He’d wager it was better than hers because she had no clue he had asked if her brickwork was ancient. ‘I try—but I am little more than a novice.’ Penhurst didn’t appear to notice what was wrong with the exchange either, which was interesting. Clearly he had even less French than Madame Monique. Whoever he worked with higher up in the Boss’s extensive organisation, that person was most likely as British as this harlot.
‘Fortunately, all my girls speak reasonable English, monsieur, but they are all fluent in the language of love... If you have enough coin, of course.’ She winked saucily, then eyed his fat purse greedily when he held it aloft and shook it for effect. Any theories he might have harboured about this brothel being an intrinsic and vital link in the smuggling chain quickly evaporated at her enthusiasm for a few pathetic shillings and he bitterly regretted accepting the viscount’s sordid invitation.
‘Come, my lord. Let me introduce you to my girls.’ The madam coiled her arm around his waist, allowing her fingers to stray down his backside. She smelled of too much perfume. Her dress hardly covered the large breasts fighting to escape her bodice. ‘What do you prefer? Blondes? Brunettes? Perhaps a redhead?’
The only redhead in the room was eyeing him openly, suggestively licking her red lips as she thrust out her bountiful chest. Penhurst hadn’t lied about the girls being buxom and willing. A scan of them all draped over furniture or stood preening in front of him so scantily clad filled him with utter dread. Perhaps one of these girls was the mysterious Jessamine?
His head turned towards the sound of a giggle behind him just in time to see Gaines tug one of the girls onto his lap. The woman was already in the process of wriggling out of her bodice so that the weasel’s bony hands could grope her charms openly. In the corner, another girl had her hand down Regis’s breeches—neither apparently had any shame about such a public display. Seb was doomed if he was expected to perform in public. Not that he had any intention of performing at all if he could help it. He’d been in a few brothels in his time, it came with the territory, but he had always been a spectator up until now.
He turned back to the redhead, only just managing to hold in the gasp of surprise at seeing the wench now completely naked to the waist, and pasted on Millcroft’s bored mask as he pretended to survey the goods on sale one more time while he decided. It was then he saw her. Beneath the heavily painted face and revealing, gaudy gown was a girl whose come-hither smile was as false as Millcroft’s mask. She was young. Far too young for a place like this. Seb estimated she was barely sixteen—if that. Her eyes were terrified. He sympathised entirely. ‘I’ll take her.’
Madame Monique snapped her fingers. ‘Claudette! Lord Millcroft would like to talk to you.’
The frightened child appeared about to bolt at any moment, yet still managed to undulate towards him with one pale hand resting on her generous hip. Under the rouge she was as white as a sheet. Without saying anything, he took her hand and gently led her to the furthest seat in the room, then, like the vile Gaines, tugged her to perch on his lap because his host was watching him intently. She was as stiff as a board.
‘I knew you wouldn’t hang about, Millcroft.’ Penhurst had draped one arm possessively around the madam. He saluted Seb as the harlot dragged him to the sofa. Neither wasted much time with the preliminaries. Like his minions Regis and Gaines, the viscount was very at home here in this brothel—and very comfortable getting down to business with an audience. It was all so sordid.
Seb let the minutes tick by until the sight of the bucking twin bare arses of Penhurst and Gaines made him feel bilious. There was spectating and then there was voyeurism, and while he was watching them, they were probably watching him.
‘Tell me, Claudette, is there somewhere we can be alone?’
‘I have a room, sir.’ There was more Geordie in her accent than Gallic. ‘Shall I take you to it?’
‘Yes. A splendid idea. I don’t suppose you have any brandy?’ It was going to be a very long night.
* * *
Clarissa had been doing some thinking, a great deal of thinking as she prowled around her bedchamber reliving the evening, and had come to two conclusions. One, there could be no doubt about Penhurst’s treachery. And two, she was rapidly going off the Duke of Westbridge. The latter might well have something to do with the third conclusion she was wrestling with, which currently lent towards a growing belief that she had a bit of a thing for Seb. Outlining exactly what that thing was was less tangible because it kept shifting and changing hourly and like a coward she didn’t want to think about it properly.
