by Kate Bateman
She almost snorted aloud. Some hope.
She cleared her throat. “Tea imports are some of my most profitable shipments. We trade British woolens and Indian cottons for Chinese tea, porcelain, and silk.”
“Do you import opium?”
“No. The East India Company does, though.” She frowned. “I understand from Mr. Pettigrew that poets like Byron use it for inspiration, but I can’t say I’m convinced. I suspect it’s one of the reasons my cousin is in such debt. Have you ever tried it?”
“Never smoked it. But I was given laudanum when I was wounded in my shoulder. It helped with the pain, but not with my dreams. It made them even worse, even more vivid.” He stopped abruptly, and a flush crept up his neck as if he were embarrassed to have revealed such a human failing.
“Do you recall unpleasant things from the war?” Georgie ventured cautiously.
“Sometimes. Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t really think about it much, but sometimes, when I’m asleep, or very tired, memories come back to me, so real I think I’m back there.” He shrugged. “I can understand why some men might want to drug themselves in an effort to gain oblivion, but I’m not sure it’s the best way to deal with it. A life spent half asleep isn’t much of a life at all. I’m glad you don’t sell it.”
“Yes, well, there are equally profitable cargoes that don’t endanger people’s health.” Georgie waved a hand at the goods on either side. “Like silk. Velvet. Glass.”
The existence of her fortune always provoked fierce and conflicting emotions in her breast. When she’d come out, aged sixteen, and found herself instantly popular with the gentlemen, she’d been flattered—until she realized they were only after her money. She’d found it hard to make female friends too. Her peers had resented her ability to afford expensive jewels and gowns and spread jealous gossip about her.
Georgie had spent years wondering how she would ever know if a man really loved her.
The only way to be sure would be to remove her fortune from the equation, which was almost impossible. In weaker moments, she’d imagined running away and starting a new life, incognito, where she’d have the potential to be sincerely loved. But the truth was, she appreciated being rich. She was glad she never had to worry about her next meal, or whether she might be able to afford a physician if her mother or sister fell ill. She gave generously to numerous charities—anonymously—to relieve other, less fortunate souls of the same burden.
The contract she’d made Wylde sign in Newgate had been the best solution she could find to weed out fortune hunters.
Wylde turned to her with a teasing smile. “I am seriously regretting signing your bloody bit of paper now.”
Georgie blinked at the way he seemed to read her mind, then smiled at his unabashed honesty. “I am still paying you a thousand pounds,” she reminded him. “In fact, if you’ll step upstairs to my office, Mr. Wylde, you can have your first installment.”
She headed up the spiral staircase, hotly aware of him close behind her, and entered the office reserved for her use. The leather-topped partners desk had a concealed drawer, released by pressing a lever underneath, which held her ledger books and a stash of banknotes. Georgie counted out three hundred pounds then rounded the desk and leaned against the edge as she held the money out toward him.
He shook his head. “I haven’t earned this. A stroll around Vauxhall and one morning call to your house is hardly enough to convince the ton I’m courting you seriously. Nobody saw us together at the Westons’.” He held his arms out to the side, as if offering himself as a servant to do her bidding. “Are you sure there’s nothing else I can do for you, my lady? Here I am. At your service.”
His voice had an ironic, slightly mocking tone, but whether it was aimed at her or himself, she didn’t know. Georgie immediately imagined several, outrageously improper, things he could “do for her.” The air between them became strangely charged. There was some emotion in his face that made her stomach knot. He called to every wild and reckless part of her.
His gaze dropped to her lips. “I may not have brought money to this marriage, but I can certainly bring experience.” His eyes burned into hers as he allowed her to see the hunger there, the desire. “Are you sure you won’t reconsider my offer?”
Her heart began to pound. She didn’t need to ask which offer he was talking about. She’d thought of little else for days.
Taking him as her lover would be morally reprehensible. She was, technically, paying for his company. Which would make him—what? Some kind of male concubine? Her brain went a little fuzzy at the thought.
