorry, but yes, I think you will."
"I don't mind. It's a chore I enjoy. I daresay if I were a commoner, I might try to find employment addressing things for people."
"You've always had such lovely handwriting."
Amelia blushed. "Thank you. I like to think so."
"I would like to take one unmarked invitation and envelope for my memory book."
Josephine was bothered by how easily she lied to her trusted friend— about her bandaged hand and about her desire for an invitation. It wouldn't find its way into her memory book. With any luck, it would find its way into Hero's hand.
Hero
It was madness. The amount of time he spent obsessing about Josephine.
Even knowing that Jim was watching her more closely, that he would do what he could to discover who was following her, Hero paced his back garden, awaiting her arrival, his body tense, his nerves taut. Bill was going to fetch Mabel in his carriage. They would travel through some rough parts of London—and yet, Hero was not the least bit worried.
But Josephine, traveling from one exclusive part of London to another, had him on edge. He told himself it was because Mabel was born to the streets and could take care of herself, while Josephine would hurl herself into harm's way without thought. He should teach her to defend herself. He should buy her a sword cane. Or perhaps a pistol.
He should entice her into telling him what he needed to know. He should ask her why she wanted someone killed, who she wanted killed. This game of cat-and-mouse was putting everyone in danger.
He heard the latch on the gate give way, and he was there pulling it open, grabbing her arm, and drawing her inside.
"Oh," she gasped. "What's the matter?"
"Nothing. I...Did you have any problems?"
Even in the shadows, with nothing but the glow from his garden lanterns to cast light, he could see her amused smile.
"You were worried."
"Naturally, I had some concerns. Perhaps if you were more open about your reason for wanting me to kill someone—"
"Are you ready to do the deed?"
Do the deed? And how would she look at him then? Mabel would never know, but Josephine, Josephine would know the worst that he was capable of: taking a life in order to gain a wife.
What possessed him to agree to this bargain?
The irony was that he'd keep true to his word. But he wanted to hold on to what remained of his soul for a bit longer. "I'm not convinced Mabel has learned anything."
"Then tonight will be very telling, won't it?" She began walking toward the house. "Have your guests arrived yet?"
"I don't know. I've been out here."
"What sort of host are you?"
"They're friends. I don't have to welcome them into my home. They know they're welcome."
"Tonight is all about presentation."
When she walked through the house and removed her pelisse to hand it over to the butler, Hero couldn't deny that she was presenting herself very nicely. She wore a gown of deep blue that came off her shoulders and revealed a hint of the swells of her breasts.
"Dr. Graves and Miss Darling have only just arrived, my lord. I've shown them to the parlor."
Hero escorted Josephine to the parlor. He'd instructed Fitz that they were to avoid using the library tonight. Hero would find himself distracted with too many memories of Josephine in that particular room. It just occurred to him that he might experience the same problem when he took Mabel to his bedchamber for the first time. That he would be thinking of waking to find Josephine in his bed. No, that was not going to happen.
"Ah, there you are," Bill said.
Hero noticed that Josephine seemed to light up at the sight of him. Just as Bill's attention toward her had irritated Hero last night, so hers toward the doctor irritated Hero now.
"Don't you look lovely this evening," Bill said, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it.
"Did you tell Mabel she looked lovely?" Hero asked.
Bill seemed startled—no doubt a reaction to Hero's tart tone—but he recovered quickly enough. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. Are you bothered by my finding the ladies in your life lovely?"
"No, not at all. I just wanted to make certain that Mabel didn't feel ignored." Even as he said it, he realized the only one ignoring her was him.
He turned to her. "It's been a while since you've been here."
"Yes, but it all looks the same."
She was wearing a dark blue dress, the buttons done up to her throat. It appeared to be something she'd work in, not dine in.
"I fear as hostess that I don't know what to do," she said.
"How can you not know what to do? It's been weeks," Hero said.
"Hardly," Mabel replied. "Not more than two."
