by Clee, Adele
A man need not be an intelligent enquiry agent to know it was better to meet on neutral ground. When he entered her house, he would have full knowledge of the situation.
“No. Have your coachman bring you to The Cock and Magpie in Drury Lane at noon.”
She seemed to find something amusing. “I’m sure my coachwoman will ensure I arrive at the appointed time.”
Damian smirked. “A woman drives your carriage? No wonder you need my protection.”
The widow arched a brow. “I advise you to have a care when in her company, Mr Wycliff. She tends to hurl a fist before asking questions, and has a thorough dislike of arrogant, controlling men.”
“Ah, a woman scorned?” They were the worst kind.
“She served her time in the underground boxing dens in Whitechapel before buying her freedom.”
Hell’s teeth. The women who fought there were ruthless. Savage.
“Then I shall mind my manners,” he said, for he could never hit a woman regardless of how hard she attacked.
Laughter and loud voices from beyond the locked door reached his ears. No doubt people had heard that London’s most scandalous rake was alone in a room with the Scarlet Widow. Come the morning there would be an amusing and bawdy caricature in the broadsheets involving a billiard table, cue and two balls.
The widow glanced at the door, though she did not look the least bit anxious. “Well, I shall take my leave, but will meet you at noon tomorrow.”
Some fool rattled the doorknob, made loud groaning noises and shouted, “What the devil’s going on in there?”
“Just the childish antics of the demi-monde,” he said, wondering why—for the first time in his life—he felt a little ashamed. Whoever it was would need to call a doctor to reset his impending broken nose.
“Actually, it rather works in my favour as there is something I must do before I leave. As a man with a scandalous reputation, I hope you have no objection.”
“Objection?”
It was then that the Scarlet Widow drew on her experiences as an actress. She came up to him, dragged his shirt out of his breeches and ruffled his hair before proceeding to make the amorous moans of a woman being thoroughly ravished. Such was her skill that every fake pant made the muscles in his abdomen clench.
“Carpe diem,” she said, unwinding the braid to let the soft ebony waves drape over her shoulders. “I trust you will use your winnings wisely.”
The widow scooped her red cloak off the floor and draped it around her shoulders. She unlocked the door and yanked it open to find a host of excited guests lingering in the hallway.
“Wycliff proved most satisfactory,” she said in the breathless, husky voice of a woman descending the dizzying heights of her climax. And then she disappeared down the crowded corridor.
Damian felt as though he’d been whipped up into a whirlwind, his ragged emotions tossed aside with all the other debris. The Scarlet Widow knew how to leave a lasting impression.
“Well?” Trent said, a wicked grin stretching from ear to ear. “How was she?”
Noting Damian’s flagging equilibrium, Trent offered his lit cheroot.
Damian snatched the cigar and drew deep. He blew a puff of white mist into the air before flopping down onto the velvet sofa. “So damn good I needed this smoke.”
Chapter Four
“There is no need to accompany me into the tavern,” Scarlett said to Alcock, who had climbed down from her box to play escort. “Stay with Kemp. The streets are so busy today, no doubt someone will complain that my carriage is blocking their way.” She took hold of Kemp’s outstretched hand as the groom assisted her descent to the cobblestones of Drury Lane.
Alcock tugged her greatcoat firmly across her body and shook her head. “When those drunken sots catch sight of a woman, they forget they’re suppin’ in a tavern and think they’ve come to grope in the apple dumplin’ shop.”
Scarlett pressed her lips together to stifle an amused snort. “I am certain Mr Wycliff will be an adequate chaperone.”
Alcock sneered. “Men are all the same, milady. Smile in the wrong way, and they think they’ve the right to take liberties.”
Having witnessed the ugly marks on Scarlett’s body, she doubted Mr Wycliff would want to gaze upon them again. Still, she couldn’t help but get a thrill from goading the man, and Alcock was particularly candid when dealing with scoundrels.
