daresay Carrington might do it,” Aubrey said, startling Jack. “He’s been the best fencer of us all since Eton.”
“So he has,” Montclare agreed. “What do you say, Jack? Shall you have a go at it?”
Recovering from his initial shock, Jack knew he should put an immediate end to the discussion. After all, Higgins’s tawdry story should have inspired him with a firm disinclination to have anything further to do with a woman who had allowed herself to be displayed more crudely than the cheapest prostitute out of Seven Dials.
Except he couldn’t quite reconcile that vision of offensive carnality with the fierce gaze and intense, focused concentration of the woman who had disarmed her fencing instructor, demolished her subsequent opponent and left the room without responding to any of the offers shouted at her by a gallery full of eager supplicants.
Base voluptuary. Scheming, money-hungry jade. A woman of kind heart. Which of those descriptions—if any—reflected the true Lady Belle?
“Of course he’ll do it—won’t you?” Aubrey’s reply pulled Jack’s attention back to the present.
Without having made any conscious decision, Jack heard himself say, “I suppose so.”
“Famous!” Aubrey said. “That kiss is as good as won.”
Jack laughed, but before he could respond, he felt a prickling between his shoulder blades that had, during his years as a soldier, often been a presage of danger. He turned to find Lord Rupert’s gaze on him.
“You might win a kiss,” Rupert conceded after studying him. “But you will never win Belle to your bed.”
“I say, is that a threat?” Aubrey demanded.
“Nay, ’tis more like a dare,” Montclare opined.
“Indeed not, ’tis a wager!” another man cried.
“So it is,” several others agreed. And before Jack could utter another word, calls went out for a waiter to bring the betting book.
Though Jack disavowed interest in anything beyond a contest of blades, the other men, after informing him his participation was unnecessary, duly recorded the wager.
That done, with a cold nod to Jack, Rupert departed. As the other men drifted away, Jack declined Aubrey’s invitation to a hand of whist and accepted Edmund’s offer of a lift back to his rooms. After bidding Aubrey good-bye, the two friends set out.
After tooling his high-perch phaeton down several streets, Edmund turned his attention to Jack. “Do you really intend to challenge Lady Belle?”
“It should prove…interesting. She is quite proficient—amazingly so for a woman.” Jack hesitated. Edmund had always been a steady sort, more detached and observant than the volatile Aubrey. Knowing he could trust his level-headed friend’s opinion, he felt compelled to ask, “What do you think of Lady Belle?”
“Do I believe she actually took part in Higgins’s frolic? Or do I suppose his tale to be a drunkard’s embellishment of a more innocent incident?”
Jack shrugged. “The account was a bit…shocking.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know the truth. Lady Belle has always seemed to me to possess too much…dignity to have participated in such a display. Either way, I doubt it has any bearing on her skill with a foil.”
“I suppose not.”
“If you wish to get a better sense of the woman, you might stop by Drury Lane tonight. Lady Belle keeps a box there. When do you mean to challenge her?”
“Aubrey committed me for tomorrow morning.”
Having reached Albany, Edmund pulled up his horses. “I shall have to delay going to the office until after the match, then. May I wish you good luck.”
“Thank you,” Jack said, accepting his friend’s hand down. “For the ride—and the opinion, as well.”
Edmund nodded. “Drury Lane, upper right. I must work tonight, or I’d be tempted to join you. In any event, I hope Rupert, that slimy bastard, doesn’t end up with her.” Flicking the reins, Edmund set his horses in motion.
Jack watched as his friend drove off, then took the stairs with a purposeful stride. He had his rooms to put to rights, his solicitor to consult, a valet to hire, new garments to order and Horse Guards to visit.
And he didn’t want to be late to the theater.
CHAPTER THREE
ALREADY QUESTIONING her wisdom in letting Mae persuade her to attend the theater, Belle asked her companion to precede her out of the carriage. In a bright purple gown of extremely low cut, her cloak left open to display her famous attributes, Mae set off, cutting a path through the throng like the bow of a frigate through dark water.
Thankfully, Mae would distract some of the gawkers—and enjoy every minute of the attention as fiercely as Belle despised it. But if Bellingham’s death was to free her, she couldn’t remain behind the walls of her house in Mount Street. Nor was it fair to continue depriving Mae of the excitement and activities of the London she so enjoyed.
Besides, Kean was to play one of his best roles tonight. Now that she was her own—and only her own—mistress, she could bar the door to her box and with the intense concentration she’d honed over the years, shut out the crowd, the chatter—everything but the action onstage.
Closing her ears and her mind to the shouts and whistles that had begun the moment her coach was recognized, she followed Mae into the theater. Her regal posture and icy dignity, reinforced by the presence beside her of Watson, former bouncer at the bordello where Mae had once worked and now Belle’s bodyguard-cum-butler, served to keep the curious from crowding her as she crossed the lobby and climbed the stairs to her box.
A mercifully brief time later, Belle took her seat beside Mae, Watson behind them to guard the door. Mae looked about avidly, plying her fan as she nodded and smiled to acknowledge the greetings called out to them.
Her companion was so obviously in her element that Belle had to smile. She was going to have difficulty embarking on a more retired life with Mae at her side, the woman’s flamboyant presence better than a handbill as an advertisement for the world’s oldest profession. Though her companion had, amazingly, retained a child’s delight in the world and a sunny nature as transparent as clear springwater, there was no disputing the fact that Mae Woods, a whore’s daughter who’d followed in her mother’s footsteps when she was twelve years old, was hopelessly vulgar.
Still, this aging courtesan had been as much mother as friend to Belle in some of her direst hours. She couldn’t imagine dismissing her—even had Mae somewhere other than the streets to go, which she didn’t.
Teach Mae to be more discreet, Belle mentally added to the list she’d begun of Things To Do With My Life Now, and then chuckled at the incongruity of that notion.
A slight diminution in the noise level signaled that the players were about to begin. But as Belle transferred her attention to the stage, her eye was drawn to the glitter of gold on a red uniform tunic. Her gaze rose to the sunburned face above the jacket—the face of the dark-haired, dark-eyed soldier who’d studied her this morning.
He was watching her now, his regard so intense her skin prickled and a shock skittered to the pit of her stomach. She swallowed a gasp, taken aback at the power of that wordless connection. As if he somehow knew the effect he’d caused, the soldier smiled as he bowed to her.
Feeling heat flush her face, Belle looked away without acknowledging him. Mae, ever alert, leaned over to whisper, “Who was that?”
“I have no idea,” Belle replied, pressing a hand over her stomach to quell the flutters and resolutely fixing her eyes on the actor now entering from the wings.
With Kean in excellent form, the supporting cast equally competent and the