Out of doors, the gardens were full of sunshine and the quiet conversations of others who strolled there. Channing guided them to a less-populated walkway and changed his tack. ‘Perhaps you could enlighten me about your arrangement with Mr DeHart?’ Part of him hoped that arrangement might be more superficial. He didn’t want to know if Amery was sleeping with her. It shouldn’t matter. This was just a job and objectivity was as important in this line of work as discretion.
‘Why isn’t he coming?’ she answered with a question of her own.
‘He has a family wedding to attend. His sister is getting married. Now, about that arrangement?’ Whatever her answer, they were both adults. They could muddle through a week together at a house party. They’d be surrounded by others. There would hardly be any time at all to be alone. Not all escort jobs included sleeping with the client. Amery certainly wasn’t sleeping with the Misses Bakers when he took them to the opera.
She gave him a coy smile as if she’d read his mind. ‘Do I detect a hint of jealousy beneath your attempt at bland enquiry?’
‘You detect a hint of self-protection,’ Channing replied. ‘I want to know what I’m up against. When we were last together, I ended up with a vase thrown at my head.’
She snorted at this and dismissed it with a wave of her hand. ‘You deserved it. You made me look like a fool.’
‘I’m sorry about Christmas. I can only apologise so much,’ Channing said stiffly. She was not without grounds to complain. The unfortunate incident had happened eighteen months ago. It was to have been her first foray into decent English society and she’d hired him at considerable expense to ease her return into that society, which he had. From an objective standpoint, he’d discharged his duty admirably. However, there had been what one might call ‘interpersonal complications’. But how had this turned into an interrogation of him when he’d meant it to be an interrogation of her? ‘I’m here now and I would like to fulfil whatever contractual obligations you had with DeHart.’
‘Really?’ She drew out the word into a provocative drawl as she gave the idea consideration, tapping one long, perfectly manicured finger against her chin. Channing felt another primal stab of possessiveness as the thought recurred. Was she sleeping with Amery? How did he feel about taking Amery’s place in her bed or, for that matter, how did he feel about Amery having taken his place? The League never shared clients in that regard.
She gave a throaty laugh. ‘DeHart and I have a purely social arrangement. He introduces me to people I want to meet and I’ve discovered that regularly having the same gentleman by my side has defused the amount of unwanted attention someone in my situation might attract.’
By ‘situation’ she meant widowed and wealthy and that made her available to all manner of advances. It did not help that her husband had been a French count and everyone knew life on the Continent was far looser, morally, than it was in England. There were even some who felt a good English lady was better off coming home than remaining among such a debauched set. That was a story Channing had spun.
Channing had spent a good deal of his time that Christmas setting the script into play for her and in the intervening months the story had hatched into plausibility, even if their relationship had hatched into disaster.
‘What is it that you need from me? An introduction or a shield?’ Thanks to his efforts, Miss Alina Marliss had been accepted back into society. But they both knew that acceptance was tentative. One false move on her part and society would not hesitate to expel her.
‘Both.’ Alina flicked open the fan she carried about her wrist, a pretty white-lace affair with painted pink flowers, the kind of accessory a decent Englishwoman would carry and a testament to how carefully she crafted this facet of her persona. ‘I need to meet Mr Roland Seymour.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know him.’ He didn’t sound like someone Amery would know either. Mere misters were not their speciality.
‘But you will know him. That’s the point of house parties, isn’t it? To mingle and hopefully expand one’s social network in useful ways?’ Alina waved the fan back and forth in a slow languid gesture. The action called subtle attention to the expanse of bosom on display in a deceptively demure afternoon dress of soft pink muslin.
Channing gave a wry grin and tried to keep his eyes above her neck, but it was deuce difficult and he knew she knew it. ‘You want me to befriend him and then insinuate you into his crowd,’ Channing divined.
‘Essentially. Play a little billiards.’ She smiled at him over the top of her fan. ‘Shoot a few things, preferably not each other, whatever it is gentlemen do.’ She was trying awfully hard to distract him; smiles, fans and bosoms. It made him suspicious, especially coming from a woman who’d been icily distant a few minutes ago.
‘Why?’ Even knowing she was playing with him, he couldn’t help but flirt back. Channing leaned closer, breathing in the light rose fragrance of her soap. She’d even gone so far as to smell like an Englishwoman.
‘I wish to pursue some business with Mr Seymour.’
Channing raised an eyebrow at this. ‘Are you going to tell me what sort of business?’
‘No.’ She laughed and took a step backwards. ‘Now, you have work to do and I have ladies to ingratiate myself with. If you’ll excuse me?’
It was a clear dismissal and he let her go. Amery had not been wrong when he said the Continent was stamped all over her. She’d cut her teeth in the salons of Paris where Channing had first met her, the extraordinary Comtesse de Charentes. She’d been a married woman then, but that had not stopped the thrill of flirting with her. That same thrill had been present today even among all of his misgivings. She could get to him in ways the Marianne Bixleys of the world couldn’t. He wished all the lush perfection of her didn’t affect him so thoroughly, but it did and that didn’t begin to address the layer of intellect and wit.
She was every man’s fantasy. Perhaps that was her greatest trick. She could make herself all things to all men. He had yet to meet a man who had not fallen under her spell. It made Channing angry and intrigued all at once. Angry because he prided himself on being less susceptible than other men when it came to sexual politics, but in her case he seemed to be no different than the rest; intrigued because he did wonder who she was when no one was looking.
Was there anyone to whom she showed her true self? Once upon a time, he’d spent too many hours contemplating who that true self might be and how he might convince her to show that self to him. It was one of the innumerable fantasies he had about her.
He wasn’t alone. Channing watched the eyes of the other men in the garden track her progress to the French doors leading inside. Their thoughts were fairly transparent. Lord Barrett, married with three children, was thinking how he could arrange an affair back in London. Lord Durham was thinking of how he could get into her room at the house party, tonight even. Lord Parkhurst’s son, blond and indolent, was calculating whether or not his allowance could afford her if he set her up as his mistress, as if Alina would allow such a thing. Channing hoped he wasn’t as obvious as the rest of them. No wonder she felt she needed Amery’s presence as protection.
He eyed his own target across the garden, deep in discussion with Elliott Mansfield, whom he did know. He and Elliott were both members at White’s. It was time to presume upon that acquaintance. Channing couldn’t help but wonder: if he was there to protect Alina from unwanted advances, who was going to protect Roland Seymour from her? Business with Alina Marliss was guaranteed to be dangerous. He was living proof of it. The beginning of all his own woes could be traced back to her. Channing was starting to think it was the comtesse who had ruined him for other women.