Notorious Pleasures (Maiden Lane #2)(10)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

“But why?” Hero asked rebelliously. “You don’t seriously think I’d let myself be seduced by a rake, do you?”

“Of course not!” Cousin Bathilda sounded scandalized at the mere notion. “But everyone will be watching you closely when the man is anywhere near you.”

“It’s not fair. I haven’t done anything wrong.” Hero crossed her arms on her chest. “How do we know Lord Griffin seduced Mandeville’s wife anyway? Perhaps it’s just a nasty rumor.”

“Well, if it’s a rumor, Mandeville certainly believes it,” Cousin Bathilda said. “Do you remember the first Lady Mandeville?”

Hero wrinkled her nose. “Vaguely. She died four years ago, didn’t she?”

“A little over three years ago. You wouldn’t have moved in her circles anyway. She was quite fast for a young matron, but then she was a Trentlock,” Cousin Bathilda said darkly. “Always a feckless lot, the Trentlock family, though quite comely, of course. That must’ve been what turned Mandeville’s head. Anne Trentlock was a beauty, no doubt about it, and the family is old and very nicely situated. Everyone thought the match a good one when it was announced.”

Hero couldn’t suppress a shiver. Everyone thought her match was a good one. “What happened?”

“Lord Griffin Reading is what happened.” Cousin Bathilda shook her head. “The man is wild, has been ever since his father’s death. The old marquess died when Reading was at Cambridge. Reading immediately left and began living the life of a young roué in London. He associated with the worst sort of lowlifes, seduced married ladies, and was nearly involved in two duels. And through all these scandals, Mandeville was a rock of loyalty. He wouldn’t hear anything against his brother even when Reading began to be refused invitations.”

“And then?”

“And then Mandeville married Anne Trentlock. It was the match of the season, and naturally Reading was invited.” Cousin Bathilda sighed. “It was a year before you came out, dear, but I was there. Anne couldn’t take her eyes off Reading—everyone remarked upon it. There was speculation that she would’ve set her cap on winning Reading instead of Mandeville, had it not been for Mandeville’s title.”

Hero frowned. “What did Reading do?”

“He acted no differently than usual, but of course he must’ve taken note of Anne’s infatuation.”

“And Mandeville?”

“What could he do?” Cousin Bathilda shrugged. “I suppose he tried to keep them apart, but Reading is his brother. It was inevitable that eventually Reading should find an opportunity to seduce his brother’s wife.”

“Inevitable only if he was a complete cad,” Hero muttered. This story was depressing her terribly. She’d known Reading was a rake, but to do such a thing to his own brother was simply appalling.

“Well, yes, but by then we all knew what he was.” Mignon whined and batted a paw. Cousin Bathilda absently scratched her under her chin. “When Anne died in childbirth, the brothers weren’t even talking to each other. And there were rumors about the babe. A mercy it did not live, really.”

“What a horrible thing to say,” Hero whispered.

“Perhaps so—your compassion does you credit.” Cousin Bathilda pursed plump lips. “But we must be practical, I’m afraid. Had the child lived with his father uncertain, it would have been a terrible burden, both for Mandeville and for the child himself.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Hero murmured. She wrinkled her nose. She hated this kind of practicality, though—the kind that would bless the death of an innocent baby.

Cousin Bathilda leaned forward in the swaying carriage and patted Hero’s knee. “That’s all history now. Just remember to keep well clear of Reading and the past will be forgotten.”

Hero nodded. She parted the carriage curtains to look out, but the night was black and all she saw was her reflection in the glass. Dying in childbirth was awful enough, but how much more terrible to die having betrayed one’s husband? She let the curtain fall. That was a fate she had no intention of following.

The ride home took another twenty minutes, and by that time, Cousin Bathilda was nodding and little Mignon was snoring in her arms.

“Goodness!” Cousin Bathilda yawned as they descended the carriage steps. “What a lovely ball, but I’m for bed now, I fear. I’m not like you young things that can stay up until all hours!”

They mounted the white marble steps of the neat town house Maximus had bought for Hero, her younger sister, Phoebe; and Cousin Bathilda three years ago. Until then, they’d all lived with him at Wakefield House in one of London’s most fashionable squares, but Maximus had said that it wasn’t right for three ladies to be rattling about a bachelor’s mansion. Hero suspected that this was Maximus’s way of ensuring his own privacy, but she didn’t object. While their town house wasn’t as palatial as Wakefield House, it was quite elegant and comfortable.

Panders, the butler, opened the front door, bowing over a round little belly. “Good evening, my lady, ma’am.”

“More like good morning, Panders,” Cousin Bathilda said as she handed him her wrap and gloves. “Have one of the footmen take Mignon for her before-bed constitutional and then bring her to my rooms.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Panders took the little spaniel in his arms, succeeding in remaining grave even as Mignon bathed his chin with her tongue.

“Thank you, Panders.” Hero smiled at the butler and relinquished her wrap before following the older lady to the upper floor.

“I am so very proud of you for making this match,” Cousin Bathilda said outside her room. She yawned again, delicately patting her mouth with one hand. “Oh, dear, I’m quite done in. Good night.”

“Good night,” Hero whispered, and turned down the hall to her own room. It was well past midnight, but oddly she didn’t feel at all sleepy.

She opened her door and wasn’t too surprised when Phoebe’s mobcapped head popped up from the covers of her bed. “Hist! Hero!”

Phoebe was the youngest of the Batten children and looked nothing like either Hero or Maximus. Where both Hero and Maximus were tall, Phoebe was short—barely an inch over five feet—and rather on the plump side, much to Cousin Bathilda’s consternation. A fine cloud of curly light brown hair, already falling from her night braid, framed her face, and her eyes were hazel behind small, round spectacles. In her white lawn night rail, she looked all of twelve, though she’d been seventeen for half a year now.