Hero spun around to face Josephine, who jerked back as though to avoid a blow. He could only imagine the frustration his face revealed. "What have you been doing every night? You said she was learning."
"And she has been, but I also said that a gaming hell was not the best environment for learning all that needed to be taught."
"I have an idea," Mabel said. "Why don't we pretend, just for tonight, that Lady Josephine and Hero are married? Bill and I will come to call and then you can show me what to do. I learn much better by example."
"I want to see what you know," Hero said.
"I've told you. I've yet to learn how to properly host dinner."
"But, Mabel, we discussed—" Josephine began.
"I know, but I can't remember everything. Please just show me."
"Please do something to move this along," Bill said, "because I'm starving."
"Very well," Josephine said, raising her hands in surrender. "We won't pretend that we're married, but I shall be the hostess. First, we need to check on the dinner preparations."
"Lovely. Let's go to the kitchen shall we?"
Mabel took Josephine's arm. They walked from the room, and Hero strode to the side table, where he poured himself a generous amount of whiskey and downed it in one swallow, before pouring another for himself and one for Bill.
"You seem out of sorts," Bill said, coming to stand beside him.
"I'm supposed to be acting like a damned earl tonight. Do you not think she'll be judging my behavior as closely as she will be Mabel's?"
"What do you care about her opinion?"
Hero took another swallow of whiskey.
"You want to impress her?" Bill asked.
"No, of course not."
"Just be yourself. The old gent taught you that."
Hero feared, when it came right down to it, that he was going to let the old gent down.
"Sometimes, I think I would be much happier moving back into Mabel's world than having her move into mine. What if I do nothing more than make us both miserable?"
"You've loved her as long as I've known you. Everything you've ever done has been to secure her happiness. I can't see you making her miserable."
Hero wished he was as sure.
Josephine
"Are you nervous about tonight?" Josephine asked as she and Mabel walked down the hallway to the kitchen. She was still trying to figure out Mabel's strange reaction and suggestion.
"A bit, I suppose. It reminds me of when we lived with Feagan and had to learn to take a handkerchief or coins out of a pocket without being noticed. I don't suppose any bell will ring to alert anyone to my mistakes."
"I don't understand," Josephine said. "A bell—"
Smiling, Mabel stopped. "Feagan would hang jackets and bells on a rope. You had to reach carefully into the pocket of a jacket without causing a bell to ring. If the bell rang, you felt the sting of Feagan's cane across your knuckles." She blushed. "Well, I never did. Hero always put his hand over mine, so he took the blow. Oddly, it made me try harder to learn the task, because I hated to see him hurt."
"It seems you two have always been close."
Mabel nodded. "The first night Hunter brought him to us, I can't explain it, but something about him was different. He seemed to expect us to do things for him, but Feagan beat that attitude out of him quick enough."
"Do you think it's possible that he's the rightful Earl of Claybourne?"
"Well, of course, he is. The old gent asked him questions, and he knew the answers. I know he doubts sometimes, and I don't understand that. He knew the answers."
No, Josephine thought, he'd somehow managed to give the right answers even though he didn't know them. Was he really that good at deception? Then a rather odd thought came to her and a shiver raced down her spine. What if Hero hadn't deceived the previous earl? What if he'd deceived himself?
****
Dinner was an absolute disaster.
Half an hour into it, they'd finished their fish and were to be served their beef when Josephine's patience snapped. She'd been trying to start conversations about the weather, the theater, and the park. Mabel's and Hero's answers had all been succinct as though neither of them had a clue how to expand conversation into something interesting. Dr. Graves had given it a halfhearted attempt, but it seemed his life was little more than dealing with the infirm, and they weren't likely to engage in trite conversation. Hero was drinking wine as though it were the main course. He narrowed his eyes each time poor Dr. Graves spoke, and Josephine had little doubt that the doctor was aware of the scathing glances, and probably as confused by them as she.