But she’d wanted a lover, had she not? And here she was, legally married to this ridiculously attractive man who sounded more than willing to accept the role. He wasn’t pretending to love her. He was simply offering physical pleasure in response to a blistering mutual attraction.
What was the worst that could happen? There was a risk that she could conceive a child, but according to Tilly, there were ways to prevent such things. Georgie was rather vague on what they were, admittedly, Tilly not having been forthcoming with the details, but a worldly man like Wylde would know what measures to take, surely.
Her heart thudded against her ribs as he took a step closer.
“As a matter of fact, I’ve been giving serious thought to what you said the other day,” she managed.
“Have you indeed? And what have you concluded?”
She gripped the edge of the desk. “That I should like to take you up on your offer.”
He stilled, and she thought she saw a flare of triumph in his gaze. And then his focus flicked to the desk behind her, as if he were actually contemplating taking her right then and there. Her knees almost buckled. He took another step, deliberately crowding her between his hard body and the edge of the desk, and she swallowed, almost sick with anticipation. To be pursued with such purposeful intensity was terrifying. And wonderful.
She gave a half laugh, half gasp. “I didn’t mean—”
Without a word, he lifted her by the waist and sat her on top of the desk. The money rustled against his shirt as she splayed her hands on his chest. Her knees parted automatically, and he stepped between them. His body was vibrating with desire, his heart pounding beneath her palm. Only a few layers separated them—his breeches, her skirts. She could feel the heat of him.
Their eyes met and held as he grasped the hem of her skirts and slid his hand over her knee. The rustle of wool and cambric was deafening. Suddenly impatient, Georgie reached up, caught his nape, and tugged his head down to hers. She parted her lips, desperate for a taste of him, just as Edmund Shaw’s jovial shout echoed up the stairs.
“Are you up there, Miss Caversteed? I do apologize. I just went to get some lunch. I wasn’t expecting you. Is there something I can help you with?”
They sprung apart guiltily, and Georgie was sure her own face held the same look of burning frustration as Wylde’s. She cleared her throat and called down.
“No, no, it’s quite all right, Edmund. This was an impromptu visit. I was just giving Mr. Wylde a tour. We must be getting on now.” There was only a slight, betraying quaver in her voice, thank goodness.
Wylde’s hot smile made her pulse skyrocket. He gestured for her to proceed him downstairs. “Quite so. Important things to do,” he murmured as she brushed past him.
Georgie barely remembered taking her leave. Pieter was waiting with the carriage outside, and she got in, scarcely able to look at Wylde as he settled himself on the seat opposite her. Her stomach churned. Where had she found the nerve? She’d actually propositioned him!
The carriage lurched forward, and she kept her eyes on her hands. The silence became almost unbearable.
“When?” His low baritone sent shivers through her.
She couldn’t look at him. Doubtless the other women he’d made such arrangements with knew exactly how this game was played. They’d be bold and flirtatious, breezily confident. She was finding it hard to breathe
, caught in a tumult of conflicting emotions.
“Will you come to me at the Tricorn?”
The question was soft, almost lazy. With infinite implications. It made her pulse flutter and her heart pound. She sucked in a shocked gasp. “What, now? It’s the middle of the day! Pieter—”
“Look at me, Georgie.” His tone was teasing, gently amused.
She did what he ordered and was struck once again by just how ridiculously attractive he was. Like some wicked fallen angel. Good Lord, what was she getting herself into? How could she possibly handle a man like this?
“Breathe.”
She let out a sharp exhale.
“Stop worrying. There’s nothing to it, believe me.” His smile made her insides quiver. “You’re going to enjoy every minute, I promise.”
Could a person expire from anticipation?
“Can you get away this evening?” he asked. “I can send Mickey with a carriage. You can slip out and meet him at the corner.”
“I’m supposed to be attending the Evans’ rout, but I could say I have a headache and leave early. Mother won’t check on me until morning if I say I’m going straight to bed.”
