Love with a Notorious Rake

by Karyn Gerrard

  This sorrowful place was nothing like Standon, with its idyllic country setting, fresh air, and abundance of flowers and shrubs. There she felt safe, comfortable, and protected. Cristyn experienced none of that here. She pulled her shawl closer about her and hurried toward Mrs. Trubshaw’s.

  Once she arrived and opened the door, her landlady stood before her, hands on her hips. “Miss Bevan, imagine my surprise when Dr. Middlemiss asked me to fetch you from your room and you were not there. He’s about to go out and find you.” The older woman shook her head. “It is going on eight o’clock. If you had stayed out any longer, you could have been robbed, or worse—”

  “Mrs. Trubshaw, I believe you have chastised Miss Bevan enough,” Paris said as he took Cristyn’s arm.

  “I overstepped, only I worry. It’s not safe,” she replied, not unkindly.

  “Allow me to apologize, Mrs. Trubshaw. I merely wanted a breath of air, and I did return before darkness descended.”

  “While you stay under my roof, I feel responsible for your safety. I know of what I speak regarding the crime rife in this village. Well, enough about that. Doctor, why not take Miss Bevan into the small parlor? May I make you both a cup of tea?” the landlady asked.

  Paris looked to her, then shook his head. “No, thank you, we will be fine.”

  Once inside the parlor, Paris closed the door as Cristyn removed her shawl, laying it in her lap once she sat on the settee.

  “You must forgive Mrs. Trubshaw. She is worried for your safety. Mr. Green, the grocer’s assistant, was robbed on Mill Lane not three nights past. He suffered blows about the head and lost ten shillings. Unfortunately, the threat is real.”

  “Yes, I understand. In the future, I will inform her if I decide to go for a walk. However, she is much like a guard at the palace gate. I cannot be a prisoner in my room.”

  Paris smiled. “Truly, she means well. You are forthright, Cristyn; if she impinges on your privacy, tell her.” He paused, his expression turned serious. “And speaking of impinging on privacy, this is none of my business, but I shall ask it anyway: Did you meet the young man from the mill?”

  Cristyn’s blood froze in her veins. What to say? She remained silent, trying to craft a reply.

  “I only ask because what little I witnessed appeared emotional. You know this man.”

  “Yes,” she replied. “But it is my business.” Cristyn spoke in a polite but firm tone.

  Paris sighed. “I shouldn’t interfere, but your father mentioned you were nursing a broken heart and asked me to look out for you. Don’t be angry; he did not mention any details, only wrote of it because he knew I would be empathetic.”

  “I see.” She tamped down her growing annoyance, for Paris’s tone was conciliatory and kind.

  “There is an age difference between us, Cristyn. But I have come to care for you. You are bright, kind, capable, and unfailingly honest.”

  “Thank you, Paris. I have come to care for you as a beloved uncle. Is that possible in three short weeks?”

  He nodded. “Absolutely. People make connections in many different circumstances.”

  “Why is it you have never visited us in Standon?”

  A melancholy look crossed his striking features. “Ah. You’re young. I probably should not be discussing it with you, for it is a delicate matter. No one wants to be judged.”

  She laid her hand briefly on top of his. “I would never judge you.” Yet she’d judged Aidan quickly enough. Regret covered her for allowing her hurt feelings to come spilling out during their conversation.

  “The truth is your mother forbade me to visit. After she passed, I had become too caught up in my own heartbreak drama. Hence my charity medical journey across the country. At any rate, I was not in the right frame of mind to visit old chums.”

  “You knew my mother?” How surprising.

  “Yes. We all met when your father, Elwyn Hughes, and I became fast friends at university. Gethin was courting your mother then.” Paris paused; his mouth formed a taut line. “I am not quite sure how to say this except to reveal the truth: Your mother wanted nothing to do with me when she found out that I prefer…men.” He gazed at her, as if waiting for her response. But Cristyn kept her astonishment hidden. “Thankfully, both your father and Elwyn did not shun me when they learned of my proclivities. We continued to correspond, and when they traveled to London, we met up for a meal. However, I respected your mother’s wishes and stayed clear.”