When her cluttered mind did wander down that path, which it did with alarming frequency, Clarissa stubbornly dragged it back. Lust, worry, respect, excitement, ease, admiration, kinship and affection were all fitting definitions for what she felt. A great many words. Words that altogether hinted at something entirely different and altogether scary, because that word was one she had never anticipated feeling for any man—including Westbridge.
Her future plans had always revolved around marrying well and then hiding behind the battlements of her title. It was the one thing she could excel at, after all, and a good marriage would give her the social standing which commanded respect and shielded her from being discovered as nothing more than a pretty face. It was a pragmatic solution.
Only now, that calculated and impersonal sort of society marriage had lost some of its appeal and she blamed Seb for that. All his talk of his besotted, happy grandparents combined with the odd thoughts she was having about him were making Clarissa question her plan. The idea of years and years of marriage to a man who largely talked about himself was nowhere near as alluring as years and years with a man who made her body yearn, who made her smile and feel special and spoke to her like an equal. Whilst the idea of inevitable wrinkles should be terrifying, when all she had was her face, the suggestion that those wrinkles would be carved by happiness and laughter was hugely appealing. There wouldn’t be much laughter with Westbridge. But with Seb...
The tap on the door made her jump. He was here. Finally. She tightened the sash on her robe, rearranged her thick bedtime plait to hang over one shoulder and then arranged herself into an attractive seated pose on the mattress. ‘Come in.’
The door opened and a grinning stranger filled the frame. He bowed as her mouth hung slack. ‘Lord Graham Chadwick of the King’s Elite at your service, my lady. My friends call me Gray. I am Leatham’s replacement for the evening.’
‘R-replacement?’ Her voice sounded squeaky. Disappointed. So she stood up and tried to appear in control. This man could be lying. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’
Gray shrugged and deposited a large coil of rope on the floor. He was dressed from head to foot in black. ‘ʼTis I who gets the pleasure of climbing out of your window tonight to watch for smugglers as Seb is otherwise engaged.’ Blue eyes twinkled out of a face which appeared to be smeared in boot black.
‘Where?’
Another shrug. ‘He left in the carriage with Penhurst and his cronies about twenty minutes ago.’
‘But where have they gone?’
‘To that place you overheard the viscount talking about, my lady. The gentleman in me cannot bring myself to say its name in front of a lady.’
To that den of iniquity she’d heard them talking about? Surely not. Not Seb. Her shy and attractive spy. He wouldn’t...would he? Gray saw her outrage and positively beamed.
‘Penhurst invited him and Seb couldn’t say no, now could he? Duty and all that. Lucky devil. Meanwhile I get to spend the night sat on a cliff while he gets to...do his best for King and country.’ He chuckled and winked. ‘This is a difficult job sometimes.’
The pang of jealousy pierced through her outrage and it took all her strength to appear nonplussed as the man she hadn’t been sitting up waiting for—the man she hadn’t brushed her hair one hundred times for so that it s
himmered in the candlelight or wore her best silk nightgown for—secured the rope to a sturdy piece of furniture and quietly lowered it out of the window.
Seb was in a brothel.
That place where the girls were buxom and could ‘play the flute’—although she wasn’t altogether sure what that particular analogy meant—whatever Celeste did with her ‘talented mouth’ she could be doing it to him! With his talented mouth...
‘Are you all right, my lady?’
‘Yes, of course. Perfectly fine. Splendid, in fact. What time is Mr Leatham expected back?’
‘Who knows. Dawn? Lunchtime? Such things can take time.’ Gray appeared to be vastly amused. ‘I wouldn’t wait up. For either him or me. Just leave this window open a crack and I’ll sneak in. No doubt considerably earlier than that lucky Lord Millcroft.’ He chuckled again as he threw his legs over the ledge, then disappeared over the side.