“Perfect.” His appreciative gaze roved over her face and lingered on her lips as if he were already imagining the taste of them.
Georgie decided to press her luck. She leaned forward and rapped on the roof of the carriage.
“Yes, miss?” Pieter shouted down.
“We’d like to make a stop on the way home,” she called out before Wylde could speak. “Ore Street in Limehouse.”
Wylde sent her an exasperated look, and she arched her brows at him, suddenly confident.
“We’re going to need something seriously distracting to get us through the next few hours, don’t you think?” she whispered.
He gave a reluctant sigh. “Oh, very well. You shall have your adventure. But I warn you, if there’s the least sign of trouble, we’ll be leaving, understood?”
She sent him a delighted nod of agreement.
Chapter 26.
Pieter dropped them off at the corner of Ore Street, and they entered a bow-fronted coffeehouse directly across from the entrance to White Lion Yard. Georgie glanced around the dimly lit interior. She’d never set foot in a coffeehouse before, and this one appeared delightfully dingy. Clusters of patrons, from bootblacks to bewigged clergymen, lounged around rough wooden tables and argued nosily over the contents of the day’s newspapers. The strong scents of tobacco, coffee, sweat, and warm beer assaulted her nose.
Wylde thrust her into a vacant booth in the bay window and ordered two coffees from the bored-looking barmaid. Georgie stared down at the steaming brew with mingled disgust and delight.
“‘Black as hell, strong as death, sweet as love,’ as the old Turkish proverb goes,” Wylde murmured dryly. “Drink up.” He clinked his tankard against hers.
She took an experimental sip and discovered her fears were unfounded. The coffee was exquisite. She groaned appreciatively, then blushed as she caught Wylde’s intense gaze. Tension arced between them as she licked a drop from her lip, deliberately provoking, and enjoyed the way his jaw tightened. He desired her.
The knowledge of her newfound feminine power was like a drug. She wanted his hands on her, his mouth on hers, like a fever in her blood. Desire pooled low in her stomach. In a few short hours, this man was going to make her a woman. She would be a virgin no more. She couldn’t wait.
“Stop it,” he growled.
She shot him an innocent glance from beneath her lashes, her confidence bolstered by the fact that they were in a public place. It was safe to taunt him here. “So, now what?”
He tilted his head at the cluster of buildings opposite. “Now we watch and wait. This is the boring part of undercover work. I can’t tell you how many hours Seb, Alex, and I have spent sitting around waiting for someone or other to show up.”
And wait they did, for over half an hour. Georgie squinted through the grimy window, but there was no movement from the warehouse. There were no deliveries. Nobody went in or out. She puffed out her lower lip and blew the hair up from her forehead with a little gust of air. “This is dull.”
Wylde, who had availed himself of one of the crumpled, coffee-stained news sheets and proceeded to ignore her, tilted down the corner and peered at her. “I told you.” With a sigh, he flicked his long fingers and summoned one of the scruffy-looking potboys who were lounging near the fire.
“What’s to do, guvn’r?”
He tilted his head across the road. “See that building there? Go and knock on the door. If someone answers, ask for Mr. Keating. There won’t be any Keating there, so say you must have been given the wrong address. Then come back here.”
“Woss in it fer me?” The boy sniffed.
“A shilling.”
The lad touched his forelock. “Done.” He scampered out into the street, and Georgie held her breath as he raced across the road and only narrowly avoided being trampled by a horse pulling a cart full of barrels. He rapped at the warehouse door and waited. When there was no response, he shrugged and jogged back across the road.
Wylde flipped a coin into his outstretched hand, and Georgie shot him a pleading look. “There’s obviously nobody there. Can’t we take a little look? Just a peek?”
He sighed. “Oh, all right.” He turned to the boy again. “What’s your name?”
“Mouse, guv.”
“All right, Mouse. Another shilling if you’ll stand watch and whistle if anyone comes.”
