A Little More Discreet Madness: A Risqué Regency Romance

by Sahara Kelly

  “That I cannot claim, Mr Crawford,” she answered politely. “However I have spent many hours working with a variety of wools in my days as a seamstress. Those alongside me during that period were kind enough to educate me on such matters. Actually sewing with the stuff, Mr Crawford, can be as educational as any lecture on the varying kinds of sheep and the fabric they produce.”

  She turned her attention once more to Sir Gerald. “Which leads me to another suggestion, and this one for you, sir. Shift some of your investments into the wool market. I know it’s smaller and with less aggressive profits, but your son’s first deliveries of raw wool are going to change that, I believe.”

  “Really?” Piers couldn’t help the exclamation.

  Jessie glanced at him with a small smile. “Yes, sir. Really. Your flock is unique, and I predict that their wool will be spun into a yarn so fine and soft it will fly off the shelves as soon as the bolts arrive from the weavers.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” Piers muttered.

  Sir Gerald rose. “It seems we won’t need that month to make a decision as to Miss Nightingale’s effectiveness, son. I’m pleased with her progress thus far and it’s been less than a day.”

  Ever stubborn, Piers rose with chin raised. “I will concede that this discussion has been enlightening. But I still reserve judgement.” He looked down at Jessie, who had risen to her feet as the gentlemen stood. “You should see my flock, Miss Nightingale. And perhaps confirm your assessment. I’m not saying you’re wrong, but I’d like you to actually feel the fleece, and see if it will live up to your predictions.”

  “If the descriptions made by Mr Haskings are correct, sir, I’m sure it will. But I would enjoy the chance to see the animals, if you wouldn’t mind?”

  “I’d be pleased to show you.” He let a wry grin twist his lips. “You’ll need boots.”

  “Perhaps this should wait until tomorrow, Piers,” said his father. “You’ve forgotten we have guests visiting this evening.”

  “Damn.” He ran a hand through his hair. “My apologies, Miss Nightingale. I had indeed forgotten.”

  She shook her head. “Please don’t distress yourself. I am a little tired after everything that’s happened recently, and as you pointed out, I have no boots. If we could postpone our outdoor research until another day I would be grateful.”

  He nodded as they all turned to leave the room. “Very well. And allow me to compliment you on what I perceive to be a comprehensive grasp of matters I’d not expected you to understand.”

  “You are very kind,” she smiled. “Thank you.”

  “You will be well cared for, Miss Nightingale. I have asked Thompkins to stand as your maid, and young Ben will perform footman duties. It’s good training for both of them, and I believe they will meet your needs.”

  Jessie smiled her thanks. “You are also too kind, Sir Gerald. I am very grateful for your courteous attentions.” Dropping a curtsey to both men, she turned toward the corridor leading out of Crawford Hall. “Allow me to wish you both a good evening.”

  Piers watched her as she walked steadily past the hallway windows and out the door.

  “I think she’ll do,” said his father, veering away to the stairs. “Best get yourself cleaned up, son. Miss Fernside will be arriving before long.”

  “As will her mama, her aunt, and whatever that other gentleman is. Mr Botham, I think his name was.”

  “Ah, yes.”

  Piers sighed. “Don’t expect me to charm them, Father. And don’t expect me to pay overt attentions to Miss Fernside. She’s a nice enough girl, I’m sure. But she chatters. A lot.”

  “Most women do, you know.”

  “But not all.” Piers’ thoughts stayed with that swaying body he’d just watched leave the house. By God, Jessie had one fiercely brilliant mind, and she didn’t chatter. She also had one delectably beautiful bottom.

  *~~*~~*

  There was a touch of excitement in the air, decided Jessie as Thompkins laid out the small table for the evening meal.

  “I found another gown that will definitely fit you, Miss Jessie,” said the girl as she carefully placed china and silverware in front of the single chair. “It’s upstairs. And Cook has sent a lovely soup and some veal pie. She’s made a lot of them and some other things for tonight’s dinner party, so she hopes this is all right for you?”

