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“If I have London’s most beautiful woman on my arm, she deserves to be feted,” he would tell her when she withdrew into a corner or behind her fan.
Jemima rather thought he wanted to prove a point, and that Jemima herself had little to do with his decision. She was his show pony. He’d chuckled with delight when she’d told him, horrified, that the Comte de Darnelles had offered her 80,000 francs to paint her naked body.
“Everyone desires you, my sweet, but you are mine alone. See how their eyes are drawn to you? I am indeed an object of envy.”
Safely ensconced in Deveril’s box with the man who declared he loved her above all else, yet was to be married in two days, Jemima drew back behind the curtain as soon as she saw he was engrossed in the performance. The singing and acting were as entertaining as ever, but her gaze continually strayed into the audience. So soon after her last theater visit, she was fearful of seeing Lucy or anyone else she knew.
During interval, they were visited by various friends of Deveril. Male, of course, for no gently-reared female would consort with someone like Jemima. It was a lonely life at times. Deveril kept her close, and she had little in common with the females who sometimes accompanied Deveril’s friends. These were usually actresses; preening, painted pieces who loudly professed envy at Jemima’s good fortune.
While four young-bloods eagerly discussed their high steppers with Deveril, Jemima made her excuses. Deveril, distracted and no doubt presuming she was in search of a convenience, let her go.
However, it wasn’t long before Jemima wished she’d not been so bold. She rarely ventured out alone without Deveril close by. Without him, she felt vulnerable in a way she hadn’t when she’d been virtuous Miss Jemima Percy, for the eyes of the public were more assessing, now.
More critical.
She saw it in the gazes of the older women, particularly. The wives of bankers; the professional classes.
“Oh, what an exquisite headpiece.” Surprised, Jemima turned on the stairs at the genuinely fulsome praise, and found herself responding to the smile of a very sweet-looking young lady possessed of the biggest blue eyes she’d ever seen, quite in contrast to the glowering raisins of the hatchet-faced dowager beside her.
“Why, thank you,” she murmured, raising her hand to touch the diamond-studded comb imprisoning three ostrich feathers. Before she could say more, the older woman snatched her charge out of her orbit with a look of revulsion directed at Jemima.
Now Jemima felt both deflated, dirty, and desirous of returning to Deveril’s side. She trod back up the stairs, heedless of the stares directed at her until Deveril greeted her with a harsh, “And where were you off to alone, my dear?”
Miserably, Jemima sat down. “I told you I needed…fresh air for just a moment, and you let me go.”
“Foolish! You should have understood I was distracted. You shouldn’t have gone alone.” He seemed unusually agitated. He rose. “We must go now.”
“But the final act has just begun.”
“We can’t stay. Lady Elizabeth is here.”
Jemima pressed her lips together, but resisted the urge to say she’d already suggested it wasn’t a good idea for him to have taken his mistress out on the eve of his nuptials.
Impatiently, Deveril put out his hand to help Jemima to rise. “They must have come late. I only saw her with her godmother during interval, and when I turned you were gone. Though that was for the best, for she waved up at me. Come. I can’t risk the two of you meeting.”
Jemima needed no further prompting. She took his arm, and keeping her head averted in case the young lady in question should happen to look up and see them, hurried out of the theater.
With a heavy heart, she sat in silence in the carriage as they jolted over the cobbles toward the house he’d leased for her. His bravado had been dented, she could tell, and he was concerned—as he hadn’t been before—by the repercussions of his rash act. He’d be warier now. He’d perhaps no longer see the thrill and challenge in constructing some elaborate plan to get Jemima into Griffith House when he was there.
Lord Deveril stared through the window while Jemima dwelt on her conundrum. How was she ever to gain entry, reclaim the tablet, and then travel to the far-distant place it foretold hid a great treasure? It was madness to imagine she could do such a thing, alone, but what about aided? Was there someone who could help her? Not her aunt or cousin, naturally.
Deveril? No, certainly not him and not Lord Ruthcot either. She pushed the thought out of her mind. He was no likely knight in shining armor. No, he was like all the others, relishing the challenge of coming upon some creative way that would make her want to offer him her body. No sooner would he get what he wanted, than he would either discard her, or flaunt her in as controlling a manner as Deveril. He was not the man to whom she dare reveal such a secret.
Jemima had learned too many harsh lessons in too short a time to believe she could rely on anyone but herself.
Chapter 10
Miles, who had observed with fascination the short exchange between Jemima and Lord Deveril’s intended on the stairs at the theater, was disappointed, but not surprised, when he observed the couple’s hasty exit.
He glanced at Miss Elizabeth, who sat with her godmother on the other side of the stalls, but could discern nothing to indicate the young lady was troubled. He was glad she appeared not to know or understand the truth and for a moment he was galvanised by the noble vow that he’d never betray an honest wife with a mistress. Until he reminded himself that he would go to any lengths to have Miss Mordaunt for his own. And, of course, that could never be in the capacity of his wife.
With a sigh, his restless gaze scanned the packed stalls. Now that Miss Mordaunt had left, there was no more entertainment to be had here for him.
As for Deveril, he appeared to have realized he’d overstepped the mark in bringing his mistress to the theater. The folly of an overconfident man, he thought with a touch of malice. Deveril had inherited an outrageous amount of money at an early age. He was used to getting—and keeping—what he wanted.
Yet was Miles any better? He wanted what Deveril had: Miss Mordaunt.
Distractedly, he followed the small knot of theatre goers who were trailing from the stalls as he contemplated the the fact he’d taken advantage of — or squandered — the very same opportunities Deveril had.
