Lords of Passion

by Virginia Henley

  But Pru would be lying if she denied a certain titillation in visiting the most wicked address in all of London. She was not here solely to give Cyrus Shaw a deserved dressing-down. One didn’t reach Pru’s advanced years without some knowledge of the world, but she had seized this opportunity to further her education. How many times would she be offered the chance to meet with a real, honest-to-goodness fallen woman?

  Carmela had been a surprise. She was beautiful, of course, although quite a lot older than Pru would have thought. But there was no accounting for men’s tastes. Blackguards and bastards, the lot of them. The only thing dependable about them was their undependability.

  Pru did not relish the encounter with the errant bridegroom. She had seen the handsome Mr. Shaw at a distance several times in Bath and had not recognized him for the vile seducer that he was. He was astonishingly good-looking and had not given her a moment’s attention. But Sophy, poor lamb, with all her golden curls and wide blue eyes, had not been so fortunate. While Pru saw to her ailing mother’s comfort, he had secretly courted the girl until stars danced in her eyes and all rational thought deserted her head. Shaw had stolen Sophy away on the eve of her aunt’s funeral, the scoundrel. But he was married to Sophy now and had responsibilities to her, not to a middle-aged mistress with a phony Spanish accent and suspiciously black hair.

  Pru started at the ring of the doorbell. If it was Cyrus Shaw, surely he had a key to let himself in to satisfy his wicked ways. Her fingertips drummed against the painting’s gilt frame. When the ringing did not cease, Pru pulled her veil down and went to the door, half afraid to imagine who would be calling upon the scandalous Senora de Castro in the daylight.

  The man on the step was tall. Dark. Too handsome. “You!” she said. “I am glad you are here. We have business to discuss.”

  “We certainly do, madam, and I will not be put off like some other members of my family. But the discussion is not for outdoors where all the world can hear us.” He brushed by her, and Pru became acutely aware she was the only one in the house. But being alone with her cousin’s husband could not compromise her, could it? They stood for a minute in the front hall glowering at each other, although the man did not get the full benefit of her glower, veiled as she was. Pru retreated into the parlor, and Mr. Shaw followed.

  He took up far too much room, looking out of place amidst the pink and purple stripes and patterns. To her horror, he picked up the reticule she had left on the sofa. The fortune hunter! But instead of shaking out the few coins she had, he slipped a velvet bag into it.

  “This will have to satisfy you. It’s rare and valuable and old. Just like you.”

  “I beg your pardon!” Pru said, stung. She was but nine-and-twenty. Oldish, but not yet dead.

  “I mean no disrespect. But you must admit you’re past the pinnacle of your profession.”

  Her profession? Good Lord, did this man take her to be one of the courtesans of Courtesan Court? “Well it is you who is old and addled, if you cannot even recognize your own mistress,” Pru said with asperity. She tore the veil from her face. “And may I remind you that you have a young wife, who, God willing, will long outlive you and outlast the ignominy of being married to you! Only God knows why, but she wants you back. You may have a pretty face, but your character leaves a great deal to be desired, sir! If you do anything—anything at all to ever hurt or discomfort her again—leave the top to the toothpowder tin off, aim carelessly into the chamberpot, snore in your sleep—you will answer to me!”

  To Pru’s dismay, the man smiled slowly at her. He had shockingly white teeth—his toothpowder had been used to good effect—and an elegant crease on his left cheek, too sophisticated to be called a mere dimple. For twenty-three or so seconds she could see why Sophy had been smitten.

  “I take it you are not Carmela de Castro.”

  Pru felt the blood rush to her cheeks. “Of course I am not!” She took a step backward. “And you are not my cousin Sophy’s husband, are you?”

  “I’m sure she is a charming girl, but I would not change places with my brother for all the sand in Egypt. I’ve just come back from there, by the way. Just in time to shovel Cyrus out of his usual mess, although it’s my uncle Algernon’s mess to begin with. Where is Carmela?”

  “She’s gone. I paid her off.”

  “Brave girl! Cyrus was completely under her thumb. And not,” he said hastily, “the way you and your cousin seem to think. My brother is an imbecile, but he fancies himself in love with your cousin. More or less.” Mr. Shaw ran a long brown finger under his collar. Now that Pru thought about it, his resemblance to his brother, while significant, was not absolute. This Mr. Shaw was darkly tanned and somehow more tumbled than the man she’d glimpsed across the Pump Room all those weeks ago. His hair was disreputably long and his clothing somewhat worn. Mr. Cyrus Shaw had looked like a fashion plate come to life.

  Pru was not going to be taken in by a Shaw like Sophy was. “Explain.”

  “My uncle Algernon died here a few weeks ago.” His face suddenly took on a mournful look. “And I understand your mother has recently passed on as well. My condolences.”

  “Your deviant brother eloped with my cousin the night before the funeral.”

  “Again, I am sorry. I have had little influence on Cyrus his whole life, I’m afraid. He’s a bit ramshackle, but we should not be held accountable for the foibles of our relatives. We don’t get to choose them, do we?”