“Very well,” Scarlett conceded. “You may accompany me inside and deposit me safely into Mr Wycliff’s care.” She raised her hand to silence the woman should she have a mind to make further demands.
Alcock nodded. She barked instructions to Kemp and told him to blow the horn should he encounter any trouble.
With Alcock pressed to her side, Scarlett pushed past the bustle of people crowding the narrow street, skirted around unruly dogs and vendors desperate to sell the apples they’d polished to perfection. The stench of manure and rotten vegetables permeated the air. It was a smell she welcomed for it spoke of hard work, of a time when only the simple things like food and shelter mattered.
Despite a severe lack of funds, she had not been unhappy.
Not until the first threatening letter arrived.
Not until a dark stranger followed her home one foggy night.
Not until circumstances forced her to make other choices—to become the Scarlet Widow.
Oh, how she longed for anonymity. How she wished she was just another nameless face going about another mundane day. No one in this part of town cared that she wore a scandalous red pelisse over her widow’s weeds. No one cared that she wore a bright red bonnet with a large black bow as a mark of disdain.
Alcock cursed at a drunkard slumped against the doorjamb and pushed the fellow aside so that they might enter the premises. A lady did not visit a tavern without a male escort. But with her cropped brown hair and square jaw, most people mistook Alcock for a man.
The coachwoman barged through the crowd. Some patrons stood around crude wooden tables in a room where the beamed ceiling was so low they had to stoop. Some occupied chairs near the open fire, their half-closed eyes suggesting they swilled liquor from dawn till dusk. The oak-panelled walls cast the room in an orange glow that made the inn feel welcoming, but Scarlett knew better than to judge anything on first impressions.
Damian Wycliff sat on a long oak settle, his muscular legs stretched out to the side and crossed at the ankles. A thick lock of ebony hair hung rakishly over his brow. The two men from the billiard room sat on the bench opposite, gripping their tankards while deep in conversation.
All boisterous chatter ceased as fifty male heads shot in Scarlett’s direction. If only they could see her Viking army, then they might lack the courage to gape and stare. Still, Scarlett drew on the imagined warriors’ strength, raised her chin and feigned an air of hauteur.
It was unnecessary, of course, because Alcock insisted on making a spectacle. The woman braced her hands on her hips and said with some frustration, “Ain’t no one seen a lady before?”
With the comment spoken in such a high-pitched tone, it caused some confusion amongst the patrons. They spent as much time perusing Alcock’s person as they did the newcomer in the vibrant hat. No doubt their minds were engaged in determining whether Alcock was a man with an unusually high voice or something far more threatening.
“Get back to your drinks, gentlemen.” The deep, masculine voice powered through the room. “Else I might feel inclined to defend the lady’s honour.”
To further make his point, Mr Wycliff stood, his dark eyes sending a threatening message. He had teamed his midnight blue coat with a crimson cravat. On some, the combination might look foppish. On Mr Wycliff, it conveyed an air of illicit danger.
All the men in the room quickly averted their gazes, keen to resume their previous conversations before the handsome rogue stripped off his coat and flexed his fists.
Alcock took umbrage at Mr Wycliff’s intervention. On a muttered breath she cursed all
men to the devil. In her experience, the helpful ones proved just as wicked.
“That is Mr Wycliff,” Scarlett said once the noise in the room returned to its previous pitch. “Be polite, as I am in dire need of his help.”
Alcock snorted as the gentleman in question sauntered towards them. “Men like him make promises they can’t keep. Men like him serve no one but themselves.”
“And you can tell that from the way he walks?”
“I know his kind. Wronged men who want to make the world pay.”
Alcock did not have the chance to comment further.
Mr Wycliff inclined his head. “It seems you create a stir wherever you go, Widow.”
Scarlett winced at his derogatory use of the name. The tension in the air grew palpable. Her coachwoman was like a loyal dog who thought nothing of sinking her teeth into the flesh of the disrespectful.
Alcock snarled. “Speak to milady like that again, and I’ll be the one defending her honour.”
