by Shirl Henke
The House of Lords met in the former Court of Requests, one of many chambers clustered about Westminster Hall. Boxer took a seat in the anteroom. Both he and Jenette observed those in line as they presented their vouchers for entry to the proceedings. Amber was well concealed by her veil. No one appeared to give the widow particular notice, but a few admiring glances were cast her companion’s way. The beautiful Frenchwoman ignored them.
Amber and Jenette climbed the marble stairs to one of two balconies at opposite sides of the long, rectangular room, which had been refurbished for the peers. Painted a deep red, the chamber was supposed to exude gravitas. In fact, the intense color only made the space seem smaller. The press of people on the upper level contrasted with scant attendance on the floor.
“It would seem that the peerage has far less interest in the exploitation of children than do the citizens whom they supposedly serve,” she murmured disdainfully to Jenette.
“I wager the Cits are more concerned with protecting their cheap labor supply than in seeing that Parliament cuts it off.” Jenette’s whisper was filled with the world-weary tolerance of one born of the Ancient Regime.
“A new day is dawning in England,” Amber replied. “And I wager we shall see the reformers triumph.”
Brass chandeliers dripped hot wax, adding more heat in the unventilated room. As she took a seat on a wooden bench in the second row, Amber resisted the urge to employ her fan. No, she dared not do anything to call attention to herself. He will not recognize you, you paper skull! She scanned the floor, looking for Barrington.
Jenette’s jaundiced eye swept across the assembly casually, but she was, as always, on guard for any threat to her friend. “Mai oui, that must be your earl,” she whispered to Amber. “There could be no other with the beauty of an archangel.”
Amber followed Jenette’s eyes to Robert St. John as he strode down the aisle. He looked even more handsome in harsh daylight than he had the night they met. Her breath caught, hitched faintly, and she tightened her grip on the fan at her wrist.
“You have perhaps met this one before?” Jenette’s tone was dulcet.
Amber was saved from framing a reply when the opening of the debate began with a loud and bombastic speech from a Tory peer who heaped vitriol upon the Honorable Mr. Peel of Commons for the audacity of proposing the Parliament interfere in matters of labor, industry, and the natural order of Society.
“Fustian, I believe is what you English call it,” Jenette whispered behind her fan.
As Amber nodded, there was a slight commotion at the gallery entrance. A lady, perhaps in her late twenties, took a seat in the front row directly below them. She was accompanied by an elderly gentleman. The silver blonde wore a halfmourning gown of lavender silk that complemented her delicate complexion. A widow and her father, Amber guessed, turning her attention back to the floor. The speaker had completed his remarks and took his seat.
“The House recognizes the Right Honorable Earl of Barrington,” the leader said as Rob rose and walked to the center of the floor. Amber followed every step he took, straining to hear when he began to speak in a low voice.
“My lords, you have just heard an attack, not merely on a man, but on an idea—the idea that protecting English children from vicious enslavement is absurd and unnatural. Please allow me to describe what is truly unnatural, indeed unholy and utterly evil.” As he spoke, his voice gradually rose in power and intensity. “Little boys as young as five years of age are sent down into the black bowels of the earth to mine coal. They swing heavy picks and other implements that ill fit the hand of a child. They toil before sunrise. They toil until the sun, at least, receives its well-deserved rest in the heavens. But these boys never see the sun, nor do they share its rest.
“Little girls as well as boys of the same tender age live out their brief lives in huge, filthy mill houses tending dangerous machinery, often sixteen hours a day until they faint with exhaustion and hunger. I have seen on the streets of London the results of this vicious practice—five-year-old beggar children missing hands, arms, feet, legs—appendages that were ripped from their tender bodies by mechanical looms. Those even less fortunate, although that may be a point of debate, die when sheer fatigue causes them to fall into the machinery, where they are ground alive. Ground like sausage!
