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  Juliette Clisson had not vexed her thoughts again. Indeed, when Elizabeth had learnt she had married, she was quite happy for her. Elizabeth’s regard for the lady was only as a personage who had twice been the agent of assistance to her family. Her opinion would remain as it was until she had reason to think otherwise. As she was fitted for the gown she meant to wear to their upcoming ball, her husband’s former lover did not trouble her thoughts.

  Not in the least.

  She would have looked at her reflection in the cheval with the same critical eye regardless of who would or would not be in attendance.

  Derbyshire was a lifetime away from the heart of the ton—which was the very reason her family enjoyed abiding at Pemberley. Upon the occasion of their ball she did not care to be accused of being a dowdy country housewife. Had it not been for the visits of Caroline Bingley, she would be altogether unwitting of what was fashionable. Caroline’s life was dedicated to the au courant. She was not, however, always faultlessly attired. Miss Bingley was often adorned with more ribbons than a Maypole (and upon one famous occasion an ear of Indian corn), but she kept apace of what the ladies of Paris were wearing.

  With the ball a fortnight away, Elizabeth looked longingly at the lovely satin gown she had chosen. She touched the embroidery and shook her head with perturbation. It suddenly looked pale and uninspired. It was a useless business. No frock in time immortal could perform to her expectations. And even if her gown had been fit for a queen, she feared her figure would not do it justice. Pregnancy may have enhanced her bosom, but her waist was thickening far more hastily than she anticipated. She could tighten her corset only so much before it caused her to hiccup.

  As the seamstress pinned a flounce to the bottom of her skirt, her thoughts turned again to the former Juliette Clisson. She recalled that although she was one of the most stunningly exotic women in three countries, Juliette was older than Darcy—by perhaps five years. The new Lady Howgrave was entering what the cognoscenti liked to call the “years of danger.”

  Elizabeth stopped herself from such ruminations. She was perilously close to celebrating what might be construed as another’s misfortune. That was cruel. Rather, a different notion pleased her. There was a chance that the Howgraves would send their regrets. Lady Howgrave was known to be a woman of town. As Elizabeth knew well, it was far easier to be magnanimous from a distance.

  Mrs. Darcy had great confidence in Mr. Darcy’s fidelity. His good leg and handsome fortune, however, drew forward women like moths to a flame. Interceding on his behalf when they made pests of themselves was not her favourite occupation. Most were just innocent flirts. Lady Howgrave, however, was not a mere flirt and she most certainly was not guileless. Elizabeth did not for a moment believe that was a threat to their marriage. Regardless, the woman had employed unforgiving wiles in an attempt to make Elizabeth believe otherwise. There was no mistaking her designs.

  That was why when Elizabeth learnt of Juliette’s sudden marriage, one singular possibility troubled her.

  Those unsuspecting of Juliette’s past might have concluded that in marrying Sir Howgrave (a certified war hero), hers was a love match. Perhaps it was. As Elizabeth was not much of a believer in coincidences, she had come to another, less cheerful conclusion. Sir Howgrave’s charm may not have bewitched Juliette half so much as his manor—which lay not five miles from Pemberley.

  The manoeuvre might have vexed Elizabeth more had she not already known that an exchange of estates had been arranged between Howgrave and Bingley. There would be thirty miles between them, rather than five. She should not have desired such a reassurance, but she enjoyed it all the same.

  “Worry,” she reminded herself, “is the price one pays when borrowing trouble.”

  Her life was far too happy not to heed that caution. Unfortunately, it was a sad truth that when it came to arts and allurements, there is no device too paltry for some ladies to employ for captivation. Indeed, she held no fear for her husband’s affections. It was just another gambit that she would prefer not to have to deflect.

  For there were times when, despite all our finest defences, trouble not only comes to call, it draws up a chair.

  Chapter 11

  The Cost of Fame

  Sir Henry Howgrave, lately of Howgrave Manor, and Miss Juliette Clisson had an understanding. He would make her rich and she would make him famous. Each kept their promise.

  When a deal is made with devil, however, one can often end up sitting squat in the middle of Hell.

  ———

  Upon learning the principal reason for marrying Sir Henry Howgrave had evaporated beneath her tiny feet, Juliette threw herself into a well-hidden rage. She was almost ill with regret. In time, she stopped reproving herself for that which she could not alter (snits, after all, were generally unproductive) and took an account of her situation.

  Odious though the notion was, it had been imperative that she marry. Moreover, the match she had made was not without merit. Quite the contrary. Howgrave was a man of ambition. He meant to stand for the House of Commons, but confided that his ultimate aspiration was to become Prime Minister. That was not just hubris speaking. A Prime Ministership was not unfathomable. With demands for reform, the House of Lords would soon become as irrelevant as the King—or so Howgrave and his cronies claimed.

