The Scandalous Life of a True Lady Read Online Free Page A

that’s our Harry. Major Harrison. I wish he could cease—” She stopped herself again. “Oh, well, he is coming within the hour.”
    Simone wished the madam had completed the sentence. At least now she knew that Harry was a military man, an officer and a gentleman. He was well off if he’d purchased the rank, courageous if he’d earned it on the field of battle. Like many other officers, he would most likely resign his commission now that Napoleon was finally defeated, unless he was old enough to have fought long ago or had a desk job in London. Or he might have been injured during the war and retired on half-pay, which would not serve Simone’s purposes at all. What if he were scarred or maimed and that was why he could not find a willing woman for himself? Oh, dear. Then there were commanding officers who were martinets, used to having their every order obeyed. Oh, dear, oh dear.
    She must have moaned aloud for Lydia refilled her wine glass. “Don’t worry,” she said, mistaking the source of Simone’s distress. “Harry will be pleased. I am certain of that, especially if you remember one important thing.”
    “I know, to respect his privacy.”
    “Two things, then. His privacy and his demand for honesty. Harry is the most accommodating fellow in England, but he cannot abide lies. Just tell him the truth, and you’ll do fine.”
    Tell him the truth, that she was terrified, mortified, and unqualified? Simone groaned.
    “You are not going to swoon, are you?”
    “I never have before,” Simone answered. Of course she’d never been a member of the frail sisterhood before, nor been on display in borrowed finery for a gentleman’s approval, like a horse at Tattersall’s. She swallowed the contents of her glass for courage. Her French grandmother had fled to England with her Gypsy horse-trader; her mother had eloped with a Latin scholar whose family disapproved. Simone swore to be brave like them, a woman making her own way in the world.
    …A woman whose knees were knocking together loudly under her borrowed silk skirts.
    No, that wasn’t the sound of her bones rattling; it was the sound of a cane tapping down the hallway. Good grief, he was blind! No again, for Mrs. Burton would not have insisted on the face paints if Harry couldn’t see.
    Either a century or a second later, Simone was too addled to notice which, George opened the door, bowed, and announced “Major Harrison, ma’am.”
    “Very impressive, George,” came from behind him, the guest being hidden from view by George’s bulk. “No one would know you were a prizefighter in an earlier life.”
    “Yes, sir. I mean no, sir.” George tucked the proffered coin into an inner pocket and actually smiled at the bent old man who hobbled around him into the room. Lydia rushed forward and kissed his whiskered cheek. “You devil. Why have you—”
    “Aren’t you going to introduce me to the young lady you invited me to meet, Lyddie?” the ancient asked, turning to Simone.
    She regretted not seeing his eyes through the thick tinted spectacles he wore, for the reputedly stunning blue would have been the only attractive thing about the elderly officer’s appearance. His voice was pleasant, and his manners were polished as he bowed in her direction. Otherwise, he could have passed for any of her father’s fellow classics scholars, half asleep at their favorite club. He smelled like one, too, of old leather, pipe smoke, and spirits. His clothing, not a uniform, was not in fashion either, although it was well tailored to fit his hunched shoulders and bowed legs. His brown wig belonged to the previous century, as did his silver-streaked beard and moustache. Simone grasped her chair—and her courage—with both hands, as she stood to make her curtsy.
    “Lovely, Lyddie,” he said. “As promised. You have done well.”
    “So I thought. Shall we let Miss Ryland visit the downstairs parlor while we discuss particulars?”
    He laughed. It was a very