  “Of course,” Jessie smiled and sipped her glass of sherry by the fire. The cottage might be small, but there was always a space where a bottle of sherry would be quite at home.

  “It sounds as if Crawford Hall is looking forward to the evening’s visitors. Tell me about them, if you would? I know nobody hereabouts and would like to at least place the names…”

  Nothing loth, Thompkins smiled as she folded napkins. “It’s the Fernsides, Miss, and their relative who lives with them. Mrs Fernside is a widow, and her daughter Arabella is of an age, you know…marriageable.”

  “Ah,” Jessie nodded wisely.

  “So she, her mama and her aunt like to visit here, since they live on t’other side of the village in a nice house, but nothing to compare to Crawford Hall of course.”

  Jessie hid her grin at the pride in the young girl’s voice. “Do you think they’re looking for a match with Mr Crawford?”

  Thompkins snorted. “Well, who wouldn’t, Miss?”

  “True.”

  “Lovely country house, handsome gentleman, good income ’tis said…what’s not to like?”

  “And Miss Fernside? Does she endorse this plan for her future?”

  “Dunno, Miss, to be honest. She’s a chatterer, for sure, but doesn’t seem to be attracted to Mr Piers, even though her mama seems to be throwing her at him.” She frowned. “Bit of a puzzle, that one.” She shook her head. “But that Mr Botham who comes with ‘em? Urgh.” Her mouth turned down. “He’s not a true gentleman, if you’ll pardon my saying so. We gotta watch ourselves around him.”

  Jessie’s eyebrows rose. “Mr Botham?”

  “Indeed yes, Miss, though I shouldn’t say so.” She leaned toward Jessie. “If you don’t want your bottom pinched, you have to make sure he isn’t anywhere near it.”

  “Oh.” She winced. “Urgh indeed. I’ve met that kind.” She nodded at Thompkins’ look of surprise. “And, yes, I’ve had my own bottom pinched a time or two.”

  It was Thompkins’ turn to look astonished. “You have?”

  Jessie nodded. “This position is a huge honour, Thompkins. But I’ve also been a governess, a maid, and a seamstress in my past.”

  “Goodness me, I’d never have thought it, Miss.” She blinked.

  “So I’m quite familiar with men whose behaviour gives the lie to the word gentleman.” She grinned conspiratorially. “And if you need to escape the squeezing fingers of this Botham person, you just come here immediately. Oh, and bring any other maids with you if you want,” she chuckled. “We’ll make Berry cottage a sanctuary from pinching fingers.”

  The two women laughed companionably together.

  Then Thompkins rose. “Well, Miss, I have to be going. Cook and James need all of us at hand tonight, what with dinner and all, so I must run.”

  “Off with you then,” Jessie waved her away. “I shall do quite well here and tell Ben he’s excused until the morning. But remember…” she pointed her finger at Thompkins, “if that person tries any pinching, you move away and tell James I need you.”

  The maid curtseyed and gave her a grateful smile. “Thank you, Miss Jessie. Thank you so much.” And then she turned and hurried out.

  Jessie followed and locked the front door, then checked the kitchen door. Knowing she was now quite secure, she returned to the little parlour, put another log on the fire and sat to enjoy her meal. There would be no visit from Piers tonight. He had to do his duty to his guests.

  It was a strange evening; a time when she could think her own thoughts, enjoy the warmth of the fire on her toes and the comfort of a large armchair. She carried her own dishes t
o the kitchen and found satisfaction in the task of washing and drying them in her own sink. It was a luxurious indulgence to walk through the tidy rooms; her little parlour looked out over the kitchen gardens and she could see the terrace, lit by the lights within the Hall. Two men strolled, a small cloud of smoke betraying the cigars they were apparently enjoying. It looked as if Piers had taken refuge with Mr Botham outside, since they appeared to be chatting quite companionably.