* * *
Seb did not appear at breakfast. Nor did he take morning tea with everyone in the garden when both Lord Regis and Lord Gaines managed to arrive. Granted, they looked the worse for wear, but at least they managed to make an appearance, which left Clarissa stewing in her own juices and conjuring all sorts of ghastly images in her head.
Was Seb so exhausted by his night that he was still abed? Or worse, was he still there engaging in a whole host of sordid pleasures of the flesh with Penhurst? Were they sharing the same woman? How did two men share the same woman? Exactly how many ladies had Seb been with? Clarissa was incensed and appalled at the thoughts which refused to go away no matter how hard she tried to ignore them.
And it wasn’t as if she had anyone she could ask. Gray must have stealthily clambered back in during the single solitary hour she had managed to get some sleep after his dreadful revelation and she hadn’t seen him since. Penhurst and his cronies couldn’t know that she knew where they had all been and she could hardly ask poor Penny. Excuse me—but what time did your husband and my spy roll in from their night of debauchery?
To make matters worse, Westbridge wouldn’t leave her alone and had been following her around all morning, which meant by default the limpet Olivia had also been following her around, as well.
Good Lord, the man droned on.
If she had to listen to one more rendition of how the Regent admired his stupid art collection, she would scream. Another thing she was furious at Seb for. Before he crashed into her life and turned it on its head, Clarissa had been perfectly content in Westbridge’s company. Had been grateful for it because it singled her out as special and she had hoped it would lead to a permanent arrangement. But now that she had been introduced to the intrigue and excitement of Seb’s world, had been more than a pretty face and had learned what passion felt like, the Duke and his privileged but bland existence seemed insipid. It was difficult to be enthusiastic about objets d’art when you were assisting your King and country on a higher purpose. This must be how her sister Bella felt about practising medicine. Feeling useful and needed was intoxicating. Just as Seb was. Dratted man!
‘Is everything all right, Clarissa?’ Penny’s concerned whisper tempered her fury with guilt. How could she selfishly continue to indulge her roiling jealousy when her friend’s life was about to be ruined?
‘Not really. If you want to know the honest truth, I’m worried about you.’
‘Me? Whatever for?’
‘You seem unhappy, Penny. With Penhurst.’ They had never talked about the state of Penny’s marriage. It had always seemed too personal and intrusive to do so. Yet maybe Clarissa was being neglectful by not asking. Her friend stared into her teacup with such an expression of despair, it made Clarissa feel dreadful for not asking beforehand. ‘I hate to see how he neglects you.’
‘It is the way of things in a marriage.’
Not according to Seb. Or the happy union between Clarissa’s parents or that of her sister and her brilliant physician. ‘It doesn’t have to be.’
‘I fear it does for me. The neglect is not so bad. He lives his life and I live mine.’
What did that mean? ‘And when he doesn’t neglect you?’
‘Then I wish I had listened to you all those years ago. You had his measure while my head was turned. But I have made my bed and now I try to make the best of it. These parties help. I get to be with you while he amuses himself with whatever mistress has currently taken his fancy.’ At Clarissa’s shocked expression, Penny offered her a wry smile. It was achingly sad. ‘You don’t have to pretend, Clarissa. I realised the sort of man I’d married after I said my vows. He is quite open about his infidelities, especially now that he has his heir, and I find myself selfishly relieved that he goes elsewhere for his pleasures. It is nice to be able to go to bed and not worry if he will honour me with a visit.’ Embarrassed at her own candour, Penny sipped her tea and forced a cheerful smile. ‘But don’t worry about that side of things. Not all men are like Penhurst and I am told that the marriage bed can be quite tolerable with the right sort of husband. Talking of which, Westbridge is taking more notice of you since Lord Millcroft showed up. He has asked me specifically to place you next to him at dinner again. You. Not Lady Olivia. You are making progress on that score. Why, he has been talking to you exclusively for over an hour.’ Penny obviously wanted to change the subject.
‘Tell me—if by some bizarre turn of fate the opportunity arose for you to escape Penhurst, would you take it?’
‘I would grab it with both hands.’ Penny’s fierceness and lack of hesitation alleviated some of Clarissa’s guilt. ‘But alas, short of a miracle I fear I am trapped to spend eternity with him.’