“Who among you has not employed a sweepster to bring his climbing boys to clean out the many chimneys in your homes? Do you know that these small children are sold by their starving parents? As surely as Africans are slaves in America, these children are slaves right here in England! Their English owners prod them into the soot-stained confines of chimneys, employing lighted torches to the soles of small, bare feet.”
By this time, there were visible shudders of revulsion, grimaces of disgust, and, pointedly, sniffs of disdain from various of the listeners. Amber leaned forward, enthralled by the passion of his message and the power of his voice. Its richness melodically filled the chamber, mesmerizing even those who were angered that he would describe such cruelties so vividly.
Jenette noticed the beauteous widow seated in front of them. Although it was against the rules, she appeared to be making notes on a small tablet she had taken from her reticule. “An admirer such as yourself?” she whispered to Amber.
Amber blinked and forced herself to look down at the woman who was closer to her than to Jenette. When she read the contents on the page, her lips curled with contempt. “I think not,” she hissed through gritted teeth, returning her attention to the floor where the earl was closing his remarks. As soon as he had finished, the blonde woman and her companion rose and made their way from the gallery.
“You are angry—oh, I do not mean only with the horrid evils your earl so stirringly decried—but with the woman. Why?” Jenette asked
Amber’s eyes remained fixed on Robert St. John when she replied, “The vacuous creature was composing menus. And please reframe from calling him my earl.”
Jenette studied her for a moment, then said, “I wonder, eh?”
Amber’s head snapped around. “I believe it is time to depart. All we will hear in rebuttal is indeed fustian.”
They followed the old man and younger woman down the stairs. As they waited their turn while a line of carriages pulled up, Amber and Jenette discussed the earl’s speech. “Well, he spoke with force and clarity,” Amber said.
“Oui, certainement, I could not agree more. The man is magnifique!”
Overhearing Jenette’s remarks, the blonde’s escort murmured loud enough for them to hear, “Demned Frenchies everywhere. We delivered them from the tyrant. Why do they not go home?”
The blonde made a shushing sound. “Father, please,” she said, pulling him toward a carriage whose footman was opening the door.
“How insufferably rude,” Amber said, loud enough for the old curmudgeon to hear.
Jenette only laughed, patting Amber’s arm. “Alors, if only I had a home to which I might return, perhaps I would oblige the English gentleman.”
Amber could see the wistful sadness in her friend’s eyes that gave the lie to the fanciful rejoinder. “What would I do if you left me, Jeni?”
“You could return to France with me, ma coeur. Your French is every bit as excellent as your English.” Just then their carriage arrived. As Boxer assisted them inside, Jenette said, “I would be spared such fools as that Englishman if only I could erase my wretched accent.”
“Never say it,” Amber remonstrated. “Men find your voice lilting, enchanting.”
“Ah, yes, the perfect lover of every English gentleman’s imagination, a French aristo,” Jenette replied dryly.
Amber felt a tremor sweep over her. Could it work? Dare she try? When they reached their residence, Amber escaped Jenette’s shrewd gaze and locked herself in her chambers. She paced for several hours, hearing his voice, seeing the brutal images his words evoked, the righteous anger he truly felt. He was as beautiful and as wrathful as an archangel. And noble to the core of
his heart.
She sucked in a breath. Could a French noblewoman be his fantasy lover?
Chapter Three
On the stroke of midnight, Rob entered the House of Dreams by the rear door for the second time. As arranged, he walked down the deserted hallway to Lady Fantasia’s quarters. The door was ajar. He tapped discreetly and she answered. “Please come in and have a seat.”
As at their first meeting, she sat in shadows. He fought the urge to walk over to her and take a good look at her face. Did it match her clipped, cultured voice? Some instinct honed on the battlefield made him resist. This was no woman to anger.
Amber could sense the tension in his body. He was wound as tightly as a spring on a timepiece. So was she, but she had spent many trying years learning to conceal it. I am in control here. This is a secure place where I belong. But once she was in bed with him…She pushed the frightening thought aside and took a calming breath, knowing her lines as well as the best-trained actor at Drury Lane.