  Juliette gauged Howgrave’s merit as a husband much as she would have had she been allowed to vote. He was a landed gentleman, knighted for courage displayed in battle (his valorous conduct meriting him several mentions in the Gazette). He owned a hearty laugh and a commanding voice. Despite his short stature (and near torporific gait), Howgrave was, indeed, an imposing orator. He had lacked but one asset to win any election he chose—a handsome wife by his side. The common folk loved to mingle with ladies of class and culture.

  As she had nothing to lose and much to gain, Juliette decided that she would forward her husband’s political aspirations in any way she could. His success would be her success; the power he obtained, she would share.

  Her chosen path meant pledging herself to the tedious electioneering circuit. It behoved Juliette just then to be in the public eye. For all of her life, circumstances had kept her to the shadows of society, more notorious than famous. As a courtesan, she might be seen on a gentleman’s arm at the theatre or soirees. When he was to be lionized, his wife shared in his glory.

  If she was to give of herself, Juliette meant to do more than adorn her husband’s arm. She meant to be the jewel in the crown of his campaign. She would shine whilst Howgrave waved at the unwashed masses. With her first whiff of fame (notwithstanding the stench of those unwashed masses), she was smitten. To everyone’s astonishment, she leapt into the political fray enthusiastically. Wearing velvet slippers and sporting a silk parasol, she flounced into each second-hand store on Monmouth Street, shaking hands and giving out sweets to ragamuffins. Finding that a great triumph, she increased her rounds, inciting wild melees as children fought over candy and shopkeepers and their wives vied for a chance to see Lady Howgrave’s hat.

  Whilst this attention was pleasing to Howgrave’s backers, ladies of condition were unamused. They deemed Lady Howgrave’s avid interest in her husband’s campaign unseemly. (As ladies did not vote, they were largely ignored by politicos on all sides.) Others gossiped that the Howgraves’ marriage was not a love match—that each was the other’s prize. This was a conclusion that Juliette encouraged. She did not care to be immortalized as a doting wife. She despised wifedom and those who inhabited it. If she had to play that role, it would not be as a faux dévot—pious hypocrite.

  Word soon spread beyond the ton that Lady Howgrave’s past was a tad chequered. Scandalous talk only added to her allure, adding a multitude of followers to Howgrave’s camp. This was just as well, for standing for Parliament was an expensive undertaking. While on the speech-making stump Howgrave laid out thousands of pounds for just beer. Bribery cost far more. Some of the expense he shouldered himself. (Much of it he
did not, thus incurring what was euphemised as “obligations.”) Lady Howgrave’s charms were put to good use in persuading others to loosen their purse-strings.

  Notwithstanding her vow against it, when her husband stood at the podium and spoke fervently of God and country, she gazed upon him with semi-adoring eyes. So eloquent was his oration, upon one occasion she gave herself leave to be brought to tears. (She had once contemplated a stage career, but doing so would have necessitated a reduction in circumstances and a loss of several social tiers.) By the end of each of her husband’s speeches, the crowd roared with approval for them both. A touch of her handkerchief to the corner of her eye was such a success that it became an oft-repeated gesture.

  Engaging in such theatrics lost much of its impact if it went without notice in newspapers. The Howgraves could not stand on their laurels. To command more newsprint, Howgrave had to fashion more grandiose promises and craft more scurrilous accusations. At some point, even he knew he was flouting libel laws. Hence, his wife concocted the ne plus ultra of public performances all on her own.

  “I shall award each man a kiss in exchange for his vote.”

  “No!” commanded her husband. “You shall be called a harlot!”

  “I have been called worse,” she reminded him. Then with finality, she said, “I shall do it!”

  His advisors were more intrigued than he, but they wanted limitations.

  “Only gentlemen should be kissed, of course!”

  She replied, “Gentlemen’s votes will not win this election. I shall kiss whoever shall promise their vote, be they dustmen, farrier, or Yeoman of the Guard.”

  Thereupon, the beautiful Lady Howgrave, velvet shoes, silk parasol and all the other finery Howgrave’s considerable fortune could afford, set about her mission. Keeping her pledge, she bestowed a kiss upon the cheek of each man she encountered (and their number were legion) in exchange for their promise of support. The tactic was outrageously successful. It also further scandalised society. Notwithstanding a few fisticuffs and free-for-alls in vying for her favours, she excited nothing less than boisterous approval. Hence, any indignation was handily overruled.

  Breathless with appreciation, the newspapers reported not only every word Juliette said, but recounted the turn of her countenance and each twitch of her lovely brow as she spoke. Her garb was described carefully, no detail of her hat or button on her coat too trivial to relate. Some writers went so far as to chasten London’s ladies of station, insisting that they follow in Lady Howgrave’s well-appointed footsteps. One might have expected such impudence to be met with expressions of appalled incredulity. It was not. Ladies of the aristocracy were emboldened to copy Lady Howgrave’s sleeves, gloves and shoes. Indeed, parasol wielding women began to appear at Howgrave’s speeches, standing on their tiptoes just to see Lady Howgrave’s latest ensemble.