  As if he heard her thoughts, Piers’ glance was drawn upward to her window. She moved back, unwilling to intrude, then laughed at herself. She doubted he could see her there, and even if he could, it would only be as a silhouette against the candlelight. The cottage belonged to the Crawford estate, of course, but already she felt as if it belonged to her. She had every right to look out of her own window.

  She picked up a book and opened it, sinking into the overstuffed chair by the fire, and pulling a thick blanket over her knees. But for the first hour, she cast her mind back to where she’d come from, and the experiences she’d suffered. Her earlier conversation had resurrected memories. Bad ones.

  As a governess it had happened occasionally, as a maid it had happened frequently. In the sweat shop…

  In all truth, she’d been ready to leave the sweat shop, since her fingers were bloody every night after twelve hours or more of plying a needle. But the pennies she earned, meagre though they were, had paid for a bed and a little food.

  With that gone—she shuddered as the memories swamped her.

  Yes, she had been pinched, as she told Thompkins, but she’d also been almost raped, beaten and punished in a manner that could easily have left physical scars as well as emotional ones. Being a woman could be a burden when it came to simple survival. Jessie had learned that lesson during her search for employment, a home, and any way to meet the costs of survival. Her final descent into misery had occurred only a week or so before now...

  Her mind flashed back to that momentous evening.

  “Why not come in, dearie? You’re cold.”

  A pleasant voice and an equally pleasant smile on a well-lit doorstep had made Jessie pause in her fruitless search for lodgings, and oh the warmth of a roaring fire was so alluring. It was a clean and pretty frontage with nothing to indicate what lay within.

  “I can tell you need help. How about a cup of tea?” Again the charm of a middle-aged woman, dressed nicely and smiling at Jessie, promising nothing but much-needed assistance.

  “And we can talk. Perhaps I can offer what you need. A job, I reckon, and one that pays fair wages. How does that sound?”

  It had sounded ideal. And as she sipped her tea and listened, Jessie began to understand what this house was. And what the woman was so cleverly proposing beneath the warmth and sweet smiles.

  She would have to become a whore.

  An abhorrent and unthinkable thing, but what other alternative did she have? An all-but-penniless bastard, with no family to turn to and no home. At least here she would have a bed and a madam to control the business. And regular meals. Outside…she dared not think what might await her. She’d seen women up against walls, desperate for a coin or two, pleasuring men who stank of liquor and grunted like pigs as they stuck their cocks wherever they wanted. She could not, would not, end up like those poor souls.

  Reluctant, but with no other option, Jessie had finally agreed and after a welcome bath, she was given a room and a new dress that displayed her charms in a way that made her blush. A lace mask was also provided; she wasn’t sure she understood why, but then discovered several of the other women had more than a few pockmarks. The lace concealed imperfections, and also identities. She gladly put hers on.

  Called downstairs to join her new sisters in what had to be an evening’s display of the brothel’s goods, she glanced through the front window—and saw a man. He caught her eye and stopped dead.

  To her surprise, he’d entered the brothel and immediately asked for her.

  Did he realise she was a virgin?

  Terrified, but knowing this was her only hope of survival, she followed him upstairs and then led him to her room.

  He’d looked for a key, but finding none had moved a chair to block entry. Then he’d touched her, so gently, so kindly, that she found herself less nervous and more interested as his hands moved over her.

  His eyes were kind, his mouth tender and to her astonishment he caressed her, taking the time to arouse her as they undressed. He was hard, fully erect, but she wasn’t afraid anymore. Perhaps there was some terrible flaw in her character that she had inherited from her notorious father, but she discovered an eagerness for this, an urge to learn more about the whole experience.

  She surrendered to him, moving as he willed, lying beneath him, parting her legs for him quite shamelessly.

  That night, Jessie had discovered that a man could be kind and loving and that the disposal of her virginity would be so much more than a service performed for money. His touch, his affections…something had happened when their eyes met through the window.

  That night, Jessie gave more than her body. She gave her heart to a man who treated her with such sweet attentions she nearly melted. He gave her an experience that changed her world.