Hero was obviously not happy. But then neither was she. She needed him to see that Mabel was learning, because Josephine was growing desperate for him to take care of the problem of Avendale. But Mabel wasn't cooperating. She was acting as though she knew nothing. And Hero had his dratted elbow on the table. He looked as though he was going to slip out of his chair.
"We are hosting a proper dinner. One does not lounge during a proper dinner," Josephine finally told him.
He sipped more wine. "It is Mabel who needs the lessons, not I."
"That is hardly evident by observing your behavior now. We either do this properly or not at all."
"I vote for not at all. I'm bored with this endeavor. I'm certain Mabel has grasped the gist of the occasion."
Josephine had gone to the trouble of dressing properly for the occasion. For these people, she'd put aside the nightly reading to her father who was weaker and paler than ever. She'd spent the afternoon reassuring Amelia that Avendale wouldn't kill her. She'd met with her father's man of business only to discover that some of the investments he'd recommended were not going to pay off as well as he'd hoped—they weren't going to pay off at all. She'd heard not a blasted word from her brother, and when he finally did return to England's shores, he might do so only to discover that he no longer had a source of income, that the estates were in decline—because of ventures she'd approved.
And now Hero was bored! He was fortunate a length of table separated them or she'd reach out and slap the boredom right off his face. Since she couldn't reach him, she threw words at him.
"You seem to have little understanding of the aristocracy. Do you believe everything we do is for our pleasure? I can assure you, sir, that it is not. We do it because it is required. We do it because it is a duty. We do it because it is expected. How much more difficult it is to do things because they are right, proper, and required. How much easier life would be for all of us if we could go about and do things willy-nilly, however pleased we are. It is the very fact that we understand responsibility and adhere to it that raises us above the common man. I am becoming quite weary of your mocking me.
"Do you think this is easy for me? These ridiculously late hours? Perhaps you can lounge about all morning, but not me. I have a household to oversee."
She was suddenly aware of the tears washing down her cheeks.
"Josephine?" Hero was no longer lounging. He was coming up out of his chair.
"Oh, forgive me. That—that was not polite at all. Please excuse me, I need a moment." She rose and walked out of the room.
Hero
Hero watched her leave. He'd been insolent and rude. He was upset with Mabel for not trying harder. He was angry with Josephine for having the habit of touching the tip of her tongue to her top lip—just a quick touch, barely noticeable, but he noticed—after each sip of wine as though she needed to gather the last drop. He was angry at Bill for smiling at Josephine, for pretending to have an interest in the amount of rain that was falling on London this summer. He was furious with himself because he wanted to gather that wine from Josephine's lips with his own. He was furious because he was intrigued with Josephine, because he was noticing so many things about her—the way the light captured her hair, revealing that it wasn't all the same shade of blond. Some strands were paler than others. He told himself that his interest in Josephine was only because he didn't know her well, while he knew everything about Mabel. They'd grown up together. There was little for them to learn about each other. But Josephine was another matter entirely.
He looked at Bill and Mabel. "I should check on her."
"Of course, you should," Mabel said, "more than a moment ago as a matter of fact."
He strode from the room and looked in the parlor. She wasn't there. Dread tightened his stomach. What if she'd left? What if she was out walking the streets? What if she'd put herself in harm's way?
Walking into the library, he found her standing by the window, looking onto the garden as she'd been that first night in his home. Only this time she didn't jerk around in surprise by his presence. When she faced him, he saw the fury and disappointment in her eyes. She didn't give him time to say a word before she continued her tirade.
"You say you are willing to do whatever is necessary to have Mabel as your wife, but I do not see you doing everything required. I see you doing only what it pleases you to do and calling it sufficient to gain what you want. Whereas I must—"
He'd covered her mouth with a blistering kiss before he'd thought it through. He could tell himself that he was bored with the dinner, bored with the conversation, but the reality was that it was driving him mad to watch her sip wine, to gaze at her slender throat and shoulders, to see her smiling at Bill when Hero wanted her to smile at him. As he swept his tongue through her mouth, he knew it was wrong, but he wanted her, wanted her in a way he'd never desired Mabel. He wanted Josephine rough, he wanted her tenderly. He never thought of taking Mabel to his bed. He thought of marrying her, he thought of having her as his wife, but carnal images of them together never filled his mind. With Josephine, he saw a kaleidoscope of their contorted naked bodies.
