Never Mix Sin with Pleasure

by Renee Ann Miller

  Anthony gave a humorless laugh. “I am beyond pleased our arrangement is over. Maria will wring that pup dry of every penny he possesses, then toss him away when she gets a better offer.”

  “If that isn’t putting you into a sour mood, what is? You’ve looked angry all evening.”

  “I don’t look angry.”

  “Well, you’ve had a rather put-upon expression on your face since we arrived.”

  Had he? It surely had nothing to do with Maria. No. He’d been thinking of Olivia and why the idea of going to a music hall without her had lost its appeal.

  He forced a smile. “Is that better?”

  “No. I’ve known you too long not to realize when you’re upset. You look as wretched as that time the headmaster sent for your brother James to come pick you up after being expelled.”

  Surely, I don’t look that morose. James had been livid seeing as the reason Anthony had been sent away had to do with the headmaster’s wife. And he’d wanted to be tossed out of school, though he’d not wanted to disappoint his brother again. “I’m living at Park Lane with my cantankerous grandmother. Isn’t that enough to sour one’s mood?”

  Talbot let loose a hearty laugh, causing several other members in the club to glance their way. “It is, indeed.”

  An image of Olivia popped into his head. Anthony wished it was only his irritable grandmother that ailed him, but it was not.

  “Trent, what do you say we go to that new gin palace that opened on Newgate Street?”

  Gin palaces could be boisterous. Maybe that was what he needed to distract himself from thoughts of the lovely Olivia Michaels and her freckles. He wanted to kiss each and every one of them, especially if they were scattered like stars across other parts of her body besides her face.

  Good Lord, where had that thought come from?

  Talbot snapped his fingers in front of Anthony’s face.

  He realized his friend was waiting for an answer. “Very well. We’ll venture to the gin palace.”

  “A second ago, you looked miles away. Could it be that you are distracted by that female clerk you hired?”

  “Miss Michaels? Of course not.” But he knew he was. He just didn’t completely understand why she distracted him so much.

  * * *

  Olivia awoke and jerked upright in her bed. She’d fallen asleep. What time was it? She rubbed at her heavy-lidded eyes and peered at the mantel clock.

  Goodness. It was nearly eleven thirty.

  Hurry, a voice in her head demanded. Or you will arrive at Lord Belington’s after the supper hour. She jumped from the bed. As she dashed to the armoire, she removed the small key from the pocket of her dress. She tugged her valise out from the bottom of the large mahogany armoire and slipped the key into the lock. Since it was old, she needed to wiggle it a few times before she heard the click of the latch releasing.

  She reached inside and removed the secret false bottom, revealing the black guernsey sweater, woolen trousers, knit cap, leather work gloves, and her soft-soled shoes, purchased secondhand at Petticoat Lane Market.

  Within a few minutes, she’d removed her gown and slipped on the men’s clothing. She peered at her reflection in the cheval mirror as she slipped the knit cap over her head and tucked any loose strands of her flame-colored hair under it.

  Her heart raced fast with a mixture of fear and anticipation as she opened the window and glanced at the thin ledge to the left of the wrought-iron balcony. Unlike Lady Winton’s thick ledge, this one was thinner. She would need to balance herself on it for close to seven feet before she’d reach the drainpipe. If she wasn’t careful, she’d end up splattered like a bug on the ground.

  Don’t think of that.

  Carefully, she slipped one leg over the windowsill and holding the bottom of the sill, she pushed up and pulled the other leg through the opening.

  Putting one foot before the other, she took small steps, while leaning her weight toward the building. The already rapid beats of her heart picked up speed. A bead of sweat moved down her spine as she clamped her gloved hand around the drainpipe and swung her body onto the downspout. Slowly, she shimmied down and released the air locked in her lungs when her feet touched the ground.

  As she moved to the back gate, she glanced over her shoulder at the town house, relieved to see all the windows remained dark. She bit her lip as she glanced at Anthony’s window. Foolish to think of him right now and what he was up to. She needed to concentrate. One mistake and she would be thinking of him from behind bars or dead.

