Never Mix Sin with Pleasure

by Renee Ann Miller

  “Humph. I don’t wish to hear your explanation.” The woman’s curt tone sliced across Olivia’s skin like a blade.

  “But—”

  “I cannot condone such immoral behavior. I should have known a girl from an orphanage would not be a suitable companion.” Her ladyship climbed into the carriage and rapped her fist against the inside of the roof.

  Biddles offered Olivia a sympathetic look as he climbed up on the perch and urged the horses to move on.

  Olivia bit back a wicked word. The type of word Vicar Finch proclaimed would send her straight to hell. She turned to see Lord Anthony standing on the pavement next to Signora Campari. The diva’s hands were still in perpetual motion. But this time not in the air. Instead, she was using them to strike his lordship in the chest.

  With one fluid movement, he tossed the opera singer over his broad shoulder.

  The prima donna screamed and pounded her fist against his lordship’s back. “Antonio, put me down, this minuto!”

  “That’ll teach ’er, gov’ner,” a man in the crowd yelled.

  Laughter erupted.

  With the soprano slung over his shoulder, Lord Anthony ducked his head and disappeared into his carriage. The sound of shrieking Italian could be heard as the equipage moved up the street, leaving Olivia the only player left in this fiasco.

  “Damnation,” she mumbled. When the ground beneath her didn’t open and send her spiraling to purgatory like Vicar Finch claimed it would, she said the word again.

  Now she’d have to grovel at Lady Winton’s feet to get her position back. The thought of begging that sour-faced old bat made her want to retch, but she needed to stay in London. And the woman and her old gossiping friends were a plethora of information.

  Information Olivia needed.

  She squared her shoulders and started toward Lady Winton’s town house. She would swallow her pride if it meant completing what she had come to London to do.

  Chapter Three

  Anthony stared at the various financial reports scattered across the mahogany desk and attempted to ignore the sharp pain that lanced across his temples like a harbinger of doom. He’d rather be in bed with Maria than contending with this. Well, perhaps not. After yesterday’s debacle, she was more apt to castrate him than ease the anxious energy coursing through him.

  He snatched up the invoice before him. How his brother, James, the Marquess of Huntington, contended with this amount of work, along with the House of Lords, was beyond him. He glanced at the calendar tucked into the edge of the blotter. Unnecessary to stare at it. He knew, damn well, that later today his brother James, his sister-in-law, Caroline, and their two sons, along with Anthony’s youngest sibling, George, would take the rail to the Lake District for a monthlong vacation. During their holiday, James wished Anthony to deal with the family’s latest acquisition, Victory Pens, and handle the ledger for his sister-in-law’s newspaper, the London Reformer, along with the books for several of his other businesses.

  What the bloody hell was James thinking asking him to handle such responsibilities? His brother deserved a holiday, but surely there was someone better qualified than himself to handle the task. And why did James have to be so involved in his various businesses anyway? He had solicitors, bankers, and Walters, his man of affairs, who worked out of the family’s Bond Street offices. Why didn’t he delegate what James normally oversaw to one of them? Surely, they were better suited to the task than him.

  You can do this, a voice in his head whispered, battling the other inner voice that proclaimed, you cannot. He glanced at Walters, sitting in the chair that faced the desk.

  The bespectacled man of affairs pushed his glasses up the bridge of his thin nose and offered a weak smile.

  There was no avoiding it. With a resigned inward sigh, Anthony perused the bill in his hand. The amount on the invoice seemed an outrageous sum for a printing press, but what did he know? He handed the paper to Walters. “Send Phelps and Company a cheque for two thousand one hundred ninety-three pounds.”

  Anthony picked up the ledger for the London Reformer and opened it. As he scanned the business ledger to where he was supposed to enter the expenditure and his initials next to it, he twirled his pen between his fingers.

  Walters cleared his throat.

  Anthony glanced up.

  The man’s face flushed as he nervously wet his lips. “I believe it is one thousand two hundred and ninety-three pounds, my lord.”

  A bead of sweat trickled down Anthony’s back. Without looking at the invoice, he knew the man of affairs was right. Knew he’d twisted the numbers about as he always did. As if a casual slip of the tongue, he waved a nonchalant hand in the air. “Yes, of course.”

