“Why is that?”
There was just a shade of suspicion in Cosway’s tone, but Villiers was too good an actor to start laughing. “Well, I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned it to you, but I have a number of illegitimate children,” he said.
Cosway’s eyebrows flew up. “Do you find that inconvenient?”
“I haven’t,” Villiers said feelingly, “but I am beginning to. You see, I have decided to gather these children into my own household.”
“And the number is?” Cosway asked.
“Six.” Villiers sighed. “I can hardly believe it myself. The sins of youth become the burden of old age.”
“You’re hardly old,” Cosway objected. “What are you, thirty? I suppose you could sprout a full dozen if you put your mind to it.”
“Thirty-four,” Villiers said. “And my soul is much older, I assure you. At any rate, six illegitimate children do pose something of a problem for my matrimonial prospects, as you can imagine.”
Cosway snorted. “You won’t be—” He broke off.
Villiers watched with satisfaction as the truth dawned.
“I need to find them a mother,” he pointed out. “Women of my own rank are unlikely to take me, under the circumstances. But a divorced woman? And Isidore is very delectable.” He said it gently, but apparently not gently enough.
He could have sworn that Cosway didn’t even move, but the next moment there was a strong hand around his throat. “She is no mother for your misbegotten brats,” Cosway snarled. The tight thread of rage in his voice would have made Villiers smile, but he had a suspicion he might die for it. “She’s mine.” He threw Villiers backwards. The chair nearly tilted and went over, but held.
Villiers delicately felt his throat. Jemma would owe him for this one. Friendship was one thing; physical assault was not as appealing. He coughed. Cosway didn’t seem to be impressed, so he coughed again, harder.
Cosway was still standing over him, staring. “Damn it,” he said, turning and throwing himself down into a chair. “You lied to me. Bastard.”
“In what way?” Villiers asked cautiously.
“You don’t intend to marry Isidore, do you?”
“Not if it drives you to assail me, no.”
Cosway’s face was as foul as any pirate captain Villiers had had the good luck not to meet. “I’d probably rip your guts out at the altar.”
“Charming,” Villiers said. “What happened to all that Middle Way business that you regaled me with when we were on board ship together? Aren’t you a calm pebble on the shores of eternity any more?”
“I met Isidore,” Cosway said through clenched teeth.
“Women,” Villiers sighed. He got up and rang the bell.
The butler appeared immediately. “May I bring some refreshments?”
“A wet cloth for my throat,” Villiers said. “And tell the duke’s valet that we’re leaving for London within the hour. We’ll be on the royal yacht tonight and the valet needs to pack accordingly.”
“Damn it,” Cosway said behind him.
“You’re just rediscovering your manhood,” Villiers said soothingly. “All that pebble business wasn’t good for you. The question is, how are you going to win her back without getting yourself thrown in the Tower for murder?”
“She said she wants to pick her husband,” Cosway said. “She wants to be wooed. Flowers. Poetry.”
“Jewels,” Villiers said. “Skip the flowers; they just die. Do you have any jewelry?”
“Tiger rubies. I just had them transferred from Hoare’s bank.”
“Excellent.”
“But Isidore is not really interested in that sort of thing,” Cosway said, slumping back in his chair.
“What is she looking for?”
“A lapdog,” Cosway said. “Someone who will allow her to make all the decisions and believe everything she says.”
“She’ll adjust,” Villiers said, getting up and wandering over to examine the wall paneling. “You have some lovely frieze work here, Cosway. Was this original to the room?”
“No. Isidore brought someone in, but she left before seeing what he did.”
Villiers turned around. “Here’s my advice, for what it’s worth. There’s been nothing romantic about your marriage.”
“What marriage?”
“Exactly. She went off to London to have it annulled and you didn’t even bother to follow.”
“I’m not a damned dog to follow at her heels!”
“Exactly,” Villiers said. “You’re more of a pirate.”
Cosway narrowed his eyes. “A—”
“A man who slashes his way to his lady’s side,” Villiers said, almost dreamily. “Beating all the odds, including causing grave bodily harm to those highest in the realm (for which he could be hung, mind you), he makes his way to his chosen bride and slings her over his shoulder, heading for the freedom of the open—”
“I have it,” Cosway said, cutting him off. “I suppose you write melodramas on the sly?”
“Do you think I ought to?” Villiers said, widening his eyes. “I’m so pleased you think I have talent.”
“God,” Cosway said. “If I didn’t know you were one of the best fencers in Europe, I’d wonder about your manhood, Villiers.”
Villiers shook down the lace at his wrists. “I’ve only lost one duel. And that was to a man in love.”
“Ah.”
“So you see,” he continued gently, “I have a great respect for the condition. I would put myself in danger from such a man only under the strongest persuasion.”
He could see Cosway thinking, accepting it, learning to live with it. He even smiled, a moment later. “So who forced you to come here?”
“Jemma, Duchess of Beaumont,” Villiers said. “Now we must leave. It will take me at least three hours to prepare for the king’s festivities tonight.” He eyed Cosway. “Depending on the skill of your valet, it should take you at least four.”
Chapter Forty-one
The Peregrine
Yacht to His Royal Highness, George III
March 26, 1784
Isidore knew it was a silent, defiant gesture. Her solicitor assured her that the king himself intended to speak to her that very evening about the dissolution of her marriage; she chose to wear the dress in which she first met her husband. She had a strong feeling that the majority of men on the royal yacht would not react to her presence by querying whether her taste ran to the unorthodox.
“Lord,” Jemma said, coming up behind her. “You look astonishing, Isidore.”
“It’s something of a debutante ball for me,” Isidore said, smiling at her in the mirror. “I intend to impress all available men with my attributes.”
“No debutante could wear that gown,” Jemma said, “given your meager bodice and less-than-meager curves. The design is so beautiful: I love the blue watered silk petticoat underneath the silver. Gorgeous! Especially with the diamonds sewn all over it…You look like a fairy.”
“I think of fairies as small green creatures with transparent wings,” Isidore said dubiously.