  Olivia lifted the metal latch in the iron gate and breathed a sigh of relief when it swung open on well-oiled hinges. On almost silent steps, she darted into the dark night.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Using the back alleys and mews, Olivia kept to the shadows as she made her way to Lord Belington’s town house. As she reached his street, carriages lined both the mews and the front of the residence.

  Crumbs. Getting close enough to his town house without being seen would not be an easy task. Tugging her lower lip between her teeth, Olivia glanced around for a way to get to the rooftops. The home at the end of the street had an attached carriage house with a lean-to that was no more than nine feet above the ground. If she placed her foot on the stone lintel below the window of the structure, she could hoist herself onto it.

  She scanned the back of the town house, searching for a way up to the roof. A drainpipe ran down the right corner. It was in line with the large protruding cornerstones that she could set her feet atop of to help hoist herself upward. From there she could move across the roofs of the attached town houses, which were of a similar height. It would be easy to leap from one to the other, but she’d have to keep low so none of the coachmen standing by their employers’ carriages spotted her.

  With a plan sketched out in her mind, Olivia set her foot on the lintel, then pulled herself onto the lean-to. Not wishing anyone to spot her, she crawled across the surface. At the corner of the house, she stood and reached for the drainpipe.

  She glanced up. She needed to climb two more stories to reach the roof. Her stomach contracted, then fluttered with anxiousness. Inside her leather gloves, sweat coated her palms. She reminded herself how easily she’d climbed the trees at the orchard that was adjacent to the orphanage. She could do this.

  Taking a deep breath, she wrapped her gloved fingers onto the cast-iron pipe and set her foot on top of a cornerstone. The muscles in her shoulders and thighs burned as she slowly inched up the cast iron. By the time she reached the roofline and hoisted herself up onto it, her breaths were coming in fast puffs from the exertion.

  With her body crouched low, she stayed in the shadows and moved from one rooftop to the next until she reached Lord Belington’s residence. Three dormer windows faced the street. Most likely the room where the maids slept. None would be in their beds tonight. They would all be helping with the party.

  She peered to the street below. A couple stepped out of the residence in their finery and climbed into their carriage. Was the supper hour already over? Or were they just leaving early? She hoped the latter. Keeping her body low and in the shadow of a chimney, she reached the window. Olivia sent up a silent prayer that one of the windows would be open to release the oppressive heat that was usually found in these attic rooms.

  A smile spread across her face as she noticed all three windows had the lower sash raised. Holding on to the windowsill with an iron grip, she poked her head inside the opening. As she’d predicted, it was the maids’ quarters. Narrow beds lined the far wall, crammed close together with barely a foot between them. With both hands, she lifted herself through the opening.

  A beam of moonlight revealed an open door across the room and to the left.

  She crept through it, then to the servants’ steps. As she made her way down the winding stairs, music and laughter drifted up from the ballroom. When she reached the second narrow landing, she opened the door and peered out. Gas sconces lit the empty corridor, high
lighting the plush carpet and gold-flocked paper. All of it a testament to the wealth of Lord Belington, a man who had the morals of the devil himself.

  On the tips of her toes, Olivia made her way to the first door and slipped inside. A massive bed with gold curtains swagged back at the four corners dominated one wall. The scent of masculine cologne and tobacco smoke, along with the dark colors of the bedding, absent flowers and frills, proclaimed it most likely his lordship’s bedchamber.

  Olivia moved to the highboy dresser and opened a drawer to quickly rummage through it. Finding nothing of value, she searched the next one. A grin tipped her lips upward when her fingers touched a wooden box tucked under a woolen pair of trousers.

  With the box in her hand, Olivia moved to the window that overlooked the back terrace. The coin slots in the top proclaimed it his lordship’s money box. Quietly, she set it down on the wide sill and angled it so the moonlight illuminated the lock on the hinged lid.

