Too Wicked to Love Read online

  “Innocent?” Ethan snapped. “You must have borne Smollett’s bastard. And you saw this as a convenient way to rid yourself of an unwanted burden.”

  Jane gasped. “How can you speak so cruelly—”

  Lady Portia held up a fine white hand to silence her. “It’s quite all right, Miss Mayhew. The truth is on my side. Ethan, the baby obviously belongs to one of your many other women.”

  “May I remind you, madam, I need only make a few inquiries among your acquaintances to prove your duplicity.”

  Lady Portia smiled serenely. “You’ll have a difficult time, I’m afraid. You see, I could not possibly have given birth two months ago.”

  She rose from her chair, a graceful figure in pale blue silk. And Jane saw what the table and the dim firelight had hidden: beneath the high waist of her gown, her midsection swelled in a gentle, unmistakable mound.

  Lady Portia was pregnant.

  Chapter 5

  Jane leashed her temper only until they stepped out onto the front stoop and closed the door. “You behaved insufferably,” she hissed. “You might at least have wished her well, instead of dragging me out of there. The poor woman has lost everything—husband, home, reputation. And you only added to her misery by treating her like a common harlot.”

  In the glow of the carriage lamp, Ethan appeared unrepentent. “Stay out of what you don’t know, Jane.”

  “I know what I see. And I know that you won a bill of divorcement because Lady Portia strayed from your marriage vows.” Jane took a breath of mist-laden air, though it did little to cool her indignation. “But surely you were as much to blame as she was. It shouldn’t be permissible for a husband to have affairs, either.”

  For a moment she feared she’d spoken too recklessly. His eyes narrowing, he bared his teeth like a dark and dangerous night creature. “That is precisely why I shall never make the mistake of marrying again.”

  He thrust the lamp into her hand. As her fingers grasped the curved iron handle, he wheeled around and went to the barouche that waited at the curbstone. He growled an order to the coachman; then to her astonishment he strode away down the pavement, his footsteps ringing out until he vanished into the murky mist.

  Jane walked slowly from the porch, the cold damp seeping into her bones. Why did she fancy she had heard pain in his voice? It must be her imagination, her unwillingness to give up her foolish, juvenile infatuation for him. She didn’t know Ethan Sinclair anymore. Certainly he was no longer the impish boy who had once made faces at her in church. Nor was he the charming rogue who accumulated women as one might collect butterflies.

  He was an arrogant knave who cared only for his own pleasures.

  And yet she had heard pain underlying his bitter words: I shall never make the mistake of marrying again.

  “Miss?” said the coachman. “’Is lordship wishes me to escort ye back to Chasebourne House.”

  The footman held open the door of the barouche, and droplets of cold rain spattered her face. The air smelled of soot and rubbish. Shivering, she resisted the idea of scuttling back to the safety of her room; she felt compelled to understand the man Ethan had become. And she might never have a better opportunity.

  “I’ll be a little while longer,” she told the servant. “Please wait here.”

  Then she turned around and marched back toward the town house.

  * * *

  Ethan landed a punch into the long leather sack. His fist dented the sawdust filling, and he welcomed the jolt that shot up his arm.

  The boxing gymnasium was empty tonight. Abandoned weight bars lay along the wall, and the smell of sweat lingered in the air. Except for the light from a single lamp, shadows enveloped the cavernous room and the vacant boxing ring where, in daytime, gentlemen wagered colossal sums on prize fights. Ethan often came here for exercise in the afternoon, but now there was no sound except for the echo of his repeated blows. The proprietor had grudgingly admitted him, then vanished to his gin bottle upstairs.

  Ethan let out his frustration on the punching bag. He was still angry at himself for permitting Jane to witness that scene. What a bloody fool he’d been to think she might take his side. He knew how Portia ingratiated herself to others, how she made herself appear the tragic heroine in a melodrama. He knew too that her blond beauty masked an amoral hussy. It had taken him four years to learn that galling truth, and he could not expect a mere acquaintance to grasp her character at a glance. Portia played her part too well.

  You were as much to blame as she was.

