by The Bargain
* * * * *
Early the following morning the duke was once again seated behind his desk in the library. It had always been his chosen spot for conducting business, but lately it was the only place from which he would expedite matters of importance with others. He was acutely aware of his ever-increasing physical frailty, and he was grateful for the vantage point he felt the impressive piece of massive furniture afforded him.
Across from him, seated in the Chippendale armchair Brett had occupied yesterday, sat a distinguished-looking man of about fifty. Robert Adams had been his personal solicitor for over twenty years, having followed his father, Raymond, in that position when the older Adams died in a fall from his horse in 1792. He regarded Robert as a bit of an aging dandy, his attire always bearing the unquestionable stamp of the influence of Beau Brummell in every aspect, but this in no way affected the duke's regard for the man's competence. Over the years he had come to rely on Robert Adams in a great many matters, some of them highly personal, and the man's professional diligence as well as his trustworthiness in matters requiring the utmost discretion had long ago earned the duke's respect. Not the least of such matters had been the business of assigning him to be his eyes and ears where the progress of his grandson was concerned, and it was in this regard he'd decided to call upon his services this morning.
"So you see, Robert, it is important to me that the boy be persuaded to marry—the sooner the better," said the duke. "Yet, for the reasons I've just suggested to you, it would appear that Brett's attitude is the only real obstacle to such an event."
Adams took a moment to respond, pensively gazing at the carved ivory head of his fashionable walking stick as he mulled over the duke's words. Finally he raised a pair of intelligent gray eyes to his old friend and client. "Your Grace, allow me to see if I understand you clearly. You feel young Brett may have so taken to heart your enjoinders to eschew the company of women, that he has, er, abstained totally from association with—with the opposite sex, and therefore perhaps even fears involvement with them—albeit even for the respectable and necessary pursuit of wedlock?"
"That is my fear precisely," replied the duke. "Oh, I know it sounds preposterous at first consideration, Robert, but, believe me, if you had seen and heard his reactions to my suggestion that he take a wife... well, sir, it would, perhaps, have begun not to sound so farfetched after all."
"I see," said Adams, again with a greatly pensive air about him. "Very well, Your Grace, then what is it you have in mind that might require my services?"
"Your discreet services, as ever, Robert."
"As ever, Your Grace," Adams nodded, smiling.
A conspiratorial look entered the old man's eyes as he leaned forward over his desktop. "A very simple thing, really," he said, his voice dropping to a lower pitch. "I want you to inquire about and locate a high-quality house of—ah—illicit pleasures—"
At Adams's raised eyebrows, the duke continued with even greater emphasis. "That is correct. You heard me right, Robert. Locate a brothel—but only one of the finest sort. We both know they exist, even down here, away from London, but travel as far as you require. Your sources should provide you with the proper information soon enough."
Adams nodded, awaiting more.
"Once contacted, inquire after the hire of a professional there who is young and guaranteeably free from disease. In short, Robert, you are to hire me a clean whore."
Adams looked slightly uncomfortable. "Hire you, Your Grace...?"
"Dammit, man, I mean for my grandson!" exploded the duke. "It's clear to me now the boy lacks experience! I intend to rectify that, through the use of the woman you will procure, and through doing so, demolish the only barrier to seeing my grandson wed and on his way to producing heirs! Now have I made myself clear?" In his excitement, the duke had become flushed in the face, and by the time he had finished, he'd nearly collapsed over his desk in a fit of helpless coughing.
Alarmed by what he easily recognized as the old man's failing state, Adams rose and worriedly peered over the duke's bent form. "Your Grace, you must not tax yourself so! May I fetch someone? Are—are you all right?"
With some effort, the duke pushed himself to an upright position and waved him off. "I'm fine, Robert, or I shall be, just as soon as this business is taken care of. Now, man, do I have your promise to do my bidding?"
Still shaken by the evidence of greatly increased infirmity he'd just witnessed, and unwilling to excite him further, Adams nodded anxiously. "At once, Your Grace. You may depend on it."
* * * * *
Minutes later, as Adams sat in the hired carriage that had taken him to Ravensford Hall, he was deep in thought. What a muddle! If he hadn't been before, he was now deeply convinced that his old friend and client was on his way out. It was the only reason he could ascribe to the duke's succumbing to this preposterous notion of his; not only was he physically failing, his mind must be weakening as well.... Brett Westmont a virgin? Suddenly Adams began to laugh, the source of the laughter so outrageous it soon reduced him to helpless tears and prompted his driver to halt the carriage and inquire within as to whether anything was amiss.
"Oh, no, no, thank you, my good fellow," answered Adams between still only half-controlled outbursts of merriment. He gestured to the driver's seat, visible through a small window inside the passenger compartment. "You may proceed."
When they were once again under way, Adams sobered enough to consider his predicament. Over the years it had been his job to keep an eye on young Brett's activities and periodically report to the duke on his findings. He had never actually considered it spying, although he knew some would call it that. Rather, he'd regarded it as a gladly assumed duty to put at ease the concerns of an old friend, not to mention the foremost client of his firm. And since almost all of his reports had been positively and for the most part truthfully glowing, it had been a duty that was easily borne by him. Of course there was one area in which he'd not been truthful with his client, but as it had been what he'd always regarded as such a minor one, his bending of the facts in that regard had never really troubled his conscience a whit.