“After some consideration, I have selected a young woman who will suit your needs perfectly,” she began.
Rob felt his fingers tighten around the wooden chair arm. “Then tell me where I am to meet her and—”
“Do not rush your fences, m’lord. ′Tis the downfall of most men.” She could see his face flush as he forced himself to settle back in the chair. “You must know a few things about Gabrielle. She is a French émigrée, forced from her home by the tyrant. All of her family are dead, her birthright gone. She was…ill treated before her escape and has little reason to trust men. She is not a courtesan. I have explained your requirements and Gaby is agreeable. She will be as grateful for the darkness as will you.”
Rob muttered an oath of outrage. “A woman who was abused—and you want me to…to…” He stammered to a halt.
“Precisely. She has known cruelty, but you will show her kindness. Every woman knows what pleases her…if only a man is willing to go slowly and take instruction regarding what she wants. You are blessed with one who is willing to tell you what she wants.”
He turned the idea over in his mind. Perhaps this was a stroke of genius. His throat constricted as he asked, “This would be her fantasy, then?”
Amber nodded, not trusting her own voice for a moment. What he said was far too close to the truth for comfort. Gathering her thoughts, she continued. “You may rest assured that a young woman such as Gabrielle will not feign pleasure. She would not have any idea how to do so…but culmination may take…several visits. Do you agree to these conditions?”
It was Rob’s turn to nod, speechless.
“Gabrielle may be nervous. Stroke her, kiss her, above all, ask her what does and does not please her as you proceed.”
Swallowing for courage, Rob answered, “Yes, yes, I can do that.” I will do that. “Perhaps it is not so very different from getting a skittish mount to trust one.”
Amber felt an unexpected tinge of humor and released a husky chuckle. “Were you perchance in the cavalry, m’lord?” she asked, already knowing the answer from her Bow Street Runner’s report.
“Two years on the Peninsula,” he replied. “I have been told I have a way with animals. If only it could be transferred to women!” he blurted out, then felt his face flame and cursed silently.
“Perhaps women and mares do have a bit in common, but do not be disappointed if Gabrielle fails to whinny for you.”
Under other circumstances, Rob would have appreciated her glib retort. But the situation was far too painful. “If she tells me what to do, I will do it,” he gritted out.
“I apologize, m’lord. It was wicked of me to tease. Now then, I have told Gabrielle only that you are one of France’s liberators, a major in the British army. That fact alone has given her the highest regard for you.”
He had, in fact, been a captain, but it did not signify. All he wished to do now was begin this insane venture. Perhaps it would work…perhaps it would fail. He had to take the risk. His whole future hung in the balance.
Sensing his unease, Amber made a dismissing gesture with her hand as she said, “Gabrielle will come to you within the hour by a private entrance. This will allow you to gather your thoughts as you disrobe,” she added quickly lest he protest the delay. She required time to bathe with a fresh lilac scent so that he could never recognize her by the attar of roses that she normally wore. “Go to the last door on the right at the end of the hall. It has but one candle that you are to douse after you remove your clothing. I trust you do not require the services of a batman to do so?”
Rob almost overturned the chair in his haste to rise. “I am quite capable of disrobing.” She made no mention of a nightshirt. He was too embarrassed to inquire. If a robe was there, he would don it. If not…He sighed and turned to meet his fate.
As soon as he was gone, Amber stood. Her legs were so weak they almost gave way. She gripped the pier table behind her for support and took a deep breath, then walked unsteadily to her changing room. Bonnie quickly removed her gown and undergarments, then stood by as her mistress sank into the scented bathwater. She had worn no perfume that day, so her hair did not require washing. That might have raised some awkward questions.
When she stepped from the bath, Bonnie floated a sheer silk night rail over her head. The few pins holding her heavy mass of hair slipped out easily. Amber shook it free, feeling the weight tickle her back before Bonnie held up a robe. As she slipped it on, she thought of her parting remark to the earl. The irony of having a dresser while he had none was rich, but she found no humor in it.
