Unmasking the Duke's Mistress. Margaret McPhee
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for Archie and for me.’
Those few words from her mother’s lips meant so much to Arabella. They strengthened her resolve that was fast crumbling at the prospect of facing Dominic once more.
‘Thank you, Mama,’ Arabella whispered and she kissed her mother’s cheek and, before she could weaken to the tears, she pulled the hood of her cloak over her hair and walked away, closing the door behind her.
The carriage was empty. Of that Arabella could only be glad, for she had no wish for Dominic to see her cry at the sight of her son and her mother peeping from the edge of the dirt-encrusted windows.
Nor was Dominic waiting in the town house that he had rented for her.
It was a fine property in respectable Curzon Street, as different from the hovel in Flower and Dean Street as was possible. The servants were lined up in the hallway for her arrival just as if she were Dominic’s duchess rather than his mistress. In some ways their respectful attitude made the whole thing easier, and in other ways, so much harder, for it reminded her of the hopes and expectations she had held for the future all those years ago when she had been a foolish naïve girl in love with a boy who would be duke.
The elderly butler bowed. ‘I am Gemmell. Welcome to Curzon Street, Miss Tatton. We are very glad that you are here.’
It was so long since anyone had called her that name. She was Arabella Marlbrook now, even though Henry was dead these two years past. It angered her that Dominic wished to remove any reminder of the man who had saved her. She wanted to correct the butler, to tell him that her name was Marlbrook and not Tatton, but that would only be foolish. It was Dominic’s house and Dominic’s money; besides, she had no wish to make matters awkward between her and the servants, not when she would be counting on their good favour to keep her secret. So she smiled and walked down the line of servants, smiling and repeating each of their names and telling them how pleased she was to meet them and how she was sure that they would deal very well together.
Gemmell gave her a tour of the house during which she worked hard to breach his wall of formal and very proper servitude. By the time he had served her tea in the drawing room she had managed to coax from him all about his three little granddaughters and ten little grandsons; that his wife Mary, who had been the best housekeeper in all of England, had died three years past; and that he and Mary had previously been employed in the Duke of Hamilton’s hunting lodge in Scotland for twenty years before moving south on account of their children and grandchildren because family was what was important.
Arabella knew then that the time was right to raise the subject of her own family, of her son and her mother. And after she had finished explaining, to a limited extent, the matter, Mr Gemmell was just as understanding as Arabella had hoped.
She knew that what she was asking the staff to do was not without risk and so did Gemmell. But she also knew she could do nothing other than ask. And the answer was yes. He promised to instruct the rest of the staff and then he brought her the note that Dominic had left for her.
She recognised the handwriting on the front of the note: determined lettering, bold and flowing from a nib that pressed firmly against the paper. She felt her heart begin to speed and her mouth dry as she broke the seal and unfolded the sheet.
The words were brief, just a couple of lines, saying that he hoped she approved of the house and its contents and that he would call upon her that evening.
Of course he would come in the evening; gentlemen did not visit their mistresses during the day. Not when everyone knew the purpose of their visit. She tried not to think ahead to the evening. She would deal with that when it came. For now she turned her mind to more comfortable thoughts.
She rang the bell for Gemmell, and sent the carriage back to Flower and Dean Street for Archie and her mother.
The sun came out that afternoon. It was a good omen, boding well for their future, Arabella told her mother as they wandered through the rooms of the town house in Curzon Street. Mrs Tatton kept stopping to examine and exclaim over the fineness of the furniture, the rich fabrics of the curtains and the sparkling crystal of the chandeliers.
‘Arabella, these chairs are made by Mr Chippendale’ and ‘Arabella, this damask costs almost thirty shillings a yard,’ and ‘I have heard that the Prince of Wales himself has a wallpaper similar to this in Carlton House.’
Arabella did not tell her that the gentlemen’s clothing hanging in one of the wardrobes within her bedchamber was made by the ton’s most expensive tailor, John Weston, nor that it bore the faint scent of Dominic and his cologne.
Having been cooped up for so long in the tiny room in Flower and Dean Street, Archie shouted and ran about in mad excitement at such space and freedom.
‘It is all so very grand that he must be very wealthy indeed, this … gentleman,’ said Mrs Tatton and she stopped and frowned before her face was filled with worry once more. ‘I blame myself that it has come to this,’ she said quietly so that her grandson would not hear. She dabbed a small white handkerchief to her eyes.
‘Hush now, Mama, you will upset Archie.’ Arabella glanced over towards her son and was relieved to see that he was too busy with his imaginary horse games to notice.
‘I am sorry, Arabella, but to think that you have become some rich man’s mistress.’
‘It is not so bad a bargain, Mama. I assure you it is the best I could have made.’ A vision of the crowd of drunken gentlemen in Mrs Silver’s drawing room appeared in her head and she could not stop the accompanying shiver. She thrust the thought away and forced herself to smile a reassurance at her mother. ‘And we will all do very well out of it.’
‘You have spoken to the servants?’
Arabella nodded.
‘And you are sure that they will keep Archie’s and my existence a secret?’
‘I do not believe that any of them will be in a hurry to whisper tales in his ear.’
‘Then in that, at least, we have been fortunate.’
‘Yes.’
Mrs Tatton’s gaze met Arabella’s. ‘What manner of man is he, this protector of yours? Old, bluff, married? I cannot help but worry for you. Some men …’ She could not go on.
‘He is none of those, Mama,’ said Arabella and rubbed her mother’s arm. ‘He is …’ But what could she tell her mother of Dominic? A hundred words sprang to mind, none of which would relieve her mother’s anxiety. ‘Generous … and not … unkind,’ she managed. But what he had done almost six years ago was very unkind. ‘Which is what is of importance in arrangements of the purse.’
Mrs Tatton sighed and looked away.
‘We will be careful with the money he gives me. We will save every penny that we can, and soon, very soon, there will be enough for you, me and Archie to leave all this behind. We will go back to the country and rent a small cottage with a garden. And no one need be any the wiser to this whole affair.’
‘We will be able to hold our heads up and be respectable once more.’ As if Arabella could ever be respectable again. For all that illusions could be presented to the world, she would always know what she had done. Nothing could ever cleanse her of that shame. She linked her arm through her mother’s and smiled as if none of this affected her in the slightest. ‘It will work out all right, you will see.’
‘I would like that, Arabella.’ Mrs Tatton nodded and something of the anxiety eased from her face. ‘Your papa and I were very happy in the country.’ She smiled with the remembrance and the two strolled on together, pretending to each other that the situation was anything but that which it really was. And oblivious to the undercurrent of tension Archie played and ran about around their skirts.
Dominic pretended it was just a day like any other, but it was Friday and there was not a moment when he was not aware that Arabella would be waiting for him at Curzon Street that night.
He spent