  Pru supposed she would not have chosen her drugaddled mother if there had been a mother store. She might have picked up Sophy in a shop, but had had many causes to return her for a refund over the years. “Go on.”

  “My uncle Algernon had a long-standing arrangement with Senora de Castro. When he died so suddenly, she was grief stricken and appealed to my brother for assistance.”

  “She wanted money.”

  “Exactly. And I do feel rather badly that you beat me to the punch. But now that she’s gone, please explain to your cousin that she was mistaken in ever thinking Cyrus’s affections were engaged in any way. He, like the two of us, was only doing his family duty, trying to tie up our uncle’s loose ends, as it were.”

  “He has been living on Jane Street,” Pru reminded him. “How can we know he remained faithful residing in such a hotbed of sin?”

  “I intend to reside here myself for the time being. I assure you, some of us Shaws have self-control.”

  Pru sniffed. The man before her did not look as if he denied himself much of anything, or had anything denied him. He was far too virile for his own good. Whereas she,

  garbed in black mourning from head to toe and rather beige underneath it all, could pass for an Anglican nun. Even if she wasn’t a virgin.

  A sharp rap at the door put an end to their discussion. Mr. Shaw excused himself, and before Pru could put her veil back down, a crew of brawny men toted crates into the parlor, filling the space even more effectively than Mr. Shaw had.

  “What’s all this?” Pru asked in spite of herself. She knew she should just pick up her reticule and go home.

  One of the workmen stared at her before he put an enormous wooden box down quite near her foot. He whistled. “A living, breathing Jane. Not what I expected, but not bad. Congratulations, guv’nor. Most of the men in London would like to be in your boots. And in your bed.” He had the unmitigated audacity to wink at Pru.

  A Jane! That’s what the women of Jane Street were nicknamed. He thought she was—

  “You are mistaken.” Mr. Shaw’s voice had shifted from smooth to sharp edged. “This lady is not a courtesan. You will apologize at once.”

  The man stared at her even harder, then shook his head. “There’s no shame to it. We all have to make a living, don’t we, love. But if you’ll take my advice, you’ll get rid of that black dress. It don’t do a thing for you, and you don’t want a man like Darius Shaw to lose interest now, do you?”

  “Malcolm! If you do not shut your gob this instant I will do what Sh
eikh Mahmoud’s men did to you in Alexandria. Without hesitation.”

  Malcolm paled. “No need of that, guv. Sorry, miss. But we’re on Jane Street. When his nibs’s brother said we were to deliver the treasure here, I just supposed—”

  “That’s enough, Malcolm. Pay these men and go down to the kitchen. I am starving. Would you like to join me for lunch, Miss—Why, I just realized I don’t even know your name.”

  “Prudence Thorne.” But she was not going to tell the man her middle name was Jane.

  Chapter Two

  Prudence Thorne. She looked full of caution at the moment and seemed a bit prickly as well. It was a fitting name for her. Cyrus had described her as a dragon, but only if the dragon’s scales were nondescript. Miss Thorne was of average height, but he still had to bend his neck to look at her. Her hair, what he could see of it beneath the brim of her black hat, was either dark blond or light brown depending on one’s perception. She had blue eyes and an unremarkable figure. Darius was not quite sure why he invited her for lunch, except that he had seen her spark of interest when Malcolm mentioned the word “treasure.”

  It might be amusing to show off some of his prizes to an innocent. Darius was aware that his devil had the upper hand, for surely Miss Thorne was about to suffer enough with Cyrus for a cousin-in-law. But the woman looked in need of a little fun.

  “L-lunch?” she stuttered.

  “Yes. You are acquainted with the term? Food. Usually lighter fare. I have no idea what Malcolm will find in the larder, but I hear there might be flan. A Spanish dessert, you know.”

  The nostrils on Miss Thorne’s neat little nose flared. “Carmela de Castro is no more Spanish than I am.”

  Darius raised a brow. “Really? My uncle Algernon always claimed she was. He even studied the language a little so they could converse more congenially. But perhaps they didn’t do much talking after all.”

  Miss Thorne’s full, pink lip curled. “Disgusting.”

  “Now, now. Uncle Algy was not married, you know. It was nobody’s business but his where he spent his time and money. I never met Carmela, but she and my uncle were together for twenty years. I gather their relationship was rather sweet and cozy. Algernon was made to feel quite at home here.”

  Miss Thorne gazed about the room. “Those paintings are an abomination.”

  “There’s no accounting for taste. I have a friend who collects such pictures. I’ll have to see if he’ll take these off my hands. For the right price.”

  “Speaking of which, I suppose your brother thinks he can run through Sophy’s money. Well, he can’t. Not until she’s twenty-one.” Miss Thorne looked pleasantly grim.

  Cyrus wouldn’t like the sound of that. “I thought a woman’s money belonged to her husband upon marriage.”