Face it, Robert, he now told himself, in seeking to spare the old man's doting heart, you were too cowardly to tell him that, in addition to being every inch the golden boy his grandfather dreamed of raising, Brett Westmont has become one of the worst rakes in England—at least where women are concerned!
Adams sat farther back into his upholstered carriage seat and pondered the facts. Brett Westmont had left a trail of broken hearts and pining females from one end of London to the other, and God knew how many other places besides. He was widely known in sophisticated circles as one who used women ruthlessly, attracting them immediately like flies to honey through his astounding good looks and outwardly charming manner, then dropping them just as quickly when his fancy strayed to another. All of London whispered about it. Why, he was becoming almost as notorious as Lord Byron, who was frequently seen in his company.
And the only reason his grandfather, the duke, had never found out about this one, less-than-savory, side of the young heir's nature, was because the duke of Ravensford lived like a virtual recluse, buried away in the family estate here in Kent— that, and Adams's prudent discretion and his decision that it would be harmless to spare the old man's feelings.
But now Adams wondered if it had been as harmless as he'd always imagined. What should he do? If he procured the woman—a simple enough task—and unblinkingly allowed the duke to offer her to Brett, the young man was likely to explode—with anger or amusement, he wasn't certain which— and give away the entire game he'd taken such pains to cover all these years. No, owing to the old man's poor state of health, that way could result in disaster. There was only one answer: sometime between now and the presentation of the woman, he would have to corner Lord Brett Westmont and confess all to him. Yes, that was it. The man had always impressed him as being possessed of more than a modicum of good sense and understanding, and
Adams now felt he could be relied upon to help protect his grandfather and keep up the game.
With a final sigh of satisfaction, Adams relaxed in the briskly moving carriage. Tomorrow he would travel to London. He knew just the place—what was it called?—Hampton House, that was it. Tomorrow he would make inquiries at Hampton House.
CHAPTER THREE
Monica Chatworth's almond-shaped eyes narrowed to chocolate slits of ill-concealed hatred as she observed Ashleigh through the half-open doorway of her chamber. The younger woman was down the hallway, bending over a narrow stand just outside Madame's suite, where she was preparing to lift an ornate silver tray that held the remains of Madame's breakfast and carry it down to the kitchen, a task she accomplished promptly every morning at eleven. From where she stood Monica missed neither the feminine, curved outline of Ashleigh's hips and derriere beneath the simple servant's frock she wore, nor the lilting melody of the tune the young woman hummed gaily to herself as she went about her work; and the observed combination rankled.
The increased shapeliness and other obvious charms of Ashleigh Sinclair were becoming a constant reminder to Monica that she herself was not getting any younger in a profession where youth and its accompanying beauty were everything, and that there would always be newer, younger flesh waiting in the wings to replace her when her own allure began to fade. The happy tune emanating from Ashleigh's lovely throat was even more disconcerting; word was out in the house that Madame had been prevailed upon to find the chit a "decent" position of employment elsewhere: Ashleigh was going free! It was surely this that was prompting the carefree and joyful demeanor, and why shouldn't it? Any day now Ashleigh would leave this place to become settled into some nice, safe situation where she would be spared the social ostracism and insecure future that had never sat well with Monica after she'd been forced to choose this way of life.
Oh, it wasn't that she'd been completely unhappy with her life at Hampton House. It was far better than anything she might have expected before Drake found her walking the streets, frightened and hungry, and deserted by a young lord. First he'd compromised her honor when she'd been a companion to his sister during the Christmas holiday season several years ago, then run off with her, promising marriage, but leaving her alone and penniless in their rented chamber in an inn not too far from here, never to return.
Monica shut her eyes and gave a toss of her blond mane of hair as if in an attempt to shake off the unpleasant memories of that time. She rarely allowed herself to think of the weeks she'd been forced to take to the streets to eke out a living before Drake found her, just as she kept at bay all thoughts of the home in which she'd grown up. Home! It had been a veritable prison! Her stern-faced father, the vicar, with his ever-present admonitions to her to deny herself any form of pleasure lest she "fall into the ways of sin," the tight-lipped mother she loathed, a holier-than-thou creature bent on keeping Monica from enjoying life in even the smallest ways... No, she certainly had no desire to go back to their way of life, even if it were possible.
But what wouldn't she give to have the chance that Ashleigh Sinclair now had! To be privately employed in the fine house of some wealthy lord, where who-only-knows what sorts of possibilities might lie in store for a woman who was enterprising and clever—it was a chance Monica longed for with every nerve and fiber of her being, and to see such an opportunity thrust haphazardly in the lap of that little bitch, Sinclair! Yes, it rankled....
Suddenly the door to Madame's chambers opened, just as Monica saw Ashleigh disappear down the servants' stairwell at the end of the hall, and Madame appeared, dressed in a superb apricot silk traveling dress and matching pelisse. Missing nothing, as usual, she spied Monica standing beside her partially ajar door and smiled knowingly.