  “I’m sorry. I would have liked to have known you sooner.” She gave Paris a warm smile.

  “I also regret us not knowing each other before this. But we do now, and will remain good friends, I’m sure.”

  “I agree. But in what way did Father believe you would be empathetic to my plight?”

  Paris sat back in his chair. “I had a serious love affair with the oldest son of an earl. It was ill-fated from the start; we could never be together. He was the heir, and was expected to marry and see to the next heir. When you fall in love, you open yourself up to all sorts of vulnerabilities. I could not and would not deny my feelings. I plundered forth. A smashed-beyond-repair heart ultimately was the result.” He laughed cynically. “The tragic thing is he returned my feelings. Alas, life is hard enough without complicating it with an illicit, and, dare I say, illegal romance. Hence my journey. Anything to forget. It’s why you came here, is it not? To forget your broken heart?” he asked, his voice soft with understanding.

  Tears formed in her eyes, not only for her own plight, but for Paris’s tragic tale. Cristyn nodded. “Yes. What are the odds that he would be in the same village? It makes no sense. He’s at the mill temporarily. I couldn’t stay away. I had to know…I had to see him. Oh, this is terrible. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Does he return your feelings?”

  “He says he is not sure what his emotions consist of. You see, I met him at the sanatorium. He was my patient. Scandalous.”

  “But the heart knows,” Paris whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “I am not as studied in addiction as your father, but I will concede I’ve witnessed what havoc it can wreak, not only physically, but emotionally, in a few of my patients. Even among the upper classes. If he is still on the other side of recovery, I would have to agree he would be unsure about many things, feelings most of all.”

  Cristyn bit her lower lip. “I know this, but selfishly wallowed in my heartbreak instead of…oh, blast. We argued before he left Standon; we argued again tonight.”

  “Passions are running high,” Paris said.

  She laughed brokenly. “Is that what it is?”

  “My dear, what will you do?”

  “When next we go to the mill, I will apologize for my childish tantrums. Then I will ask him to agree that we not see each other while we’re here. Act as if we are strangers. It is the only common-sense solution. What comes after that, I do not know. Go our separate ways, I suppose.”

  “There is no rush to cut ties with the young man yet. Believe me when I tell you, to find someone with whom you can share all manner of intimacy is a rare gift. Do not be eager to toss that aside until you’re completely sure he is not what you want.”

  Cristyn met Paris’s steady gaze. Good advice. “Does it still hurt?”

  He laid his hand flat on his chest. “My heart aches constantly. But it has been more than six years since we parted, and time does lessen the pain. I doubt I will ever love again. For a few years, I had it all. It’s more than some poor souls experience in their wretched lives. I am thankful.”

  “What happened to the heir?”

  “Oh,” Paris sighed. “Last I heard he married an appropriate diamond of the first water and had his heir. Apparently he and his wife are leading separate lives.”

  She placed a hand on his arm. “Then you could still find happiness.” Was she suggesting an aff
air? How improper.

  He shook his head sadly. “No, my dear. He chose duty over love, above all else. The break is permanent. I am nearing the end of my journey; I will no doubt settle in the country to set up a practice. Continue to fight for medical reforms. But I will never return to London. My oldest brother has three sons. I will never inherit my father’s viscountcy, which is entirely fine with me.” He patted her hand. “Enough about me. I should leave you in peace. Tomorrow, we throw ourselves into our work and put heartache behind us.” Paris stood. “Good night, Cristyn.”

  Once he departed, she made her way to her room. The conversation with Paris gave her plenty to consider. The heart knows. Sitting at the small desk, she placed paper, ink, and pen before her.

  Dear Cyn,

  You will never guess who is in Earl Shilton…

  * * * *

  Once Aidan returned to his room, he tore off his clothes and immediately lost himself in his routine of calisthenics. Sweat dripped off him in rivulets, as if he were a block of melting ice.