  Yes, there was truth in that statement, but not for the reason Jane believed. He had kept a part of himself inviolate. There were aspects about himself that Portia had never known—that no one knew. Would his marriage have survived if he had been more honest? Or if he had disregarded her desire to delay pregnancy? By the time he’d caught her in bed with his valet, their marriage had become a cold, lifeless duty.

  You were as much to blame as she was.

  To hell with Jane Mayhew and her sweeping opinions. She had made up her mind, and nothing he said could change it. And now he had stupidly given her more ammunition in her war to prove him an unfit father.

  He landed another hard punch, and a trickle of sweat rolled down his bare chest. If indeed he was Marianne’s father. He had been so certain about Portia’s guilt that he hadn’t given a thought to any other women. Who the devil had abandoned the child?

  Even as he mulled over the possibilities, the door opened and a trio of laughing people sauntered into the darkened gymnasium, a pair of gentlemen with a red-haired slattern clinging to them.

  Ethan scowled, recognizing the men. Under ordinary circumstances he might have welcomed the company. But he was in no mood to trade witticisms with a couple of fops. With any luck, they would heed his glare and leave.

  The taller of the two poked the stout one in the ribs. Then they ambled straight toward Ethan.

  * * *

  “Please don’t weep.” Perched beside her on the faded brown cushions of the chaise, Jane passed a handkerchief to Lady Portia.

  Portia dabbed at her wet cheeks, the square of plain linen looking incongruous in her fine-boned fingers. The tears lent a sheen to her soulful eyes. Her skin tinted gold by the light of the fire, she had the aura of a melancholy Madonna.

  “You’ve been so kind,” Portia said, sniffling daintily. “No other gentlewoman has cared to hear the events that led up to my divorce. Indeed, I am shunned whenever I go out in public. Shunned, when I was once the most celebrated debutante in England. And it is all because Chasebourne spurned me.”

  Jane stifled the impulse to point out that Portia had chosen to travel down a wicked path. The poor woman didn’t need any more criticism. She had been an unhappy wife driven into the arms of another man. “I am sorry. Truly I am.”

  “Your good will means so much to me. Oh, Jane, do you know what the cut direct means?”

  “No … I don’t think so.”

  “It means that should I happen to encounter a former acquaintance on the street, she—or he—will look straight past me and refuse to acknowledge my presence. It is as if I am no more than a lamppost … or the lowliest of servants. I have been cut even by those who once counted me among their dearest friends.”

  “I’m very sorry,” Jane said again, knowing that words were inadequate to ease the pain. “It is most un-Christian of them.”

  “It is the way of society. The ton can be so cruel to those women who have taken even a single misstep. So unmerciful to one poor female who has paid for her error with the loss of all status and privilege.” Portia bowed her head, the firelight painting her slender white neck. “And the most unforgiving of them all is Ethan.”

  Something stabbed at Jane, and this time she could not deny the inexplicable urge to defend him. “You did betray your vows to him.”

  “Only after years of enduring his affairs. Oh, I cannot count the number of times I waited in vain for him at home while he dallied with other women. I
craved his affections, but he could not even be bothered to give me a child. A child, Jane. That was all I ever wanted, all I prayed to have. My own child to comfort me in my lonely hours.” She hugged her swollen belly. “But for the last three years of our marriage, he refused to share my bed.”

  Touching the familiar shape of the locket beneath her high-necked gown, Jane swallowed her shock at the confession. How could Ethan have done that? Ignored this beautiful, fragile woman?

  It was unseemly for a lady to refer to the most intimate aspect of wedlock. And to a mere acquaintance. Yet Portia had no other female in whom to confide.

  “You cannot imagine the nightmare my marriage had become. That is why I sought love wherever I could find it.” Portia’s eyes were as big and soft as pansies. “Oh, dear Jane, I feel that we are friends now, aren’t we?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Then if I tell you more, I may trust in your complete confidence.”

  Her forwardness of manner made Jane uneasy. Yet she pushed away her misgivings and nodded. “Yes, of course.”

  “I made a terrible mistake in dallying with George Smollet. I didn’t wish to admit this to Ethan, but…”

  “What is it?”