“Done.” The boy nodded eagerly. “I can whistle good.”
Wylde bypassed the front door of the warehouse and instead tugged her into the narrow alleyway that separated it from its grimy neighbor. A short flight of steps led down to the river at the far end, and Georgie put her hand over her nose to mask the fetid stench coming from the piles of refuse heaped amid the rusty shipbuilding materials that had been abandoned on either side. Thank goodness she’d worn an ugly dress. She’d burn it after this.
Wylde dragged a wooden crate under one of the warehouse’s dirty windows and climbed up. She was about to tell him he had little hope of seeing anything through such filthy glass when he produced a pocketknife and flicked open the casement with a practiced turn of the wrist. With a grin, he turned and offered her his hand.
“Ladies first.”
She sent him a scornful, doubtful glance. “You want me to climb through the window?”
“This was your idea, remember? If you want to get back in the carriage—”
That did it. Georgie grasped his wrist and let him haul her up. She gasped when he caught her around the waist and lifted her effortlessly onto the sill, then gathered her skirts, swiveled around, and dropped into the empty building. Wylde followed close behind.
She brushed the cobwebs off her skirt as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom. Dim light filtered down from a series of grimy skylights in the roof, enough to see the iron rails that ran along the floor to help launch a ship through the double doors at the far end, and the workbenches laden with woodworking tools. In the center of the space stood the unmistakable shape of the vessel she’d seen on paper.
Georgie let out an awed breath. “That’s it! Fulton’s ship. Look.”
She ran her hand along the rough planks of the ship’s side. Externally, at least, it looked like any other boat, with a wooden mast and spar, rudder, and anchor dangling from a chain. The familiar smell of fresh-cut wood and tar—used to waterproof the planks—filled her lungs.
Desperate to see how much had been completed, she stepped up onto the ladder that was propped against the side and peered over the rail. Unlike on a conventional boat, the deck was completely enclosed. There was just one funnel-shaped opening in front of the main mast, with a hatch to allow entry inside.
“I’m taking a closer look,” she whispered down to Wylde. He nodded, steadying the ladder for her, and she clambered onto the deck and peered down into the workings of the bea
st.
The inner chamber was around six feet square and curved on either side like a barrel, following the shape of the ship. She could just make out the twisted shapes of various pipes, handles, and levers in the gloom.
“It looks almost complete,” she called, her head still down the hatch. Wylde’s body brushed hers as he crouched beside her, and she bumped the back of her head as she jolted in shock. His nearness made her quivery, as if snakes coiled in her belly.
“There’s the handle and crank for the anchor,” she muttered, “and the bilge pump. Those other controls must be for the letting in of water or air for ballast and flotation.”
Wylde’s gravelly voice sounded directly behind her. “Have you ever noticed the preponderance of double entendres in maritime terminology? It seems to me there’s an alarming number of hand pumps, cocks, and screws.”
Georgie stifled an unladylike snort. “I’ve never really thought about it.” She brought her head back up, and he waggled his eyebrows at her.
“I mean, bilge pump? I don’t even know what that is, but it sounds filthy.”
She rolled her eyes. “That is so—”
A shrill whistle interrupted whatever she’d been about to say.
“Shit,” Wylde said. “Someone’s coming.” He nodded at the hatch. “Quick. Get in there.”
Chapter 27.
Georgie didn’t waste time arguing. Someone was already scrabbling at the front door, trying to put a key into the lock. Panic filled her as she lifted her arms above her head and dropped down into the darkened hull.
She fell back onto her bottom just as Wylde slipped in beside her. He banged her head with his elbow as he closed the hatch, and the scant light shut off abruptly. Without a word, he tugged her down so they were both lying prone, squashed together like two sardines packed in a jar.
She hardly dared breathe. Above her frantically beating heart, she could hear muffled male voices and the sound of heavy footsteps coming closer. Oh, God. They were bound to be discovered.