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Glancing up, he saw a face at the window of one of the upstairs rooms. To all appearances, the house seemed respectable enough. The comings and goings might arouse suspicion, but both gentlemen and ladies from society’s highest echelons regularly stepped over the threshold, albeit disguised in some way.
On this occasion, Justin, now wearing evening clothes, had not resorted to more than a simple masque, though he was regretting that now as he stepped aside to allow a large woman wearing an elaborate, ostrich-plumed face mask that hid most of her features to pass. She was leaning heavily on the arm of a small, slender gentleman, clearly years younger than herself, and a glance at the richness of her gown, which even Justin could tell was embellished with this season’s trimmings, suggested she was not some tawdry imposter of the aristocracy. Justin recoiled in sudden shock when he heard her throaty murmur. Good Lord, could this really be Lady Dalton? He turned his face away, fearing she’d recognize him. This was not a place either of them would wish to be known to frequent.
The door opened then, and Lady Dalton—if that’s who she was—and her mismatched companion lurched past him and down the corridor as if they knew exactly where they were headed.
Justin, by contrast, handed his hat and cane to a young girl barely older than his daughter, he reflected uncomfortably, who led him into Mrs. Plumb’s oddly decorated, little sitting room, for the handsome paintings and sculptures contrasted strangely with the knick-knacks that might have been collected by a simple cottager’s daughter—though rumor had it that’s what Mrs. Plumb had been when she’d arrived in the city to work as a housemaid before catching the eye of a wealthy banker, the first of a number of liaisons that had secured her future.
He should not be here, he thought again as he was led to a cluster of chairs. Though this might not be a brothel in the finer sense of the word, it was little better. He had to admit that now as a howl of raucous laughter from somewhere above him was followed by a moan of apparent ecstasy from a room nearby. Men and women came here to seek pleasure when pleasure was lacking in their own homes, their own lives.
But Justin was not one of those. He had a beautiful wife to go home to. A wife who, if anything, was more exquisite than the day he met her. Even after five children and eight years of marriage, he still desired Cressida more than he had desired any woman. Ever.
An unbidden flash of memory made him squirm. It was an uncensored image of Cressida’s pale limbs, fully exposed in the dawn light. He’d woken beside her after a night of passion, conducted as was usual, in the dark. As he’d rolled over sleepily to pull her against his chest, he’d been jolted by the sight of the sun slanting through a chink in the curtain, burnishing the naked limbs of hi
s sleeping wife. Even now the memory made his throat dry. How innocent she’d looked, her lips curved in a slight smile, her hair loosened and spread about her like a halo. He had gazed at her for what seemed like hours, drinking in every curve of her body, which he knew like a treasure map by touch but which he’d never seen by daylight or even candlelight. He’d been riveted, in fact. How elegantly her limbs melded from dainty feet and ankles to finely tuned calves, thighs, then to that secret juncture, thatched with fine blond hair.
Justin had no idea how long he’d had gazed at her, drinking in the beauty of her body. She’d woken when he’d touched her, his hand lightly skimming her curves, cupping her pubic mound. In the dark, during their frequent lovemaking, she’d indicated her pleasure at being touched there, but in the daylight, shock and embarrassment scarred her expression and she’d scrambled to pull down the thin linen night rail always present between them, even in the midst of the most passionate of lovemaking.
He’d never seen her body so completely revealed since then. But when had that been, he wondered? That’s right, several months after Millie’s birth, and in fact, a few hours before Dr. Milner had examined Cressida and announced she was with child again. Their third. Naturally, Cressida had been over the moon, though Justin remembered his twinge of disappointment at the knowledge that he would have to resist his wife and keep his hands off her during her later months of breeding. For that was how it was, and not to be questioned.
With each successive child, the passion between them was diluted as Cressida focused more on the infants than on him, as he supposed was to be expected. Some men would have sought pleasure elsewhere, still loyal to their roles as husbands and fathers but comfortably justifying their need for sexual diversion.