  The thump, thump, thump of a cane forewarned of Grandmother’s approach. Strangely, he looked forward to the harridan’s arrival. It would be a welcome reprieve from the numbers that danced around in his head like a puzzle. He casually pressed his back into the leather chair and tried to appear as though he knew what the bloody hell he was doing.

  Without knocking, the dowager flung open the door and entered the office. The disapproving scowl on the old woman’s face clearly indicated that Lady Winton had wagged her vicious tongue, relaying the incident with Maria yesterday.

  “Walters, leave,” Grandmother snapped.

  The man of affairs stood so fast the papers balanced on his lap fluttered to the floor. Mumbling an apology, the fellow gathered them up and darted from the room.

  The door clicked closed.

  Anthony stood and motioned to the chair Walters had vacated. “Grandmother, why don’t you sit? I hope you’ve had a favorable afternoon receiving callers.”

  She pounded her cane against the carpet. “Humph! I did not. How could I when the main topic on everyone’s lips was the blatant disregard for propriety my grandson engaged in on Bond Street with an opera singer and another woman? Do you have no shame?”

  He forced a carefree smile. “I assure you it was a misunderstanding.”

  “Am I to assume that tossing that diva over your shoulder like a sack of coal for all of London to see was a misunderstanding as well?”

  “No. That was deliberate.” He did not wish to stand before a crowd as his hot-tempered mistress screeched and pummeled him.

  “Yes, I’m sure it was. I’m positive that harpy Lady Winton has told everyone about the spectacle. It is bad enough your sister-in-law continues her political rants in favor of the suffragist movement in that radical newspaper she publishes, but now you’ve created a public spectacle. You are already a favorite subject in the gossip columns. Does this family have no sense of propriety?”

  Anthony expelled a heavy breath while fighting the urge to rub at the steady pounding at his temples. “Caroline’s opinions may not reflect yours, but I warn you, madam, I will not tolerate you maligning my sister-in-law in any way.”

  The dowager smirked. “Careful, boy, your unrequited love for your brother’s wife is rearing itself.”

  He held the woman’s steely regard for a long minute. He did not carry a torch for Caroline. If he defended his sister-in-law, it was because he admired her.

  A vision of Caroline, James, and their children settled in Anthony’s mind. In truth, he envied his brother’s marriage, knowing he would never have such a relationship. A mistress he could hide his secret from. A wife would be a different matter entirely. Yet, with each passing year, his desire for something he both cherished and feared grew within him. A woman who looked at him the way Caroline looked at James. A woman who thought him beyond brilliant and would hold him in the utmost regard.

  “Do you really think your string of mistresses will drive thoughts of Caroline from your head?” Grandmother asked, interrupting his thoughts. “At twenty-seven years of age, you should finally take a wife. Have your own children. A gaggle of brats, as mischievous as you, will distract you better than your meaningless lovers.”

  He liked children, but what if his inherited the afflic
tion that plagued him?

  “You are mistaken, madam. You know nothing about what I feel or think.” Trying to hold his rising temper in check, Anthony moved to the door and jerked it open. He’d wanted a distraction, not a lecture. Worse, he’d promised James he’d live here with Grandmother for the next month because of the recent robberies in Mayfair. He must have been drunk when he’d agreed to that. Grandmother could take on any robber and come out the winner. And there was an army of servants at the Park Lane residence to jump at her beck and call.

  “I have work to do, Grandmother. You might think me useless, but James does not, and I do not intend to disappoint him.” He swallowed the thickness in his throat. Was that what he really wished to do? Prove to James and Grandmother—to everyone—he could run some of the family’s business affairs?

  The sound of the butler conversing with Caroline floated toward them, announcing his sister-in-law’s arrival home.

  Grandmother turned and arched a gray brow at him.

  “James,” Caroline called, stepping into the room. Upon seeing him and Grandmother, her feet faltered. “James is not home yet?”

  He noticed the disappointment on her face. There was no denying how much she loved her husband, or how much James loved her. They had a happy marriage—one rarely seen in the ton. His sister Nina and her husband, Elliot, who were traveling in Europe, had the same type of relationship.