  She slipped a hairpin out from her pocket and moved it around in the lock until she heard a click. Inside were three compartments marked coins, silver, gold. Instead of coins, the first section held a wad of banknotes, more than she could have dreamed of finding. She filled her trouser pockets with the money.

  Olivia put the coin box back, wishing she were a fly on the wall and could see his lordship’s face when he realized the Phantom had paid him a long overdue visit. She was about to exit the bedchamber when a woman’s giggle drifted down the corridor, along with a man’s deeper laugh.

  Olivia glanced around, searching for a place to hide. She hastily scooted under the bed only seconds before the door opened.

  “Good Lord, Estelle, is this your husband’s bedchamber? Perhaps we should find another room.”

  “No, here is perfect,” she purred.

  “Oh, you are so wicked,” the man replied with a chuckle.

  The mattress dipped as the two flopped onto it.

  “Lift up your skirts, Estelle. We need to be quick.”

  Olivia heard the rustling of layers of material. With her hand clasped over her mouth, attempting to mask the nervous breaths sawing in and out of her lungs, she prayed to God they would be quick. She peered to the side and noticed one of the banknotes had fallen out of her pocket and lay next to the edge of the bed. The sight of it made her heart pound against her ribs. If the couple saw it . . .

  The mattress bounced up and down above her.

  The man grunted.

  Slowly, Olivia rolled onto her side and carefully stretched her hand out and curled her fingers around the banknote, then slipped it into her pocket.

  “Did you hear something?” the woman asked.

  “No. Now hush. I’m trying to concentrate.” The man grunted once, twice, before he uttered a low, almost unearthly, sound. He jumped off the bed, and Olivia realized he still wore his trousers and shoes. “Now, we best get going,” he said.

  “What?” the woman screeched. “That’s it? We are done?”

  “Yes, we need to hurry back before your husband realizes we have both left.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Come now.” His feet moved to the door.

  “Damn you, Reginald. That was a bloody poor performance.”

  “Sorry, sweet.” The man didn’t sound sorry in the least. He poked his head out the door. “All clear.”

  Grumbling her discontent, the woman slipped off the bed and straightened the skirt of her costly looking blue gown.

  Olivia released a heavy breath as they closed the door behind them.

  That had been close.

  Too close.

  Heart still beating fast, she retraced her steps, made her way back to the attic, and climbed back onto the rooftops.

  * * *

  The following morning, when Olivia stepped into the servants’ dining hall, several members of the staff glanced up, but most continued to eat without hesitation. Thankfully, they had come to accept her presence as one of them. She strode to the sideboard, placed an egg and a raisin scone on her plate, and took an empty seat.

  The cook dashed into the room, drying her wet hands in the folds of the white apron tied around her waist. “The Phantom robbed Lord Belington last night!”

  Forks stilled.

  Chatter stopped.

  “How do you know?” Mrs. Parks asked.

  “The greengrocer just dropped off my order and Mr. Hobbs said when he delivered to Lord Cranford’s house across the street from Belington’s there were a bunch of bobbies milling about outside. When he asked what was going on, they told him. Said there were even some fellows from Scotland Yard there, including the commissioner himself.”

  “No one saw anything?” Menders asked.

  The cook shook her head. “Mr. Hobbs talked with Lord Belington’s housekeeper. She said no.”

  Olivia, unlike the others who had stopped eating, slipped a piece of egg into her mouth.

  The footman named Cline leaned forward and glanced at the door before speaking. “My uncle is a clerk at Scotland Yard. He says several of the detectives think it might be a nobleman. A guest whose attended all of the gatherings.”

  “A nobleman?” Katie echoed.

  “Wouldn’t that be a fine kettle of fish?” the cook said.

  “Does this Lord Belington live in Mayfair?” Olivia asked, even though she knew exactly where the ghastly man lived.

  “Yes, only a few streets away.” The maid sitting next to Olivia shifted in her seat. “My uncle, God rest his soul, used to work for him. Called him a dreadful man.”