Tonight he could feel the need rising in him, felt it rising in her as she rose up on her toes and wound her arms around his neck, her fingers scraping into his hair. Her teeth grazed his bottom lip, tugged—
He groaned, considered the location of the nearest settee—
Shoving him, she scrambled back into the shadows of the draperies. "My God," she rasped. "Your betrothed is down the hallway—"
"She's not my betrothed yet, and I have doubts that she'll ever be. Do you think if I asked her tonight that she'd say yes? Have you convinced her that she can handle being a countess? She doesn't even want to be the hostess over a bloody dinner!"
He swung away from her, didn't want to see that he'd frightened her. Frightened Josephine who'd faced a ruffian with a knife.
He plowed his fingers through his hair. "My apologies. My behavior was abhorrent. I don't know what got into me. It won't happen again."
He heard a hesitant footstep, then another. Feeling the touch of a hand on his shoulder, he stiffened. He wanted to spin around and take her in his arms again.
"Mabel told me you've never kissed her."
"I don't think of her that way."
"You don't think about kissing her?"
"She's not a carnal creature."
"You are."
He moved away from her, before he proved her point. "Yes, well, I'm quite capable of restraining myself when the situation warrants."
"And I don't warrant restraint?"
He faced her. "I want to marry Mabel, but I think of you day and night. I'm sitting at that bloody dinner table wondering about the taste of you with wine upon your tongue. And when you vent your fury at me all you do is make me want you more. But it is only lust, Josephine. It is only the physical. I am with you every night. It stands to reason that my body would react to your nearness. It has grown accustomed to it."
It didn't help matters at all that the scent of her lingered in his bed.
"Do you ever do anything with Mabel?" she asked.
The change in subject seemed abrupt, strange, but he was grateful to turn attention away from his acting badly. "What do you mean?"
"Do you ever take her to the theater or the park or boating? Do you know her outside of O'Reilly's?"
"Well, yes, of course."
"What's something you've done together?"
"When we were children—"
"Not when you were children. Recently. Since you've been adults."
He considered her question. Everything always seemed to involve O'Reilly's. And before that Feagan.
"I can't remember the last time we did anything."
"You should do something together, don't you think?"
It was embarrassing to admit that he'd never done anything with a lady that wasn't questionable. "What would you suggest?"
"Have you been to the Great Exhibition?"
He could hardly fathom that she was speaking to him with enthusiasm about an outing with Mabel, as though he'd never kissed Josephine. He realized that she was putting up a wall. After all, she was the daughter of a duke, a woman with noble blood. And they both knew nothing about him was noble.
Mabel was the woman he'd marry. He needed to concentrate on winning her over.
"I've not been," he told Josephine.
"Neither have I. They say Queen Victoria has gone five times already. Can you imagine? I'm hoping to go tomorrow. Perhaps you could take Mabel there sometime. It would be a nice outing."
"I'll consider it."
She nodded, her tongue darting out to lick her lip the way it did after she drank wine. He wondered if she was tasting him. She cleared her throat. "We should probably return to our guests."
"Probably." Only he didn't want to. Dinners were tedious.
"We shall forget what happened earlier, and I won't allow it to happen again," she said.
He studied her in the shadows of his library. "Do you mean the kiss?"
She nodded, and so he nodded as well. She might be able to forget it, but he doubted that he ever would, that he would ever forget the smallest detail about her.
Mabel
"Have you ever known anyone to stand up to him like she does?" Bill asked, before sipping his wine.
Mabel smiled. "No. And I don't think he quite knows what to make of her."