"Prying about for useful information, Monica?" she purred in the blonde's direction. "I cannot think there is much you will come upon at this early hour. We both know most of the working women of this household are yet asleep, and so, I think, should you be, if you wish to retain your looks!"
Monica stifled the gasp that rose to her throat at the pointed mention of her need for beauty rest and assumed an air of nonchalance. "Just looking about to see if I might be of some service to anyone, Madame. I've had all the sleep I require today."
"Just so," nodded Madame in patently disbelieving fashion. "Yes, well, since you seem to wish to be of such... use, perhaps there is something you might do for me. I am leaving London to spend several days with old friends once I've done some shopping, and I fear I am rather in a hurry. Do be so kind as to run down to the kitchen with a message for Dorcas, would you?"
At Monica's nod she walked briskly toward the main stairway, continuing rapidly over her shoulder, "Tell her that letter we've been awaiting at last arrived by this morning's post and she will find it on my writing table in there." Madame gestured behind her as she reached the top of the stairs. "Tell her that when I return, I shall expect Ashleigh Sinclair to be gone." She paused and gave one last look at Monica over her shoulder. "That should make you quite happy, I daresay, should it not, Monica?" And with a low, throaty peal of satisfied laughter, Madame disappeared down the stairs.
Monica clenched her fists, attempting to control her rancor over Madame's amusement at her expense. Then she took a deep breath and was about to head for the kitchen to do Madame's bidding when an idea hit, its possibilities so overwhelming she held her breath for a moment to make certain she was sure of it and not just daydreaming some impossible foolishness.
Seconds passed. No, it was real enough, she realized as she heard the downstairs door close and knew that Madame was truly gone—and for several days!
Glancing stealthily over one shoulder and then the other as she stepped farther out into the hallway, she confirmed that she was alone and unobserved. She paused and listened for any approaching footsteps, but the only sounds she heard were those of the horses and wheels of the departing carriage that was taking Madame from London. A slow, sly smile stole across Monica's face as she headed for the doorway to her employer's chamber. She couldn't believe her luck!
Quickly Monica opened Madame's unlocked door, taking care that she made absolutely no noise. Then she stepped inside the antechamber and soundlessly closed the door behind her.
Moving rapidly, Monica headed for the delicate Louis XV escritoire that stood near the room's double windows at the far end. There she looked down and spied a pile of correspondence, some of it as yet unopened. Madame, she thought, must indeed have been in a hurry to leave her mail in such a state. Finally she spotted what she sought. It was a sheet of heavy white vellum that had been stood up on its edge against the back of the writing desk, propped there by a beautiful Clichy lily-of-the-valley paperweight.
Monica could barely contain her excitement as she perused its brief contents:
To Whom It May Concern:
This missive constitutes, to the young lady who bears it, a promise of employment in the household of his lordship, Baron Mumford, as governess to his youngest daughters, the Honorable Misses Mumford, Diana and Daphne. The terms of employment are as herein follows...
Monica's elation was complete. Not only did the letter speak for itself, it contained the name of no specific "young lady" anywhere in its body! In short, it was completely usable by whoever bore it! Suddenly she began to laugh, then quickly took care to stifle the sound. Here was the answer to all her worries! All she had to do was appropriate the letter for herself and no one would be the wiser—at least not for several days, and by then—she shrugged—if she were not able to parlay this venture into something both lucrative and stable for herself in a short time, then her name wasn't Monica Chatworth. She knew the baron well. He was an old fuddy-duddy she had "entertained" herself on numerous occasions, and she knew just what his preferences were, knew just what to do to make him putty in her slim white hands. Oh, but imagine his surprise when he found out who his daughters' new governess was!
Just then Monica's glance caught the u
nbroken seal bearing the arms of the duke of Ravensford, on a fold of ivory parchment atop the stack of Madame's unopened mail. The duke of Ravensford! Everyone knew of that distinguished lord's wealth and power! Monica's palms began to perspire as a new wave of anticipation hit her. What if there was something in this unopened missive that she could also put to her own use? Suddenly a wealth of possibilities began to unfold, crowding her avaricious, plotting brain.
But first she picked up the entire stack of unopened mail and hastily thumbed through its contents. No, not much else that looked promising. Again her eyes fell on the letter bearing the duke of Ravensford's seal. Should she chance it? If, when Madame returned, she recalled she hadn't yet opened the letter before she left, what of it? Monica would be long gone by then, whether by way of the good graces of old Baron Mumford or...
With fingers that shook with anticipatory eagerness, she took hold of the ducal letter, tore open the seal and read:
Madame:
As a supplement to my personal inquiry of last week on behalf of His Grace, The Duke of Ravensford, I would remind you that the manner of professional we seek from among your employees be, at all costs, in good health and young—under twenty, let us say. She is to remain with the duke's grandson at Ravensford Hall until she has instructed the young man in the ways of her expertise, to the best of her ability. If she performs her task well, both you and she will, under the terms stated last week, be many pounds the richer for it.