  Shoving his thoughts aside, Anthony stepped forward and brushed a kiss to Caroline’s cheek. “No. James had some political meeting to attend to. He thought he’d arrive home before you.”

  “I left my newspaper’s editorial meeting early. I’m beyond famished. I even contemplated eating an old tin of biscuits I found inside one of my desk drawers. I realized I must return home when even the fuzzy green growth on them looked appealing.” As she spoke, Caroline’s hand settled tenderly on her rounded belly. She was with child, again. Caroline’s gaze shifted to the dowager. “Grandmother, have all your callers left?”

  “Yes, thank God,” the old woman replied.

  “A trying afternoon?” Caroline tipped her head to the side.

  Grandmother grunted her affirmation.

  “Well, after I visit the nursery to check on my dear boys, I intend to raid the pantry.” She patted her tummy again. “This little one is demanding to be fed. Either of you care to join me for a light repast?”

  Grandmother peered at him, waiting for his response.

  He wanted to join Caroline, if only to escape the ledgers on the desk that taunted him. “I can’t, Caroline. I’ve got too much work to do.”

  “Grandmother?” His sister-in-law’s green eyes peered at the dowager.

  “No. I’ve got a few unexpected letters to write. A hailstorm is upon us, and I must calm it.”

  A smile turned up Caroline’s lips, and she tossed him a wink.

  His body tensed. “Don’t tell me even you’ve heard?”

  Caroline waved a hand in the air. “The ton is forever making up prattle. Don’t let it bother you, Anthony.” And with that said, his sister-in-law swept out of the room.

  Perhaps that was another reason he liked Caroline and enjoyed spending time with her. Because she thought the best of Anthony, when no one else did, no matter how damning the evidence.

  * * *

  As Olivia walked up Park Lane, she flexed her fingers against the handle of her battered leather valise. Yesterday, she’d gone to Lady Winton’s residence to beg for her job back, only to be handed her suitcase. The woman had refused to see her—even refused to pay the wages due her or give her a letter of reference.

  Her ladyship’s actions reinforced Olivia’s opinion that many members of the nobility were a cruel and nasty lot.

  She stopped in front of a grand residence. It had taken her a full day to learn where Lord Anthony Trent lived. Biddles, Lady Winton’s coachman, had said the gentleman lived at the Colbert Hotel, but a jovial man exiting the building had winked and given her this Park Lane address.

  Stiffening her spine, she marched to the door and with firm determination rapped the knocker against the yellow lacquered surface. She needed to insist his lordship explain to Lady Winton that she and Signora Campari had misunderstood the situation.

  A butler, with bony cheeks and a balding pate, answered. His gaze drifted over her suitcase and plain, navy cotton dress before settling on her face. His nose twitched as if inspecting a fishmonger’s malodorous offerings.

  Self-consciously, Olivia lifted a hand to her chignon, making sure none of her ginger locks dangled out of place from the tight bun she’d swept them into this morning.

  “Yes?” he inquired in a stern voice.

  She held her chin high. “I’m here to see Lord Anthony.”

  He thrust a silver tray in front of her. “Your calling card, madam.”

  The emphasis on the latter word implied he thought her nothing of the kind. And the fact she didn’t possess a card would seal the butler’s less-than-favorable opinion. She nibbled her lower lip. “I am without a card, sir, but I must see his lordship. It is a matter of urgency.”

  Without uttering a word, the man closed the door on her face.

  She resisted the urge to mumble a blasphemy. She’d tempted damnation twice yesterday, perhaps a third time was not wise. Taking a deep breath, she pounded the knocker again.

  The door swung open. The butler peered down his overlong nose. “Madam, if you do not remove yourself from here, I shall summon a constable.”

  Boom. The door shut again.

  The squeaking of hinges drew her regard to the servants’ area below street level. A brown-haired maid, wearing a white apron and gray dress, stuck her head out the basement’s entrance. “Ole pinch-faced Menders won’t let you in there. You’re at the wrong entrance. Maids enter here.”

  “Maid?”

  “Ain’t you the new maid the agency sent?”