Not Justin. He wanted no other woman, and besides, it would destroy Cressida if she ever learned of such an indiscretion.
So when the young servant girl simpered at him with a far too knowing look as she asked him if there was anything else he required for his comfort, Justin was conscious of the smell of cheap perfume that wafted through from the other rooms of the house and more than a twinge of guilt at being here. Cressida’s sensibilities would be highly offended by even the existence of such a location. If she ever learned he was here, she was quite likely to jump to the worst conclusion.
The young girl disappeared into the shadows after he’d told her he needed nothing else, and Justin removed his masquerade mask as the door opened.
“It was good of you to come again, Justin. And at so late an hour.” His old friend’s smile was tired, with no trace of the radiance he remembered from days gone by. Even in the few weeks since he’d acceded to her extraordinary summons after so long an absence, she seemed to have faded.
“Mariah.” He rose and clasped her hand in both of his, conscious as he’d never been before of the great weight of sadness she carried. And of what she’d once been to him. Mariah had altered greatly in the years since he’d first met her, but she was still a beauty. Now, though, she looked as if she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders.
Mariah smiled wearily. “My boy got your message a short while ago, and the knowledge that you had discovered something was too much for me to wait until the morning. We both know it is never too late to pay a call to Mrs. Plumb’s establishment, but I was afraid that family considerations might prevent you from coming so soon.” There was a trace of bitterness in her wry smile as she offered him a seat beside her on the chaise longue with a languid wave of her graceful arm.
He sat, reflecting that she was still striking for that regal grace of hers, which transcended the signs of aging. Only a few strands of gray peppered her almost blue-black hair, and her body was as ripe as he remembered it. But her heart had been broken, and the melancholy that had leeched her vibrancy tugged at his heartstrings.
“You know I could never refuse you, Mariah,” he said, accepting a glass of brandy from the young servant who discreetly left them alone after plumping a few cushions and tending to the small fire.
She gave a little laugh and reached over to pat his thigh. “I think you could,” she said, “if I were to overreach myself. Everyone tells me what a loyal and devoted husband and father you are these days.”
Impulsively, he took her hand, surprising himself. She gripped it, and for a moment, he was afraid she wasn’t about to let it go. But she was too shrewd not to understand the delicate boundaries of their altered relationship, and she gave it an almost maternal pat before releasing it.
“Devoted, my dear Mariah,” he corroborated in a murmur, his mind replaying the painful events of his parting the previous night with his beloved and increasingly distant wife.
Whatever happened, he’d always be devoted to Cressida. He’d come here, tempted to expand on what he’d only hinted at to Mariah. He needed the advice of a sensible woman, and there were few of those in his life, he reflected, thinking of his mother, who now lived with them, and of Cressida’s frightful cousin, Catherine. Perhaps Mariah, as a kind woman with considerable experience of life, could offer some insight into the reasons for Cressida’s withdrawal the past ten months.
First, though, it was understandable that Mariah would want to know his progress concerning the unexpected request she’d made several weeks ago. There was much to admire in this woman who had suffered with such dignity.
Almost businesslike, she said, “You have discovered something, Justin, and I have not the patience to wait for you to tell me in your own words and time.”
Justin nodded slowly. “You have waited a long time, Mariah. I understand that.” He weighed up the kindest way to couch his response. The truth was, he had discovered nothing that could either give her hope or a reason to accept that she must suspend her desire for answers for the sake of everyone’s happiness. Directness was always the best way forward, he decided, before realizing he and Cressida had been anything but direct with one another lately. “There are several avenues, Mariah.”
“Several?” She took a breath, drawing herself up and fixing him with an incisive look.
One dainty, black slipper peeped from beneath the flounce of her once fashionable cerulean gown. Mariah had always dressed elegantly, but in the dim light, Justin could see the signs of wear, the discreet darning.
“Yet nothing concrete?”
He shook his head. “Mariah, if you need money—”