  Fate had certainly taken a hand. When Cristyn had appeared in the spinning room, time had stood still. She looked ethereal standing in the cotton fluff falling all about her, as if she stepped out of a wintery otherworld where fairy princesses resided. The mere sight of her sent his world spinning out of control. Never had a woman upended his life in such a spectacular manner, or shaken him to his core.

  Their meeting had rocked him: a devastating, soul-shattering kiss followed by a heated argument. The kiss was like nothing he had experienced before. How could it hold such emotion and intimacy? Cristyn had departed in a huff, leaving him hard and aching. The rogue still existed within him considering he’d suggested touching her in intimate places. Truthfully, he didn’t like feeling unrestrained, for he’d had more than enough of it during his fall from grace.

  As for examining his feelings, how could he? He must remain focused on his task and not become distracted. But with her in the village, how could he avoid acknowledging the fact that he wanted her like he had wanted no other woman? Cristyn had seen him at his absolute worst and had still offered tea and sympathy. Hell, she had offered him more than that; she had gifted him with the most precious of commodities: her heart. And he had turned from her.

  With one last exhale, he stood, then dumped the cold water in his basin over his head. He was making a damned mess of his life, as well as his room. Glancing at the pool of water at his feet, he realized he couldn’t leave it there all night. Reaching for his trousers, he slipped them on, along with his shirt and boots, then went in search of the innkeeper.

  As he walked along the hallway, a woman exited one of the rooms.

  When she turned and met his gaze, she squeaked with surprise. “Mr. Black, sir. I was…that is…” She blushed furiously, then her expression changed to that of a seasoned seductress. She sashayed toward him, giving a thorough inspection of his casual state.

  “Do we know each other?” he asked, his tone indifferent.

  “Aye, I work at the mill. In the spinning room. My name be Tessie.”

  Did she? It had only been one day; he wasn’t able to recognize any of the workers, even if they had been lined up in front of him. “And I should care…why?”

  “A few of us earn a shilling or two on the side. You get my meaning?”

  “Quite.” In other words, she acted as a prossie. Not his business. “If you will excuse me.” He moved to dart around her, but she grasped his arm with her dirty hand. “I had an agreement with the other overlooker.” Tessie brazenly cupped his genitals and squeezed gently. “Ah, you be responding already. I can suck on your pipe for a shilling.”

  Dear God, accosted in the inn. But he didn’t push her hand away…not yet. The previous overseer? The man with the wife and five children? Unbelievable. “You did this for him regularly? Anything else? What about the master?”

  Tessie gripped his semi-erect cock. Blast his rampant libido. Unfortunately, he would respond to anyone grabbing him. He fought his body’s usual reaction.

  “Ooo, you be a thick ’un. Wonder if I can shove it all in me mouth?”

  Well, that thought killed his inappropriate sexual instincts. Fighting not to roll his eyes at the ridiculous statement, he gripped Tessie’s wrist and halted her inapt actions. “Answer my questions first; if I like the answers, I’ll give you three shillings.”

  Her eyes grew wide, and he could see feral hunger in them. A roll of compassion enfolded him. To think she had to debase herself in order not to starve. A pox on the men who would take such advantage of her grim circumstances.

  “Aye, the overlooker would put an extra shillin’ in me pay packet if I sucked him twice a week. As for Master…don’t ask me, sir.” True fear registered on her face.

  “Has McRae ever harmed you?” he asked. “It’s all right, Tessie. I will tell no one. I merely wish to know what manner of man I’m working for.”

  Tessie tried to pull away from him, but he held her still. “I can’t. Not here in the hall.”

  “Then come into my room. I will not hurt you. You do not have to do anything for the money except tell me the truth.” He guided her toward his door.

  “No. No!” She pulled away, lifted her tattered skirts, and ran down the stairs, disappearing outside. He wouldn’t chase after her. No use causing a scene. But the fright in her eyes had told him plenty. Aidan wouldn’t let this pass. Next he had an opportunity he would make it clear that the three shillings was a standing offer. There was no mistaking that she needed the money.