"He's always loved you, Mabel. Why are you making it so blasted difficult for him? You're not meek, you're not cowardly. I daresay if you wanted all this, nothing would stop you from acquiring it."
"That's the thing, Bill. I don't want all this. It's too grand, it's too... well, it's simply too much."
"Think of all the good things you could do."
"I can do them now. I am doing them now."
"But you could do so much more. As Hero's wife, you'd have influence, you'd—"
"Be snubbed at every turn. I don't understand why he stays in this world. I truly don't. I see how they look at him at the club. He has no friends among the aristocracy. They spurn him."
"Do you not see the irony? You judge them as harshly as they judge us. What do you truly know of them? Don't you like Josephine?"
She pursed her lips. "You're determined to make this difficult."
"You worry about what the aristocracy thinks of you."
"Don't you?"
"No. The one thing I learned in my youth as a grave robber was that everyone looks the same when they're dead. We're all equal then. So when I meet a chap, sitting on his high horse, I imagine him dead. He's not quite so intimidating then."
She giggled. "You're awful."
He smiled at her. He had such a beguiling smile. He'd always been so very quiet, keeping to himself. When she'd first met him, she'd been afraid that she would die if he touched her. She thought all the children had been afraid of him, or at least in awe of him. He was the first one they'd ever known who didn't fear the dead.
A young man came to Hero's residence shortly after dinner to inform Bill that one of his patients had taken a turn for the worse. Bill quickly took his leave.
Hero
It was left to Hero to take both ladies home. Because he wasn't quite ready to trust himself alone with Josephine, he took her home first. Mabel didn't give the impression she suspected that anything inappropriate had happened while Hero and Josephine were out of the room. But then she'd never suspect the worst of him.
After he escorted Josephine to the back gate, he was left alone in the coach with Mabel. It was strange to realize on how few occasions they actually traveled together. When he and Josephine traveled each evening they talked about a great many things. Perhaps it was because they were new to each other's lives and knew so little about each other, whereas he and Mabel had grown up together. They knew everything about each other.
"I think Bill works far too hard," Mabel said after a while.
"Who among us doesn't?" he asked.
"I suppose you're right. I rather like Josephine."
"You made it difficult for her tonight."
"I think we all did, but I just really wasn't in the mood for a formal dinner. I'll do it properly when it matters, Hero."
"I know you will. It seemed tedious to me as well. I doubt we'll be entertained often."
She lifted the curtain, glanced out. "Jim was telling me about the Great Exhibition. He was rather impressed with it."
"Would you like to go?"
She dropped the curtain back into place. "I would, yes."
"Will tomorrow serve?"
She smiled softly. "Tomorrow will serve very well."
"Splendid."
Once they arrived at O'Reilly's, he escorted Mabel to her rooms. Then he walked down the stairs and through the back door that led into O'Reilly's. He walked down the hallway to the room where he knew he'd find Hunter. A footman with meaty fists nodded at Hero and opened the door. Hero knew he was more guard than servant. His presence signaled that Hunter was counting his money.
That's exactly what he was doing when Hero walked into the room. Hunter looked up from his neat stacks of coins and paper currency. "How was your fancy dinner?"
"Tedious and not so fancy."
Hunter reached back for a glass, poured whiskey into it, and pushed it to the edge of the desk. Hero sat in the chair, grabbed the glass, downed its contents, and put the glass back. Hunter immediately refilled it. Hero assumed his face revealed that he was a man in need of a drink or two.
"What's troubling you?" Hunter asked.
He was the only person Hero knew who was better at reading people than Hero was. "Have you ever loved anyone?"
"You mean besides my mum?"
Hero was dumbfounded as he stared at Hunter. He knew his friend's story.
"She sold you when you were five." Hunter shrugged. "Doesn't mean I didn't love her. Just means she didn't love me."
Sipping his whiskey this time, Hero pondered Hunter's words. He'd always assumed because he loved Mabel that she loved him back. Could love have only one side to it and still be love?
