Page 45 of Notorious

Drusilla ignored the question. “So why didn’t you tell somebody? Why would you come to the conclusion that following him was wise?” She allowed her gaze to travel over her friend. “Is that why you are wearing these clothes? Have you been going about dressed like this? What would happen if your father—”

“I did not come here to discuss what I’ve been wearing or doing. Are you going to come with me tomorrow, or not?” Eva looked remarkably like the terrifying Marquess of Exley, her beautiful features as cold and distant as the Scottish Highlands.

“I told you, I cannot.”

“But he will never know.”

The next half hour saw a repeat of this conversation, but with Eva finding new and creative ways to couch her argument. They went around and around and around.

Eva wasn’t the only one arguing; Drusilla had her own demands.

“You must promise me you will not go, Eva.”

Eva’s derisive laughter told her what she thought about that suggestion.

Drusilla stared at her friend and carefully considered her next words before she released them.

“I will tell Gabriel what you are going to do unless you give me your word you will not go.”

Eva’s jaw dropped, and a series of small, disbelieving sounds came out of her mouth before she leaped to her feet, the hem of her greatcoat swirling around her boots. “You wouldn’t.”

Drusilla’s face was hot and her heart felt as if it were being squeezed by a giant fist, but she could not back down. “Yes, I would.”

“But—but I came here to share this with you. It is a . . . a sacred trust between sisters.”

It was like having a knife twisted in her chest. “I know you came here to share this, but he is my husband, Eva, and I owe my first allegiance to him. Even without asking him, I know he would not want you there. And he would be furious with me if I concealed your plan from him.”

Drusilla had always known Eva had a terrible temper, but she had never been the focus of it before.

“So, you are married now and our friendship is nothing? Is that how it will be with us?”

Drusilla tried to take Eva’s hand, but she jerked away.

“No, don’t try to placate me.” Her mouth twisted into a sneer. “There was a time—only yesterday, I believe, when we were as close as sisters—no, closer, because my sisters and I never shared as much as the two of us have. But now I see that is over. I tell you things in confidence, and you tattle on me.” She barreled toward the door, her billowing coat brushing against a side table and sending a small crystal bowl to the polished wood floor. The sound of shattering glass made her spin around.

“Eva—”

“Don’t worry,” she said, her eyes glittering with unshed tears. “I won’t be going tomorrow morning—I won’t force you to betray my confidence.” She paused, her hand resting on the door handle, and then turned, her expression spiteful. “Oh, and since we are now embracing this new code of honesty, I should tell you that Gabe did not go to his club—he went to see his mistress. Or perhaps I should say mistresses as he keeps a lovers’ nest for all three of them.” And with that she was gone, not bothering to close the door, leaving it swaying gently on its hinges.

Drusilla felt as if she’d just been run over by a mail coach. Her friend’s final words rang in her ears. She shook her head. Of course she’d known about his scandalous liaison with the two actresses. But she’d hoped he’d not gone to them tonight. Had she really believed he would end his relationships because he was married? This was what men did. Drusilla’s own father—a commoner and of the merchant class—had kept a mistress, the truth of which had emerged only at her father’s death when Drusilla had encountered the woman, a rather plain, small, mousy female, at her father’s grave. But of course her mother had died long before then, so it was not the same thing at all.

Gabriel, apparently, would not wait for her to die before taking a lover—two of them. Drusilla slumped down in her chair and lowered her head in her hands. Perhaps she should just sleep here tonight? Who would care?

Nobody.

She groaned. No, it was bad enough all of London knew her husband had abandoned her on his wedding night for his mistresses. The last thing she needed was to set the servants abuzz with more pitiful behavior.

Drusilla was so exhausted she could barely raise her feet to climb the stairs. Fletcher was waiting in her bedchamber.

“Ahh, there you are, Miss Dru. I’ve laid out your nightgown.”

“I want my pink flannel.”

“Oh, ma’am, surely not that old thing? Why I—”

“Pink. Flannel.”

Even in her barely aware state, she could register Fletcher’s disapproval. Too bad. The last thing she intended was to get dressed like a sacrificial lamb, only to find there was to be no sacrifice.