  “The truth is, George is gone. He’s run off with the last of my funds.”

  “No,” Jane breathed. “Are you sure?”

  Portia nodded forlornly. “He’s fled to the Continent. And I suppose it is all for the best. He put on the airs of a gentleman, but beneath it all, he was a commoner and unsuited to a lady of my delicate sensibilities.”

  “But … you’re to bear his child.”

  “Alas, yes.” Portia lowered her gaze to the twisted handkerchief in her hands. “I am mortified to confess, we were living in sin. He has taken everything from me—everything! I am in dire need of funds. Ethan granted me only a paltry amount.”

  “Have you no parents or relations you might turn to?”

  “They have all forsaken me in my hour of need. I have no one. No one at all.”

  Sympathy tugged at Jane’s heart. “If only I could help, but I’m afraid I have only a tiny annuity left to me by my father. You see, we’ve something in common. My mother’s family cut her off without a penny when she married a poor scholar.”

  “Please, I don’t mean to beg money from you. Heaven knows, I’ve more pride than that.” Portia grasped Jane’s hand suddenly, her fingers cool and clinging. “But there is another way that you might assist me.”

  Discomfitted, Jane wanted to draw away, but held herself still. “What is that?”

  “Dare I say it—Nay, I cannot.”

  “Say it, please. If I can help you, I will.”

  “All right, then.” Portia drew a deep breath, and her eyes shone with desperate purpose. “I must have a private audience with Ethan, to plead my case. And you must convince him to receive me.”

  * * *

  “Ho there, Chasebourne,” the shorter man hailed. “What luck, can it be our favorite gamester? We were passing by and saw the light.”

  His companion goosed the tawdry redhead, and she let out a squeal. “We were out having a bit of fun.” Their approaching footsteps echoed in the empty gymnasium.

  “Keeble. Duxbury.” Hiding his irritation, Ethan flashed a smile at the dandies. Their faces were familiar to him from many a late-night session across the green baize of dice and card tables. “What brings you two out to prowl the back streets of Covent Garden?”

  “Fate, obviously.” Keeble glanced at Duxbury, and they sniggered as if sharing a private jest. “Mind if we chat a while?”

  “Surely you have better things to do tonight.” Ethan looked pointedly at the prostitute.

  “Aw, we like your company, too,” Duxbury said.

  Both men dragged over chairs, scraping the wooden floor, and sat down beneath the glare of the lamp, Duxbury pulling the tittering whore onto his lap and petting her bottom. Feeling a jab of suspicion, Ethan rubbed his aching knuckles. Those two were up to no good. He hoped to God he was wrong about their purpose.

  A notorious gossip, Viscount Keeble was short and rotund, his cravat and collar points high enough to choke him. He styled his brown hair in Grecian waves, though with his habit of tugging at it to cover his bald spot, the result resembled a bird’s nest. “We’d just heard you were back in town,” Keeble said in a jovial tone. “Didn’t we, Ducks?”

  “You were the talk of the Barclays’ ball tonight,” said the Honorable James Duxbury, his blue eyes avid in his baby face. “Though a more deadly dull herd of cows I cannot imagine. There wasn’t a female present I’d dance with, let alone lure into a darkened room.”

  “However, the evening wasn’t a complete waste,” Keeble said.

  “Right-o,” Duxbury agreed. “We found us this bit of fluff not half a mile from here.” He thrust his hand beneath the woman’s skirt, and she squealed again, slapping playfully at him, then draping her arms around his neck.

  “Not her, you dolt,” Keeble said. “It so happens we intercepted a rather nasty rumor. Not that I’m one to pass along unfounded gossip.”

  “Then pray, don’t start now,” Ethan said in a hard tone. Turning away, he thrust his fist at the leather bag in a rapid punch.

  The viscount cleared his throat. “Yes, well, a man should know what people are whispering behind his back. And I feel it my moral obligation to relay the lies they are saying about you.”

  “What is it now? I trust it isn’t about the harem of slave girls at my country estate. I did so wish to keep that a secret.”