  Several of the other servants mumbled their agreement.

  “Some of them nobs are getting what they deserve,” another footman mumbled.

  “Yes, I hear he’s a right old bastard,” the coachman added. “I think someone should give this Phantom fellow a medal. Even if he is one of them.”

  “Do you really think it could be one of them?” Katie asked.

  The coachman nodded. “The way some of them gamble . . . I wouldn’t doubt it. I heard only last week Lord Hampshire lost two thousand pounds while playing whist at his club. Hard to even imagine such a sum.”

  “It is,” Olivia agreed, thinking of how much the orphanage could have used such funds. Well, in a few days All Saints Orphanage for Girls would receive a rather substantial, anonymous donation. Not two thousand pounds, but enough to repair the leaking roof.

  * * *

  Shortly after breakfast, Olivia stepped into the drawing room to find the dowager sitting at the secretaire writing a letter.

  The elderly woman glanced up, then returned her attention to her correspondence. “If James doesn’t return soon, I fear the recently purchased pen factory will be a botched mess and teeter close to ruination.”

  Ruination? What poppycock. “You’re still not willing to give Lord Anthony any credit, are you?” Olivia asked before able to halt herself from speaking her mind.

  The woman’s pen stilled. Her shoulders stiffened. She narrowed her eyes to slits as she looked at Olivia like she was a bug she was about to smash flat. “What did you just say to me?”

  She should beg the dowager’s forgiveness, sit quietly in a chair, and keep her mouth closed. But she could not sit idly by while the woman belittled her grandson. “I believe, once again, you are reticent to give Lord Anthony the credit he should be given, and there is credit due.”

  The woman’s mouth opened, then closed as if taken aback by Olivia’s impertinence. But instead of screaming and tossing anything at her, she pinned Olivia with a challenging expression. “Anthony has fallen back into his old ways. He went out last night and didn’t return until early this morning. He’ll probably sleep the day away.”

  Even on the day they had gone to the music hall, Anthony had been up early the next day attending to the businesses his brother had left him in charge of. He was probably already in his office. He might not enjoy overseeing the ledgers, but he was a hard worker.

  “Are you positive he’s not in his off
ice already, or are you just making an assumption?”

  Bracing one hand on the arm of the chair and the other on the top of the gold knob of her cane, the dowager stood. “Has that smooth-talking rascal turned your head, Miss Michaels? Is that why you defend him?”

  Heat singed Olivia’s cheeks. Perhaps he had, but her defense of him had nothing to do with that. “No, madam. I defend him because I have seen what he has accomplished.”

  “If you are so sure he is there then let us see. Come.”

  Olivia stayed a step behind the dowager as they made their way to the office. She released a slow breath and sent up a silent prayer that Anthony was indeed attending to the responsibilities placed on him and not asleep in his bedchamber.

  Upon reaching the office’s door, the dowager stopped and without knocking flung it open.

  Olivia held her breath.

  The old woman glanced at her. The expression on her face was not an I-told-you-so-look, but one of bewilderment, which must mean . . . Olivia stepped next to her.

  Anthony glanced up from where he sat at the desk, talking with Lord Huntington’s man of affairs, Mr. Walters, who was there for his weekly meeting.

  In truth, Anthony looked a bit worse for wear, but he was there and attending to business.

  Olivia released the breath that had lodged itself in her chest.

  Atticus, who stood on his perch, started flapping his wings as he gazed at the dowager. “Abandon ship. Old wench on starboard. Old wench on starboard!”

  Olivia tried not to laugh at the expression on the dowager’s face.

  “Why haven’t you made soup out of that bird yet?” she grumbled. “You’ve threatened to do it enough. If you don’t have the stomach for it, I’ll do it.”

  “I think I’m growing fond of him.” Anthony grinned. “Is there something you need, Grandmother?”

  “No, I . . . um . . . will talk to you later.”

  Olivia would bet money that the Dowager Marchioness of Huntington had never stuttered in her life. It was refreshing to see she was human.