  One way or another, he would get to the bottom of this.

  Chapter 11

  Three days had passed, and in that time, Aidan kept a close watch on the workers in the spinning room. He finally had it narrowed down to which youth was Rokesmith. Since the boy was too tall to be a scavenger, he did odd jobs, carrying pails of water from the well to pour on the spinning room floor to keep the area damp. He also swept up cotton fluff or delivered baskets of bobbins or cotton from room to room. All the while, Rokesmith kept a sharp eye on the younger children scurrying under the machines on their hands and knees.

  The shift tonight was ending at seven, and Aidan was determined to follow the children to wherever it was they slept. According to the law, a suitable area must be provided for child workers living on the premises, including proper meals and bedding. It was mentioned in more than one factory or apprentice law that some modicum of education must be provided, of which he had seen no sign of at Morris Mill. These children often toiled fourteen hours a day, regardless of age. Aidan made note of it all. He had already started writing a report to send to his father and grandfather.

  As for Tessie, she purposely ignored him. How to make her talk? If she needed the money badly enough, she would tell him anything. Hopefully, that would include the truth. He would approach her again in a few days.

  The steam whistle blew and the machines at last grew silent. If he came out of this with a hearing problem, Aidan would not be surprised. Or he could develop a lung ailment from all the bits of cotton floating through the air. The adult workers filed out, heading to their homes. Once they left, the children climbed out from under the machines and gravitated toward Rokesmith. What was he, a pied piper? More like a big brother, for the children all gazed up at him adoringly. Aidan followed them, staying well behind. They headed toward the cotton warehouse. Rokesmith lifted a cellar door, and the children climbed down the stairs into a pit of darkness. Hearing someone approaching, Aidan ducked out of sight, but his gaze remained on the open door.

  “Rokesmith! Come get the pies,” a man barked. Rokesmith’s head popped up and he reached for the basket. The man closed the door and sauntered away. A cellar was not a proper dormitory, as spelled out in the laws.

  Aidan marched toward the door, flung it open, and descended the rickety stairs. A collective gasp rose from the children. There were two li
t candles sitting on a long table. It was hardly adequate lighting for this dismal crypt. The children sat around the table on rough-hewn benches, all clasping their pies with their grimy hands.

  Rokesmith stood, a wary expression on his face. “Wot do ye want, Mr. Black, sir?” His accent was thick, and Aidan thought it counterfeit. It didn’t sound genuine.

  “I’ve come to see your living conditions.” He took a pie from the basket, broke off a piece, and popped it in his mouth. After chewing it for about a minute, Aidan immediately spat it out. That wasn’t beef, pork, or mutton, and it damn well wasn’t chicken. The few vegetables swimming in it tasted old. It was mostly flour paste and mystery meat with a greasy crust. Not a proper pie at all. “What are you served for breakfast?”

  “Wot do it matter?” Rokesmith answered with an insolent tone.

  “It matters to me. Answer the question.”

  “Gruel and water,” a little girl piped up. Aidan turned in the direction of the voice and the child gave him a sweet smile. Despite her unkempt appearance, she was a pretty wee thing with long, curly, golden hair. She waved at him, then shyly ducked her head. God save him from precocious brats.

  “Lottie, hush now,” Rokesmith admonished gently.

  Gruel: a thin, watery porridge to give the children energy, but a tasteless and bland diet nonetheless. And cheap. The food of the workhouse. It hardly constituted a proper meal. According to the law, boys and girls were to have separate sleeping areas. Not here. He glanced about the dim area, anger tearing through him when he saw that wooden pallets littered the floor, acting as beds. No blankets or pillows. A few of the children were obviously underage, including the girl who had spoken up. No child under the age of nine was to work in a factory, and those aged nine to thirteen were only to have a nine-hour day with an hour lunch break. Again, he had witnessed none of this. Multiple violations. It turned Aidan’s bile.