  “A harem?” Duxbury quit fondling the whore and stared wide-eyed at Ethan. “Truly? You have all the luck.”

  “Never mind that,” Keeble snapped. He worked his pasty features into a caricature of concern. “This concerns a young woman living in your house, Ethan. Along with an infant. People are saying she bore your love child. And that you’d flaunt the two of them in the face of society.”

  Flexing his fists, Ethan felt a cold tightening inside himself. He’d expected talk to fly, but not so quickly. The aristocracy liked to believe the worst—especially of a man who had disregarded their petty rules.

  But Jane, the mother of his child? What a jest. She likely wore iron underdrawers to bed. “The woman is a friend of the family whom my mother is sponsoring this Season. And the child is merely a foundling, my ward.”

  “Most extraordinary,” Keeble said, with a narrow-eyed look that showed his skepticism. “Who is the mother, then? And the father?”

  Ethan gave a cool shrug. “No one knows.”

  “Why haven’t you sent the little nipper to a foundling hospital?”

  “I’ve reformed,” Ethan said glibly. “You may spread the word that henceforth, the Earl of Chasebourne shall be a model citizen and a doer of good deeds.”

  Both men hooted with mirth. “Oh-ho, that’ll be the day,” said Duxbury, laughing so hard he half fell off his chair, the whore clinging to him. “You, a decent chap.”

  Keeble wheezed, his plump cheeks turning red. “Better I should believe in a skinny Prinny.”

  The quip set them off again, and Ethan bared his teeth in a smile, though he didn’t find their incredulity all that amusing. Was it so impossible to credit that he could change his ways?

  Not that he meant to do anything of the kind, of course. Hedonism was too enjoyable a life to renounce.

  Keeble wiped his eyes on his plum-colored sleeve. “Ah, you are a wit, Chase, old boy. But the truth now. Is the infant yours?”

  “Do tell,” encouraged Duxbury. “Your secret is safe with us.”

  Both men regarded Ethan with sly expectancy.

  He gritted his teeth. He would sooner emblazon the story across tomorrow’s newsheets than tell these tattlemongers. The memory flashed to him of Marianne’s small, swaddled form, her tiny fists waving, her blue eyes gazing up at him in utter trust. Trust.

  God help her if she ended up with him as a father.

  “Marianne is an orphan,” h
e stated. “And you may send anyone who says otherwise straight to me.”

  Chapter 6

  The news spread with amazing swiftness.

  The following afternoon, Jane sat in the cavernous green and gold reception room, listening as Lady Rosalind fielded polite queries from a procession of genteel callers. Aunt Willie had taken to her chamber with a sick headache and a bottle of restorative. Jane eyed the doorway longingly, wishing she too could escape. But it seemed churlish to abandon her hostess, who obviously thrived on scandal.

  Lady Rosalind presided from a gilded chair, poured endless cups of tea, and held court like a queen. To everyone, she praised her son for sheltering an orphaned infant. “It is admirable of a man to provide for those of lesser fortune,” she confided to a small group of ladies. “I am so very proud of Chasebourne’s kind and generous heart.”

  There were nods and sighs and smiles all around. Half the women present looked dreamy-eyed at the mere mention of his name. Unlike Lady Portia, disgrace had not cost him his status. Even a divorced earl was considered a good catch.

  “Where is Lord Chasebourne today?” Lady Bagwell asked. A stout woman with a dark fringe of hair dusting her upper lip, she glanced at the milling guests as if she expected the master of the house to be lurking behind a chair or drapery.

  “Oh, he’s off doing what men do,” Lady Rosalind said with a vague wave of her hand. “Business matters, you know.”

  Jane knew that to be a fib. According to the housekeeper, his lordship remained in his rooms and was not to be disturbed. He was probably nursing a headache from his late night out, she thought sourly.

  Thinking of her conversation with Lady Portia the previous evening, Jane shifted in her chair. As soon as he deigned to show his face, she intended to have a word with the self-indulgent dastard.

  “My dear Fanny and I did so hope to pay our respects to his lordship,” said Lady Bagwell. She turned to her daughter. “Isn’t that so?”