“This—” she pointed in the direction of the larger dining room “—is a ruse. A way to get the American, Blake Thixton to listen to my Sapphire. You see, she is also a Thixton, and we journeyed from Martinique so that she might claim her legitimacy.”
“I don’t understand. His lordship is only nine or ten years older than Miss Fabergine. He could not possibly—”
“Just listen, Jessup, and let your supper settle.” Lucia withdrew her hands, poured him more wine, then sat back and told the tale.
“Such a claim would be very difficult to prove now that her father has passed away, Lucia,” he said when she had finished.
“Sapphire has letters written by her father to her mother. Love letters. And a jewel. An exquisite sapphire that belonged to the Thixton family. Surely there must be written records of the stone being lost or stolen at the time Edward gave it to Sophie.”
He shook his head. “Probably not, as the family would have guessed where it had gone—they already knew about his love affair. It would be an embarrassment to announce one’s eldest son and heir had given away one of the family jewels to a dairy maid.”
“She was his wife,” Lucia stated insistently.
“There, there.” Jessup patted her knee. “I’m only telling you what the courts would say. And I still don’t understand what Miss Fabergine’s claim has to do with all this.” He indicated the merry party going on in the next room.
“Why, we’re going to embarrass the family into acknowledging her! Isn’t that a delicious idea?” She clapped her hands with delight. “Sapphire has let it be known she’s in need of a protector and intends to go into keeping. Once we leak the truth of Sapphire’s birth, the family name will be in jeopardy. The countess and Mr. Thixton will both wish to preserve the integrity of the name.”
“But for the countess to recognize Miss Fabergine, she would have to concede that she herself was never legally wed to Lord Wessex.”
“That’s makes no difference to Sapphire. At this point, the countess will care about what most women her age care about—her daughters and seeing them properly wed.” She raised a finger. “The fact that Edward was married to Sophie and therefore couldn’t marry the countess won’t matter to the American. It will only mean she isn’t really of the house of Wessex. His primary objective will be to save the family from scandal.”
Jessup lifted a bushy brow and indicated the other room with a hook of his thumb. “And this is not a scandal?”
“Oh, posh, yes, but a different kind of scandal. Every Englishman and woman loves a tale of romance. What would it mean to the American to simply acknowledge her in name? Nothing. She doesn’t want any of his blasted money!”
Jessup flinched at her last words.
Lucia frowned. “What on earth is wrong? What did I say?”
He shook his head. “Nothing, dear Lucia, it’s only that I’m just not certain your plan will work. It might be better to find the original marriage certificate and legally prove that Edward married Sophie.”
“And where would I find that? Jessup, they were married twenty-one years ago. I don’t even know where. Not in London, certainly. Some hill or shire, I would imagine, in a potato patch or some country church.”
He tapped the table thoughtfully and then looked up at Lucia. “Let me see what I can do.”
She smiled, leaned forward again, and this time took his hand to rest it on her knee. “That would be wonderful. In the meantime, I think I’ll let the girls continue with our plan.”
“Just one more question.”
“Certainly.”
“Miss Fabergine—the other Miss Fabergine…”
“Angelique, yes.”
“You say she is no blood kin to your goddaughter.”
“She is not. Only a dear friend, something better than blood kin sometimes.”
“Then why is she pretending she is in need of a protector?”
“Oh, just for the thrill of it!” Lucia reached for the wine bo
ttle. “Now, what will it be for you, sir?” She lowered her lashes seductively. “More wine or another kiss?”
Seated on Blake’s lap, Rosalind threw her arms around his neck and kissed him fully on the lips, brushing her nearly bare breasts against him. The other diners in the rented room above a popular tavern, the Cock and Screw, burst into bawdy laughter, clapping and whistling. Her friends were an eclectic group, mostly actors and actresses, a few gentlemen, a Frenchman on holiday, several orange girls and a brunette who was obviously a courtesan. Blake was the only American, the token guest of the evening, he presumed.
After he and Rosalind had coupled on the floor of her dressing room, they had talked while she removed her stage makeup and dressed for supper. She had informed him that he was already quite famous among the unmarried ladies of London and their mothers, and everyone wanted a chance to be considered a potential wife of the new Lord Wessex. When he asked her teasingly if she, too, was looking for a husband, she only laughed. “Why pay for what I can get for free?” she declared with a wink.