“I am capable of dealing with Mr Wycliff,” Scarlett said to defuse the situation. “He might fool the world with his arrogance, but he does not fool me.”
No, she had seen him at his most vulnerable.
Mr Wycliff arched a brow. “And though you feign the confidence of the Scarlet Widow, beneath the bravado you are still the struggling actress.”
Alcock took a step forward, the tip of her booted foot pressing down onto Mr Wycliff’s toes. She raised her chin. “I’ve beaten men black and blue for less.”
Mr Wycliff’s amused gaze slipped slowly to his feet before fixing on his prey. “And I’ve blown a lead ball into the chest of men with half your insolence. Perhaps your mistress needs to learn that the stocks are the place for outspoken servants.”
“Raise a hand to me, and you’ll be pickin’ your teeth out of the gutter.”
“That is quite enough,” Scarlett said, eager to put an end to this uncordial standoff. “If we are to work together, you will learn to get along. Now, allow me to present my trusted coachwoman, Alcock.”
“Alcock?” Mr Wycliff’s dark eyes scanned Scarlett’s burly servant as he dragged his foot out from under her boot. “How apt.”
Clearly, he referred to her servant’s overtly masculine appearance.
“You may wait for me outside, Alcock, while we tend to business.” Despite Alcock’s penchant for violence, respect for her position meant she always obeyed her mistress.
“I have taken the liberty of hiring a private room,” the rogue said, winking at Alcock and flashing her a wicked grin. “We don’t want any ill-timed interruptions.”
A muscle in Alcock’s jaw twitched, but Scarlett arched her brow, and the woman turned on her heel and marched from the tavern.
The gentleman chuckled. “I sense a little hostility.”
“She has spent most of her adult life being verbally abused by men. I’ve yet to find a way to calm the bitter rage within.”
“Ah, the pugilist from the dens in Whitechapel,” he said as if recognition had suddenly dawned. “Forgive me. After downing three bottles of claret last night my memory is somewhat hazy.”
Scarlett’s heart skipped a beat. Please say he recalled the moment where she bared more than her soul. The man had probably gazed upon a hundred pairs of naked breasts. But she could not have those sinful eyes look upon hers again.
“I trust, Mr Wycliff, that you remember some things with clarity. A lady might struggle to expose herself in such a candid way a second time.” Indeed, it had taken every ounce of strength she possessed to let the garment fall.
His dark eyes grew warm as he scanned the front of her red pelisse. “Some things a man never forgets.” The velvet tone of his voice slipped over her like a soothing caress.
Confusion rendered her momentarily speechless. She had expected his top lip to rise in disdain at the memory, expected to see disgust mar his fine features. She had not expected a look brimming with insatiable lust.
Had he not seen the ugly scars?
Had it not made him feel sick to his stomach?
“Of course, once we’re nestled inside a private room,” he continued, “you might like to remind me.”
The thought of being alone with him again sent her pulse racing. “I suspect one scar is pretty much like another.”
“Scar? I thought we were talking about something else entirely.”
Scarlett breathed a heavy sigh. She had more important things to do than exchange quips with him all day. “Perhaps we should skip the pleasantries, Mr Wycliff, and get to the matter of your oath.”
“You speak of the foolish promise made in the heat of the moment.”
The comment hit like a stray arrow, too quick for her shield-maidens to defend. “Nevertheless, you gave your word.”
Mr Wycliff inclined his head. “Then I suppose you had better follow me.”
With his usual arrogant swagger, he cut through the crowd, grinning at his friends as he moved past their table. The door at the far end of the room opened into a small hallway. Scarlett presumed he had commanded use of a parlour, but he mounted the stairs two at a time, climbed two flights before leading her into a room with a low-beamed ceiling and no furniture other than a bed.
Once inside, he locked the door behind them. “One cannot be too careful. I doubt either of us wants someone bursting in at an inopportune moment.”
Nerves rattled in her throat.
