Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

Brent arched up, his fingers digging into her hips. “No,” he cried. “Christ, you women have memories like traps. Stop raping me, Celeste.”

She slowed, her movements torture. “Hush, mon cher. You enjoy and forget that other woman.”

He did, for at least five minutes. He fell into a drunken stupor, but Celeste pulled him against her breasts, stroking his hair. His snores filled the silence of the room. My mighty man has fallen hard, she thought, and he probably won’t ever admit it to himself. She didn’t love him, but she was fond of him, and accounted him an excellent and quite generous lover. He’d sworn up and down, many times, that he would never marry, never let a woman get her clutches into him. “You poor fool,” she murmured, stroking her hands over his back. What had he meant when he said that she would be out of his life soon? Was she leaving? Was this the reason for his drinking?

“We will make all the necessary arrangements for you this week, Byrony,” Ira said.

The three of them were sitting at the breakfast table, tense and silent until Ira had spoken.

“You will abide by my wishes, Ira?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“You’ve given him—us—little choice,” Irene said.

Byrony took a bite of scrambled egg before she said, her voice filled with irony, “Can you imagine my remaining here, Irene? If you were I, wouldn’t you want to leave, demand to leave?”

“You have a very easy life,” Irene said. “You have the Butler name, all the clothes you want, social position—” She broke off at the incredulous rage she saw on Byrony’s face. “Well, I can’t imagine you being content as a shopgirl.”

“At least there won’t be any more lies, will there?”

“One gets used to lies,” Irene said.

Not an hour after breakfast, Byrony felt a wave of nausea. She clutched at her stomach at a sharp cramp, but it passed. The remains of the influenza, she thought, drawing a deep breath.

She accompanied Ira and Irene to church, as was their habit. After the service, she spoke to Chauncey and Del, agreeing to have lunch with Chauncey on Tuesday, exchanged pleasantries with Agatha and Horace Newton, and watched uncomfortably when Saint nodded politely to her, then studied her closely. She intended to spend the afternoon riding Thorny, but she felt so weary after lunch that she went to bed instead.

“Are you certain you’ve recovered from your influenza?” Ira asked her at breakfast the next morning, concern in his voice.

“Perhaps not entirely,” Byrony said. “I feel a bit tired.”

“Should I call on Saint? See if he can come by?”

“Oh no, it’s not necessary. I think I’ll just rest a little.” She toyed with her jam-covered toast. “I would like to leave by Friday, Ira,” she said.

“Yes, you shall,” he said.

“He’s mean as a rattlesnake,” Maggie said to Saint. “Say hello to him and he looks at you like you’re calling his honor into question.”

Saint grunted, then resumed his train of conversation before Maggie had interrupted him. “I don’t know what to do about Felice, except dose her on a little laudanum every month like I’ve been doing. She’s always had bad cramps, she tells me. She’s concerned that her profession might be making it worse.”

“Silly girl,” Maggie said. “How about a cup of coffee?”

He nodded. “Black, Maggie, please.”

When she was seated across from him, each of them with a cup of coffee, she continued her own train of thought. “I know it has something to do with Byrony Butler. Celeste, who has the warmest heart and the loosest mouth, told me that Brent was mumbling about ‘her leaving.’”

Saint’s head jerked up, just as Maggie had suspected it would. “That’s ridiculous,” he said, and immediately closed his mouth. God, ethics were tough. Where did one draw the line? Maybe it would be best if Byrony left. The poor girl deserved something out of life, something besides pretending to be the mother of another woman’s child. But Ira seemed so solicitous of her, at least he had at church yesterday. Jesus, they appeared the perfect couple.

“Would you talk to him, Saint?”

He heard the concern

in Maggie’s voice, felt the same concern himself. He sighed deeply. “It’s none of my business, Maggie. None at all.”

“You’re his friend, aren’t you?”

“Yep, and as his friend, I won’t pry.”