With Bonnie leading the way to make certain the hallways were clear, Amber followed a circuitous route to the opposite side of the house, then dismissed the maid with a smile of thanks. She stood inside a small retiring room before the assignation chamber’s hidden door. The light beneath it went dark. She heard the rustle of covers and thought of Robert St. John, lying naked on the large bed. The image would not quite come into focus, but her mind held a shadowy vision of that long, lean body stretched across the mattress.
It will be dark. He cannot see. He is here only to please you.
No amount of rationalizing was going to make this any easier. Amber reached for the knob, turning it to meet her fate.
Rob heard the door and tensed as it opened. He caught the faintest outline of a slender feminine shape in the very dim light behind her. Then utter blackness once more enveloped the room. He cleared his throat and whispered, “Gabrielle?”
“Oui, mon commandant,” she replied in soft, melodic French, judging by the sound of his voice that he sat on the left side of the bed. Feeling her way, she drew nearer. He was so close she could feel his body heat, hear the sound of his breathing. She slowly stretched out her hand. It touched the hard muscles of his shoulder. “I will sit on the bed with you, please?” she asked.
Her voice was soft, thickly accented yet delicate. Somehow it put him slightly at ease. “Yes, of course,” he replied, feeling the mattress shift ever so slightly as she sat beside him. After waiting for what seemed a long, awkward moment, he asked, “What do you want me to do?”
“I…I am not certain. First, perhaps we talk a little, oui?”
The faint essence of lilacs teased his nostrils. “What do you wish to talk about?” he asked in a strangled voice.
“I thank you for allowing the darkness. You do not mind?” she asked.
“Not at all. In fact…I—I requested it,” he admitted.
“Then you understand a lady’s…” She appeared to grope for the right word, then said, “How a lady would feel.”
The awkwardness grew. “I will try my best to understand.”
“Then…then we begin. May I touch your face—to read it like the Braille writing?”
“You can read Braille?” he asked.
“Not truly…but I can imagine how it might be.”
“You must have sensitive fingertips,” he said with a smile, feeling the awkwardness fading. “Yes, please, touch my fa
ce.”
Following the sound of his voice, she placed her fingertips on his cheek, caressing it until she heard his breath catch. She moved up to those wickedly arched eyebrows, then to his eyelids, following the narrow blade of his patrician nose. Using both hands, she dug her fingers into the thick curly hair of his head. When she traced the bold line of his jaw and touched his mouth, she felt a smile curve his lips.
“What do you read?” The question seemed to ask itself.
“You are very handsome, mon commandant, and good of spirit.” Her voice sounded as breathless as his.
“You have lovely soft hands. May I touch your face now?”
“Oui. I would like that, I think.”
His hand was large and warm, the fingers careful as they glided across the satin of her skin. Her nose was slim and delicate, her eyes thickly lashed, her chin pointed a bit. He tried to imagine what she must look like. A beauty, certainly. Then he felt a tiny ridge across her left cheekbone, about a half inch long, so small he almost missed it. A scar? The thought of someone harming this lovely creature infuriated him.
The instant he touched the scar, she felt him pause, then tense. “Does my imperfection displease you?” she asked hesitantly.
His fingertip caressed it delicately. “No, but the one who did this, I would like to kill.” When she stiffened, he quickly said, “I apologize. I did not intend to bring back painful memories. Will you forgive me, Gabrielle?”
She took a deep breath and pushed back the ugliness. It is past. Over. This is now, she reminded herself. “There is nothing to forgive. Only let us forget all else for this night. It belongs only to us, oui?”
“To us. No one else,” he echoed, waiting. He could feel his erection, so quickly growing rock hard, something that had not happened since…No, he pushed back his own painful memories. “Gabrielle will not feign pleasure. But culmination may take several visits.” He wondered if he could endure several moments, much less visits. Yes, he could. He would. He must. Then her soft voice broke into his jumbled thoughts.