  But the night ended and he had to leave. He begged her to go with him; she refused. She was a bastard, she told him, and no fit companion for a gentleman. He argued, she held steadfast to her decision, though the pain of it nearly destroyed her.

  Finally he left, vowing to ensure that somehow, somewhere, they would be together again.

  She had shaken her head in denial. “If we meet again we cannot acknowledge each other, sir,” she’d whispered. “I am a whore. A bastard. Nothing can come of it.”

  Before dawn the following morning, she gathered what few belongings she had left and crept silently into the rainy streets of London, putting as much distance between her and the brothel as she could manage. There would be no more men, no giving her body to strangers. She would rather die than let another man touch her.

  Turning her mind away from the desolation she had felt at the knowledge she was about to become a whore, she focused instead on the awareness that now she was reunited with the man who had shown her what loving could and should be.

  With a sigh of relief, she turned her thoughts to the words of Louisa Stanhope, an author known for her unusually strong yet feminine heroines. It seemed most appropriate. And the heat, the comfort, the sense of security, all took their toll as her eyes closed and she fell sound asleep in the chair.

  Chapter Six

  It was, in fact, several days later before she saw Piers again.

  He’d been called to London, and barely had time to pen her a brief note, simply saying there was sheep business afoot and he had to leave.

  “Sheep business,” she muttered as she read the words. “Of course. Sheep. Always sheep.”

  They’d come first, she realised, but they were his life’s work, so it was expected that they took priority over everything, including his father, Crawford Hall, and herself.

  However, the time apart gave her the opportunity to fully focus her attention on the matter of the Crawford estate, and she found herself enjoying a regular conversation with Sir Gerald, where opinions and thoughts were freely exchanged, where discussions often turned into good-natured arguments, and where the basis for the growth of the Crawford heritage took shape.

  She showed him areas where he could expand his holdings and adjust his investments accordingly. The mill a mile up the nearby river, was going under the hammer upon the death of the last miller. It would be pricey, but they both decided it would be worth it, since there were Crawford tenants who would leave a field for a mill, and there would always be a need for grain.

  Again Sir Gerald betrayed his caution, but also his willingness to listen, and she found herself at his side as the week drew to a close, watching his glee at successfully purchasing what would now be known as Crawford Mill. She had arranged with the bank to set f
unds into an auxiliary account; they would be disbursed for the repair and maintenance of the mill itself, while the tenants would have their usual rents suspended for the time it took to get everything into good running order.

  It was a plan that worked for the now and for the later, and she was justifiably proud of it. Sir Gerald was optimistic, happy to be involved in a new project, and the two of them declared themselves most satisfied with the way matters were progressing under Jessie’s guiding hand. It was pretty obvious that her presence as Estate Manager was something of a novelty in the village, and she received a few frowning glances from one particular party during the sale of the mill.

  “I’m not sure I’m the most popular person here,” she whispered to Sir Gerald, under the pretext of pointing out a feature of the mill workings.

  He looked casually around. “Ah, well, yes. The Fernsides. Your arrival has spiked their guns, I’m afraid.”

  She blinked. “How so?”

  “They see you as a threat, my dear. You are a lovely, intelligent and capable woman. And you are residing far too near Piers for Mrs Fernside’s comfort.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Well…I…I don’t know what to say to that. What nonsense.” Jessie’s heart raced at Sir Gerald’s words.

  “So much of what passes for polite social intercourse is nonsense, Miss Nightingale. I thought you would have recognised that by now.” He raised an amused eyebrow in her direction. “Never fear. The Fernside household is renowned for pursuing any avenue that might lead to a match for Miss Fernside. It’s been going on since she came of age.”

  “Poor thing.” Jessie couldn’t help but feel sympathetic. “Women are continually auctioned off, aren’t they? Just like this mill. The highest bidder wins. Be it a wife or a piece of property. To so many, the two are indistinguishable.”