  No, but if saying so would get her inside his lordship’s residence, she’d pursue such a ruse. She wet her dry lips and nodded.

  “Mrs. Parks wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

  “Mrs. Parks?” Olivia echoed, descending the steep stairs to the basement.

  “That’s the housekeeper. Didn’t the agency tell you anything?”

  This question she could answer truthfully. Olivia shook her head. “No, they didn’t.”

  The rooms belowstairs were redolent with the scent of something savory. A thin woman with graying dark hair pulled into a taut bun stepped from the kitchen into the corridor. The keys jangling at her waist proclaimed her the housekeeper, and she looked as brittle and unbending as the butler.

  “The agency sent the new maid, Mrs. Parks,” the servant said.

  The housekeeper narrowed her hard, brown eyes. “How old are you, girl?”

  “Twenty-one, madam.”

  “You better be more competent than the last girl they sent. I won’t tolerate bad behavior. No followers here. No giggling like a schoolgirl. And no fraternizing with the footmen. If you don’t adhere to the rules, you’ll find yourself out the door in a trice. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Parks. Perfectly,” Olivia replied.

  “Very well. What is your name?”

  “Olivia, ma’am. Olivia Michaels.”

  The housekeeper nodded, then turned to the maid. “Katie, get Olivia a uniform.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Parks.” Olivia bobbed a quick curtsey.

  “This way.” With a sweep of her hand, Katie motioned to the narrow servants’ stairway at the rear of the corridor.

  As they made their way up, Katie turned to her. “Don’t be nervous. Mrs. Parks is a bit brisk but better than most housekeepers. And his lordship is a kind employer.”

  “Is his lordship in?”

  “Now don’t go getting any high ideas about his lordship.”

  “High ideas?” Olivia blinked.

  “You know. Trying to get a bit too cozy so he’ll favor you and buy you some pretty baubl
es.”

  “Oh, no! I have no intention of throwing myself at the man.” She only wished to speak with him. Surely not get too cozy. She didn’t even know how to flirt. There had been few men at the orphanage except for Vicar Finch and a groundskeeper, and both men were ancient and old enough to be her grandfather. The latter thought made her feel a bit melancholy. She’d never had any family. Never known her parents or grandparents.

  “That’s best ’cause he’s head over heels in love with his wife,” Katie said, breaking into Olivia’s thoughts.

  Wife? She’d thought Lord Anthony a bachelor. No wonder Lady Winton called him a scoundrel. Well, men in love with their wives didn’t dally with opera singers. How could the staff not know the man was a cad? Olivia harrumphed, then smacked a hand over her mouth and feigned a cough.

  Katie glanced over her shoulder.

  “A tickle in my throat.” Olivia offered the excuse but didn’t miss the questioning expression in the maid’s eyes. Obviously, his lordship had them all bamboozled.

  “And you won’t find no mistress better than her ladyship. Sweet as sugar, she is.”

  Poor, poor woman to have such a wicked husband.

  “Now the dowager . . .” Katie tsked. “She’s the one to avoid.”

  They stepped into the maids’ quarters in the attic. A line of beds with mattresses thicker than the thin one she’d slept on at Lady Winton’s were set under the dormers. Lace curtains covered the windows and a cheerful yellow paint brightened the walls.

  Katie opened an oak wardrobe and removed a gray cotton dress and apron identical to hers. “This should fit you.”

  “Thank you.” She took the garments.

  “And that’ll be where you sleep.” The maid pointed to one of the beds.

  If all went as planned, she’d be gone shortly. She just needed to talk to his lordship.

  “Hurry back downstairs. Mrs. Parks doesn’t tolerate dawdling.” Katie headed out the door, pulling it closed behind her.

  Olivia’s fingers fumbled with the buttons that lined the front of her dress. This was madness, pretending to be the new maid. But what other options did she have? She stepped out of her garment and quickly hung it in the armoire. Her job as Lady Winton’s companion was imperative. Old biddies like her ladyship enjoyed nothing more than gossiping. The more information Olivia could gather from those chinwaggers, the less risk she took. She needed to know about every gathering these highborns were planning. Who would be attending? When? Where? If she wasn’t careful, she’d get caught and find herself behind bars in some dank prison cell.