  Such notability was highly intoxicating. It was understandable that when Lady Howgrave’s husband actually won the election it was a mite anti-climatic for her.

  Sitting in her London mansion, ennui ruled Juliette’s days. Not only was she bored to tears, she knew that her position as beloved wife was in grave and immediate jeopardy. To secure her situation and have continued access to Howgrave’s fortune, she had to give him a child.

  ———

  Juliette’s fertility was a tenet of their marriage contract.

  Howgrave was unforgivably crass when he inquired of her age and questioned her ability to bear a child.

  She lied to him, of course, on both counts.

  Howgrave’s unblinking acceptance of her fabricated answers told her just how unworldly the little fig-piddler was. A man of experience would have been witting that a lady was not held to the same principles by society as that of her male counterpart. A gentleman was only as good as his word. A lady was only as good as her inventions.

  She had to keep him benighted at all cost.

  Although no one could say absolutely, she knew there were habitués of the demimonde who would not be loath to betray her. They would not hesitate to lie (or, God help them, tell the truth) about her age. To keep them at bay, Juliette lay out significant bribes of her own. Each well-placed coin assured her that such talk remained hushed. (And did it not, her time within the political sphere meant that she knew more than one man whose occupation included silencing those who would not do so of their own volition.)

  Nonetheless, she disliked falsehoods. The truth had a way of being uncovered at the worst possible moment.

  What she did know was that if she did not supply her husband with an heir forthwith, he would go elsewhere. Indeed, Howgrave’s own father had procured an heir through the agency of a mistress (and not a very elevated one at that). Word had it that her husband was already visiting the beds of several other women. The thought irked her. Considering her past, the position of a wronged wife was an ironic one. Had it happened to one of the women of her circle, she might have laughed. Her predicament, however, was quite without mirth. Was she not impregnated soon, she would be cast out of Howgrave’s house with no more than a fiver and fare-thee-well.

  It was quite paradoxical.

  She became a courtesan when was but a girl. Her very life depended upon not falling pregnant. In doing so, she had made use of pennyroyal and other ghastly substances to protect against it. Such means were not infallible. Courtesans often had children tucked away in other counties (one or two kept them in back rooms). Over the years, Juliette had managed to elude that complication. There was only one affair that tempted her to throw purgatives—and thus caution—to the side. She had dared hope that a child might come from it, but it was not to be. The gentleman came to her far too seldom. After that, she had kept to men less virile—and alluring.

  Those lost years could not be retrieved and she shed no tears for them. Once again she took stock of her situation.

  Although her figure was as voluptuous as ever, she knew her fertile years were in decline. Had she married more wisely, all would not be lost. Regrettably, her husband had particular sexual predilections. By virtue of this disposition, she had to resort to measures to sate him that were not conducive to conception.

  It should have come to no surprise to her. Henry Howgrave was not only a bastard by birth; he was also one in practise.

  Chapter 12

  Fictional Freddy

  Sir Henry Howgrave saw himself as ripe with promise. His ambition knew no constraints. He meant to become the Prime Minister of England and would let no distraction alter that goal. Driven by the lust for power and cowed by the fear of failure, this Hero of Waterloo pursued his place in history with an astounding sense of purpose. Each day, he met with constituents, plied the wealthy citizens of his county for support, and dictated his memoirs.

  Each night, he beat his wife like a cottage rug.

  ———

  Juliette Clisson had been a rapturous selection as his betrothed. And, as it happened, she was a damn fine political partner. He had understood the cleverness in wagging around a beautiful wife (men inherently admire a man with a handsome woman beside him). No one would have guessed such a delicate blossom would have thrust herself unto the masses as she had. The people, of course, were delighted. When she began the kissing business, the filthy rabble was near frenzied with admiration. He liked to believe that he would have won the election soundly without her. But she certainly gained him some productive attention from the mephitic press.

  As for employing the whip, Howgrave was not a compleat savage. He was not one of these ham-fisted country oafs who thrashed his wife and beat his dogs. His preference had a higher purpose. He lashed his wife’s bare buttocks only as a means to satisfy his carnal urges. There was nothing wrong with the practise. It was one of kings. Why, the Prince Regent was said to be a great whip in his day.

  Flagellation was hardly a method singular to him and the King. Indeed, there was an entire guild of flagellants in London. They gathered in darkened chambers and engaged in all manner of debaucher
y. Such voyeuristic exploits were beneath Sir Howgrave. He saw himself as a gentleman of the highest order (despite all indications to the contrary).

  He had first accustomed himself to the sting of a whip between gut-hauling military engagements across the water. He had becalmed himself through the agency of an agreeable camp-follower (who accommodated him between her laundry duties). When he married, he chose his wife with his particular proclivities in mind. It would not do for him to wed some virginal maiden. The first time a strap was produced she might have run home to her mother (or besoiled herself—he had known that to bechance an unwitting chit). No indeed, he selected a woman not only for her beauty, but her sophistication. He must have a wife who would not be taken unawares by such habits—a woman of the demimonde.