Damn him. This man’s behaviour often vacillated between gentleman and rogue.
Unpredictability was his middle name. She had learnt to deal with evil devils, and yet Mr Wycliff unsettled her composure at every turn.
Did he feel threatened because she knew too much about him?
Did his hostility stem from the fact she outranked him?
“Sit down.” Mr Wycliff gestured to the bed, and her heart smacked against her ribs. He shrugged out of his coat and hung it on a hook on the back of the door. “Kick off your boots and make yourself comfortable, Lady Steele.”
He spoke her name as if it were a common joke. At least he’d not called her Widow.
“We have the room for an hour. Best not waste precious time.” He dropped down onto the mattress, the bed groaning beneath his weight, and proceeded to tug off his boots. “As we’re beginning this partnership with honesty, I would like to thank you for saving my life.”
“I did what anyone with a conscience would do.”
He shuffled to the top of the bed, propped himself against the pillows and folded his arms behind his head. “It took courage, courage which you now have in abundance.”
“One must have fortitude in this wicked world if they hope to survive.”
He studied her for a moment. “Sit down else I shall have a devil of a crick in my neck.”
Every fibre of her being fought against his request. Perhaps because it sounded like a command. “I prefer to stand.”
He shrugged. “As you wish. Now, tell me your story. I must know every detail if I am to offer assistance.”
So many images flooded her mind. Vile scenes. Cruel pictures. There was so much to tell she didn’t know where to begin. Either way, she would need to hold her resolve. The next hour was guaranteed to be unpleasant.
“I don’t know what you’ve heard about Lord Steele, but—”
“Start from the beginning.” His sharp interjection only added to the tension. “Tell me why you moved from a seminary in Bath to a hovel off Drury Lane. Tell me why an educated woman chose to grace the stage.”
She had mentioned the seminary in passing three years ago while tending to his wound. How was it he remembered something so insignificant?
“Is it relevant?” No one knew her true identity. Her father insisted she kept it that way. Scarlett hadn’t the faintest notion why and could only imagine it stemmed from embarrassment about the nature of his business. “What possible bearing could that have on my current situation?”
“Well, I won’t know unless you tell me,” came his blunt
reply.
“It is personal.” Not something one mentioned to a man one did not fully trust.
“Then this is a pointless conversation.” He sat up and swung his legs to the floor. “And a complete waste of my time.”
“Are you leaving?” Panic surfaced.
There had been too many threats against her person for her to tackle the matter alone. Somewhere, in a tiny part of her heart where hope lay weak and undernourished, she had cast this wicked scoundrel as her hero. She remembered the tender caress, the moment he had thrust his treasured cross into her palm in the only true act of kindness she had ever known.
Mr Wycliff grabbed one of his boots, ready to thrust his foot inside.
“Wait!” Surrender did not come easy. Perhaps she need not give him a full explanation. “My mother died when I was ten. Between the ages of ten and twenty, my father paid for me to attend numerous establishments keen to educate females.”
He paused. Keeping a firm grip on his boot, he said, “Why did he not keep you at home and hire a governess?”
It was a question she had pondered on many a cold, lonely night. The answer given seemed logical, and yet it had left a gaping hole in her heart. “His home was his business. A business considered an unsuitable place for a lady.”
But she had always sensed it was more than that.
Love did not come easy to Jack Jewell.
Mr Wycliff glanced over his shoulder and narrowed his gaze. “A brothel?”
“No!” she said far too quickly. “Not a brothel but one might call it an establishment for the wealthy and dissolute. My father made me swear never to mention our connection.”
Something she said must have piqued his curiosity, pricked his conscience. He dropped his boot, shuffled back onto the bed and resumed his relaxed position. “And he paid for you to live away at a seminary?”
“At numerous seminaries. I rarely stayed in one place for longer than a year.”
The memory made the hollow space in her chest seem cavernous. Such instability made it impossible to forge friendships, to nurture relationships. She never belonged, was always the outsider.