Had anyone ever loved him before he was unofficially adopted by Feagan and his merry brood? If they had, wouldn't he remember?
"That night you found me in the alley, behind the garbage, did I say anything?"
"Like what?"
Hero ran his finger around the rim of the glass. "Something that might have given you a hint as to what I was doing there."
"I didn't need you to say anything to give me a hint. It was obvious. You were dying."
"But how did I come to be there?"
"Looked to me like someone had kicked you out. You were skinny, your clothes torn. Do you really want to know the truth of it?"
Hero rubbed his forehead as pain began to throb. The late hours, the encounter with Josephine was taking a toll.
"You're not thinking you're really a Fiennes Tiffin, are you?" Hunter asked.
Hero shook his head. A Fiennes Tiffin, the real Fiennes Tiffin, would have been worthy of Josephine. Something Hero would never be. She was a lady, and he was a scoundrel.
"Has Josephine taught Mabel what she needs to know?" Hunter asked.
Hero sighed. "It's as though she's taught her nothing."
"Is that why you look like a man who's lost his best friend?"
Leaning forward, Hero dug his elbows into his thighs and held the glass between both hands, studying the few drops that lined the bottom. "I've been with several women through the years, Hunter. No matter what I did with them, I never felt disloyal to Mabel. With Josephine, I feel disloyal to Mabel by simply speaking with her."
"No harm in just speaking to her."
He wasn't going to confess that he'd done more than speak to her.
"Sometimes I worry that Mabel doesn't love me, and just doesn't know how to tell me." He studied the way Hunter drank his whiskey. "If that were the case you'd tell me, wouldn't you? If you knew? You wouldn't leave me to make a fool of myself."
"Love is a stranger to me, Hero. Other than my mum, no woman has ever held my affections."
"Not even Mabel?"
"I like her well enough, but that's not love, is it?"
Hero was fairly sure that Hunter was lying. He certainly wasn't being honest about something.
Hero set his glass on the desk and stood. "No. Like isn't love."
Neither was lust. And that was all he felt for Josephine, a deep, almost uncontrollable lust.
When he returned home, he was walking toward the library for a bit of whiskey to help him settle into the night when his gaze fell on the envelope sitting on the silver slaver on the table in the entry hallway. He recognized the hand that had addressed it—even though it was not quite as neat as usual. Josephine no doubt once again invited him to one of her silly balls.
He wondered if she'd left the invitation before or after their encounter in the library, and wondered if she was expecting him to bring Mabel.
With a sigh, he headed to the library. Her latest invitation was simply one more that would go unaccepted.
From the Journal of Hero Fiennes Tiffin.
Few came to the old gent's funeral. Until that moment I'd not realized what it had cost him to take me in, to announce to the world that I, the suspected murderer of his second son, was in fact his grandson.
A week after his passing, I attended a ball. I knew it was in bad form, that when one is in mourning one does not attend affairs that exhibit gaiety. But I also knew that gentlemen were often forgiven for not adhering to the strictures of society.
Besides, I had a point to make. I wanted no one to doubt that I was taking my place as the old gent's successor.
I remember little about the ball except that from the moment I began descending the stairs, I regretted that I'd come. People stared at me as though I were an unusual-looking creature on display at a menagerie and, with that thought, my head began to pound. I desperately craved a glass of whiskey. I desperately wanted to be at O'Reilly's.
Ladies lowered their gazes. Gentlemen looked away. Some stepped back as though they feared being contaminated by my presence.
And then I spied her.
Her.
Lovely, elegant, and daring, she not only met my gaze, but she held it as though she was as fascinated with me as I was with her. For the briefest of moments, I contemplated asking her for the honor of a dance, but I knew such an action would tarnish her reputation. That night, for the first time in my life, I understood the sacrifices that were required to truly be a gentleman.
With regret, I turned away, the wonder of her in my arms to remain a mystery that would often haunt me.