Page 4 of Counting on Love

Chapter Two

London—the center of the world, for all intents and purposes. Or so it was said to be. The Honorable Reginald Taverston, third son of the Earl of Iversley, thought otherwise.

After four months rusticating at the family country estate and spending two more months in Bath visiting his great aunts (well, one great aunt and one great aunt’s long-time companion), Reginald had returned to the city where all fashionable gentlemen belonged, for some reason that escaped him.

He ducked his head into the wet wind and willed his feet to press on, puddles be damned.

The obligatory teasing that Jasper, his eldest brother had subjected him to—What! Newly arrived? Why are you HERE?—would have turned to frank mockery if Jasper had guessed that it was not only filial duty bringing Reginald directly to the Earl’s London townhouse, but also a lack of enthusiasm for the visit upon which he was now embarked. Any other red-blooded young man would have hied off to his neglected mistress first.

Thank God Crispin had been absent for the taunting. Their middle brother was a wild card. One never knew whose side he would take, but if he had taken Reginald’s, it would have been out of pity, not fellow feeling.

Upon arriving in the city, Reginald, being himself rather than Jasper or Crispin, had gone directly to see their mother. He went to report on Father, the Earl, who had been sickly for a while, recuperating in the country. And to reassure Mother that the aunts were still well.

Also, admittedly, he’d been looking forward to a quiet homecoming. He’d arrived the day after Mrs. Preston’s annual pre-Season rout by pure serendipity—a little rude-seeming, perhaps, since the whole family had missed it last year. But Jasper’s teasing struck a chord, so Reginald merely answered his mother’s most pressing inquiries, then took himself off for a bit of entertainment, as young men were expected to do.

The walk was not far. He made his way to Baker Street, an out-of-the-way but still toney address where well-acquainted gentlemen were likely to pass one another without acknowledgment, giving no offense. This was what passed for being discreet. Mistresses resided here.

Being twenty-three, unmarried, and possessed of an adequate allowance, his own presence on Baker Street was hardly scandalous. It was no secret that he kept company with the sought-after Miss Annie DeBelle—not her true name—who had, for a short time, been an opera singer. At least, he had been keeping company with her, beginning a year prior to his departure from London. He continued paying her bills, which were not exorbitant, even though he’d been absent for the last six months. Granted, it was a rather one-sided arrangement, but keeping a mistress on retainer, as it were, kept him from having to go through the process of finding another.

Besides, he was fond of Annie. He should be impatient to reacquaint himself with her. After all, he had not availed himself of any alternatives—a rather embarrassing fact that he would never admit to Jasper or Crispin. True, there was little opportunity in Iversley, but one would not have had to look very hard in Bath.

He hadn’t bothered. Was that strange? It seemed to him it was.

Annie had been very little bother. Thankfully. And she was lovely, which made Reginald feel more…credible. And there were other obvious benefits besides.

He crossed the narrow street and ascended the steps to the door. The house was narrow, squeezed into too small a lot, but neatly built and comfortable. Annie had chosen it with the help of her previous protector. When the gossips reported that the man’s attentions had shifted to a young actress, Miss DeBelle let it be known she would welcome a new benefactor. That had caught Reginald’s interest. He’d heard her sing once. At a private party, not on stage. After a few inquiries and an interview of sorts, Reginald signed a few papers, took over the lease, and it was done.

Thinking back, it had all been pleasantly uncomplicated, although it did surprise him that she’d accepted his offer over those of other bidders. Jasper had claimed to be flabbergasted, but Crispin elbowed their brother roughly and said Annie was said to be a shrewd judge. That comment, Reginald had felt, was even more mocking than Jasper’s feigned shock. Thank God he’d been savvy enough not to ask: judge of what?

Although he possessed a key, he rang the bell. She must have heard that he was back in London, but he wouldn’t barge in unannounced.

Dolores, Annie’s girl, opened the door. “Girl” was a misnomer. The woman may well have started out as Annie’s nursemaid from the look of her.

“My lord!” She bobbed a curtsy, frowning. “Come in. I’ll tell Miss DeBelle that you’re here.”

“She may not be expecting me.”

“Don’t be silly.” Annie’s silken voice pulled his attention to the stairway in the hall. “Of course I expected you.”

Of course, she would. He felt a jolt, seeing her. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Voluptuous. Black hair. Those almond-shaped eyes and plump lips. He was suddenly quite glad he had come. She wore a pale green dress of a fabric so thin it might well have been translucent. A swath of darker green silk draped across her shoulders and around her upper arms, a pretense of modesty likely performed for his sake; he possessed an awkward streak of prudishness that he knew amused her.

“Good evening, Miss DeBelle.”

“Mr. Taverston, won’t you come into the parlor?” She turned to the maid. “Dolores, please take Mr. Taverston’s coat and hat.”

After removing the small box from the pocket of his coat and slipping it inside his jacket, he handed his outer things to the maid and followed Annie up the stairs.

A fire warmed the parlor. Light floral wallpaper made the cozy room appear larger than it was. The furnishings were unchanged except for new plush pillows decorating the davenport and chairs. The drapes were drawn, and the lamps burned low. Perhaps the flue on the fireplace wasn’t drawing properly because he caught a faint whiff of smoke. He sank onto the davenport while Annie went to a sideboard displaying glasses and a decanter.

“You still prefer sherry?” she asked.

He wondered if “still” was an admonishment.

“Sherry is fine.” His preference was to drink sparingly of whatever was set before him. He hated the outside-of-himself sensation of being foxed. That was another thing Jasper mocked him for. Of course, Crispin drank no spirits at all, yet he was not mocked. Even Jasper’s so-called humor had limits.

She brought him a glass. He trailed his fingertips over the back of her hand as he took it from her. She smiled but stepped away rather than sitting beside him. Which was odd. She might be angry with him. As if to confirm his suspicion, she took a seat halfway across the room.

They sat a moment in silence. It occurred to him, as he struggled for opening words, that he had always relied upon her to find topics for light conversation. As if it were her responsibility to ensure his comfort. Not as if. It was her responsibility. Her job. Part of it anyway. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. She was not his lover, but his employee.