‘Miracles can happen.’
‘Not to me.’ The forced cheerful smile was tragic. ‘But perhaps to you. I think you will enjoy being the Duchess of Westbridge. Now be a good friend and cheer me up. Tell me all about you and the Duke.’
Like a coward, Clarissa humoured her friend while she kept an eagle eye out for Seb. When Penhurst shuffled across the lawn looking like a man who had been engaged in vigorous and drunken physical activity all night, and there was still no sign of Seb, Clarissa happily let her anger fester as their hosts chivvied everyone towards the stables to collect the mounts for today’s planned ride. She was halfway to the destination when she sensed him, and briefly turned her head to confirm it, only to see him striding across the lawn looking handsome and purposeful. Invigorated by his exercise.
It must have been quite the night indeed!
Clarissa picked up her pace, deciding to ignore him from now until the end of time. How did Penny sound so resigned about Penhurst’s infidelities when she was eaten away with bitter jealousy for Seb’s? Not that he had been unfaithful in the strictest sense, because they were not a couple and nor would they ever be, but... Good gracious! There were no buts. How could he? It was galling. Infuriating. Humiliating. Beyond the pale...
‘Good morning.’
Would spitting in his eye be inappropriate? ‘Good afternoon.’
‘What have I missed?’
‘Breakfast and luncheon.’ Clarissa stared straight ahead and hurried her pace. They had nothing to say. Nothing.
‘I know. I’m starving. And tired. I’ve only managed to snatch an hour of sleep.’ What did he want? Sympathy? Unbelievable. ‘But I had an interesting night.’
Insufferable! ‘So I gather.’
‘Would you mind slowing down? I have things to tell you.’
‘And yet I have no desire to hear them. In fact, I have no desire to be within ten miles of you so would you kindly go away!’
‘Gem?’ He touched her arm and she snatched it back. Lord only knew where those hands had been. Clarissa wanted to cry. The tears were already there, ready to fall.
‘I said leave me alone.’ Westbridge had stopped pacing ahead to look at them, so for good measure she waved and quickened her step to meet him, leaving her philandering s
py behind. Which was exactly where he and all his exciting and intriguing machinations needed to be in all aspects of her life. Clarissa had allowed her head to be turned before and had learned through bitter experience that daring to dream for more than she deserved was always a mistake.
Chapter Sixteen
‘Do you want to tell me what the blazes is going on?’
After an hour of trailing after her and watching her alternate between simpering up at the windbag and scowling at Seb as if he were the Devil incarnate, enough was enough. Fortunately, Gem was an atrocious rider and Lady Olivia had finally enticed said windbag to gallop ahead with her to admire the sea view. Clarissa had tried to go after them and made such a hash of it she began to list in her sidesaddle and had to slow down to adjust her seat. Something she was failing at spectacularly.
‘Let go of my reins!’ She was glaring down her nose at him. The silly little hat which matched her impractical and too-tight blue-velvet riding habit was hanging precariously just above her ear. How typical of her to choose her outfit based solely on aesthetics. It was obvious her corset was laced too tight to allow her to squeeze into the garment. A garment doubtless designed to catch her fickle Duke’s eye. Perhaps that fool hadn’t noticed how magnificently she filled it. Unfortunately, Seb’s entire body had noticed. Even half-hanging from a horse and furious she was a sight for sore eyes.
‘I need to speak to you.’ And he was damned if he was going to chase her again. Watching that delectable bottom bounce in her saddle was killing him. Clenching the leather tightly in one fist, he nudged his own horse towards a small cluster of trees. They weren’t much, but at least they would afford them some privacy from the rest of the group who were still none the wiser the pair of them were no longer following.
Seb still refused to release the reins as he dismounted. Leading her horse towards some low branches and securing them tightly, he held out his arms to help her down to the ground. She ignored them, folded hers across her pert chest and turned her head away like a petulant child. ‘I am perfectly capable of getting down myself!’
The Mysterious Lord Millcroft Page 16