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Jemima was so overjoyed at the prospect of returning in disguise to Griffith House, that she was able to completely blank her mind to any other concerns while Deveril made love to her. As a menial, she’d be beneath notice, and afforded a much greater opportunity to slip into the Blue Room. Once there, she would retrieve the tablet and make off in a farmer’s wagon to the next town. After that, she would flee to the coast and take a ship far away where neither Deveril nor Lord Griffith would ever find her. She had jewels that would fund her flight and enable her to put proper plans in place, such as acquiring serviceable clothing for her disguise as a governess on her way to work for a family far distant. It helped that Deveril knew she was organizing a costume as a maidservant. In order to allay his suspicions, she’d playfully told him she wanted her rig-out to be a surprise, raising one eyebrow in a very suggestive manner which had pleased him enormously.
Now when she set off on her forthcoming shopping expeditions, she could pretend it was all in pursuit of her wicked little Yuletide charade.
It was a great advantage that she knew the layout of the terrain surrounding Griffith House. She would hide a bag somewhere, and arrange for a coach and driver to be waiting for her at two specified times.
Freedom. It was nearly within her reach. Let Deveril think that his expert lovemaking was the reason for her squirms of pleasure. Since she’d become a whore, she’d learned how to remove her mind from her body. She could pretend it belonged to someone else. Someone bad and spoiled; a shell that could be left behind when she rediscovered herself in another country—another life.
After Deveril had left her, sated—he certainly was, though Jemima was churning with unfulfilled desires—Jemima washed and dressed for that evening’s entertainment which was to take place at Mrs Plumb’s.
The familiar environment brought back a plethora of uncomfortable memories and for a moment she was awash with fear and misery followed by renewed determination regarding her future.
The surprising wave of comfort she felt at being in Lord Ruthcot’s arms on the dance floor tempted her to enlist his help, but immediately he made his pique known.
“So, you could not even contrive to meet me at Gunthers when I’ve worked so hard to get you an invitation to Griffith House?”
“No, I could not. I am at Deveril’s pleasure on a Wednesday afternoon.” She hoped that putting it as baldly, crudely, as that would be a sufficient dampener. Lord Ruthcot’s growing infatuation with her was becoming increasingly awkward, not least because of the inconveniently growing warmth she felt towards him. Though why that was, she had no idea. He was just another man who wanted something from her.
And if he helped her escape from Griffith House, what then? There was no doubt he desired her. In fact, there was every chance he’d be just as unwilling to let her go as Deveril had been.
So, despite the small kernel of affection she acknowledged for Lord Ruthcot, she had no choice but to leave him, too. In fact, her plan was to slip away from them all—her entire old life—and travel through the night to York where she’d contact her father’s old colleague, a kindly man who’d once visited them in England and who’d been in communication with her father regarding the tablet shortly before the professor’s murder.
As Lord Ruthcot twirled her about the room, Jemima was again uncomfortably conscious of the warmth and feeling that seeped through her.
She was also very aware that her only chance of freedom was in resisting any temptation to imagine he could be her savior.
Lord Ruthcot would not make her his wife, and she must remember the reasons for this. Like Lord Deveril and every other gentleman in the room, he didn’t consider her worthy. She was worthy only to be his mistress.
And Jemima would never again be the mistress of any man.
Chapter 12
Miles tried to understand her strange mood. Was Miss Mordaunt fearful or excited at t
he prospect of being under the same roof with him at Griffith House? Or both? She couldn’t dislike the idea for she’d been more than usually pliant in his arms as he danced her about the small dance floor at Mistress Kate’s. Every previous physical contact had been terminated abruptly and usually with admonishment.
Now, as the orchestra played and Deveril went on to win his hand at cards in the next room, a strange air of expectation surrounded them both. Miles could feel it communicated through the tips of her gloved hands as she skimmed his coat sleeve to slant an enigmatic look at him.
His breath caught. He only hoped Deveril didn’t choose that moment to glance up.
Across the throng of dancers, Miles saw Deveril toss down his hand in frustration before stamping off to drown his sorrows in brandy, perhaps. At least his attention would not be on his beautiful mistress for the next few minutes, he reasoned. The thought emboldened him and he tightened his hold on Miss Mordaunt. He put his lips to her ear. “You know I was the reason Lord Deveril changed his mind and will be taking you to Griffith House tomorrow?”
Although his gaze was focussed over his shoulder he was aware of her tensing as she pressed her lips together. It seemed Miles was aware of every nuanced move she made. When he flicked his gaze down to her face she was smiling.
“You must tell me how that was possible. Deveril can be impossibly stubborn.”
“What man can resist a wager that casts aspersions on his prowess?” Miles corrected himself when she gasped, adding quickly, “I don’t mean sexual prowess; I mean his bravery. I suggested that despite his boasting of the fact that marrying would mean no change in lifestyle for him, he was, in fact, too afraid that you and Lady Deveril would meet to want to bring you here.”
“I’m afraid of the same thing. I’m afraid of destroying her illusions about her husband and about marriage. After mine were shattered so brutally, I wouldn’t wish it on anyone else.”
Her admission that she was respectably born had troubled Miles increasingly. A vicar’s daughter, perhaps, ruined by the local squire’s son, or an instantly regretted brief but passionate liaison? Those were common enough in the histories of young women who’d fallen by the wayside, ruined and therefore, unmarriageable. He was sorry for her, for she clearly despised the way of life to which she’d sunk. Nevertheless, he was sure there were compensations. She was a good deal better dressed and housed than any vicar’s daughter he knew of.
He sighed, aware of how poorly the thought reflected on him.
A life of sin meant the fires of hell to many though Miss Mordaunt didn’t appear to be an overly God-fearing young woman. Or was she? How little he knew her.
And how much he wanted to. “You clearly don’t hold the man you called your husband in high regard for understandable reasons. Yet it seems he’s done well for himself. Found a position in Treasury.” He liked the excuse the new waltz gave him to put his head close to her ear so he could inhale her intoxicating fragrance. And get a sense of her true feelings. “I also heard rumors he was on the verge of a match with a cardinal’s daughter.”
“A surprising elevation that would please his mother,” Miss Mordaunt said grimly.