  “Sophy’s trustees are conservative men, and she married without their permission. The terms of her inheritance state she cannot come into all her funds—which are con-siderable—unless they approve of her marriage or until her twenty-first birthday. I’m afraid I’ve seen to it that they are not especially impressed with Cyrus at the moment. So he will have to settle for living on her quarterly allowance.”

  “I see. And how much is that?”

  Miss Thorne named a reassuringly high figure, which would keep Cyrus away from him and out of debtor’s prison, God willing. “I think even my brother can be expected to be satisfied by that amount.” He felt just cheeky enough to ask, “Are you an heiress as well, Miss Thorne?”

  She had a very pretty blush. He’d once seen a pale pink rose just that color in Damascus. “I am. Our fathers were both partners in a very successful shipping company. It was sold, of course, upon their deaths. They drowned at sea when Sophy was a baby. Her mother died in childbed. So I have been in charge of Sophy almost all her life and more than half of mine. I’ll not stand by and watch your brother make her unhappy.”

  She had reverted to her belligerence, but Darius supposed it was warranted. “How is it you never married? I should think fortune hunters like my brother would have been after you in droves.”

  Her blue eyes went flat. “They were. And I did.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I married, Mr. Shaw. When I was not much older than Sophy. I am a widow. And glad of it.”

  Well now. It was Mrs. Thorne, and not grieving for her lost love. “I gather I should not offer more condolences.”

  Mrs. Thorne shook her head. “My husband died soon after we were married. He was killed falling from his mistress’s bedroom window. And it was not the fall that killed him but the gunshot wound. Her husband came home unexpectedly.”

  Her face was impassive. Each unembellished sentence was delivered with wooden precision. How many times had she felt it necessary to tell this story? “It was the talk of the ton for years. I wonder that you did not hear of it.”

  Darius took a closer look at her. If she was as bloodless and buttoned up with her husband, no wonder the poor devil looked elsewhere for comfort.

  “I’ve been in and out of the country, traveling for quite some time. It feels odd to be home.”

  “I daresay. Were you in the army?”

  “No, Mrs. Thorne. I am a treasure hunter for my sins,

  and the war put quite a crimp in my business. I’ve been in the East acquiring antiquarian collectibles and forgeries to sell to my unsuspecting countrymen for exorbitant profit.”

  There. The flash of curiosity dashed across her face again. But also distaste. A woman like Mrs. Thorne might have better respected him if he’d died in battle. But Shaws had their own peculiar honor.

  “You are in trade.”

  Darius stuck his gloveless hands out. “Yes. As you see, my hands are stained with filthy lucre. But not enough of it.”

  Her lips quirked. “I have no objection to men making an honest living. As I told you, my father had a shipping business. What is in all these boxes?”

  “I will show you after lunch. Do say you’ll join me.”

  She hesitated. “Sophy will be anxious to learn what transpired here.”

  “I’ll send Malcolm with a message. Or maybe Cyrus himself if he turns up. You have not met him yet?”

  Mrs. Thorne shook her head. “I stayed in Bath seeing to my mother’s affairs. It was too late for me to do anything about Sophy once she eloped. But when I got her letter, I came to Town right away.” She paused. “I could press her to get an annulment.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “A person cannot enter a legal contract until the age of twenty-one.”

  “Your cousin would be ruined. You might as well declare her insane.”

  “She is. She married your brother, did she not?”

  Cyrus might not dip the sharpest quill in the inkwell, but there was no true harm in him. He just needed money, and at least had the wit to find a hen-witted girl with plenty of it. “My brother is not the devil you think he is. Stay to lunch and I shall charm you with tales of our boyhood so your opinion may change.”

  Mrs. Thorne sighed deeply. “Very well. One must eat, I suppose.”

  Darius thanked the gods. It was imperative the starchy Mrs. Thorne not interfere with her cousin’s marriage any further. Darius did not want to be saddled with Cyrus any longer than he had to be. The care and feeding of his brother had been an expense over the years, causing him to do any number of unsavory things.

  But lunch with Mrs. Thorne was not one of them. At the moment she looked like a tasty, if tart, morsel. He had indeed been without a woman too long if this virtuous little shrew was so appealing.

  Whyever had she babbled on about Charles Thorne? It was most unlike Pru to ever speak of her late and unlamented husband. They’d only been married seven weeks, after all. She could not even remember what he looked like.

  She did recall that he’d been assiduous in his attentions, chasing her all around Bath just as Cyrus Shaw had chased Sophy. But once he’d caught her, he’d betrayed her without two thoughts.

 
; Because of Charles, she should have been so much more careful with Sophy. But it was not as though she never spoke to her cousin about the perfidy of men. The girl had received lecture after lecture even before she left her pinafores and pigtails behind. And where had Pru’s words got her? A visit to infamous Jane Street and lunch with an attractive, no-doubt-disreputable man, while her cousin was still stuck in her marital bonds with a bounder.

  The walls of the dining room were even worse than the walls of the parlor. Life-size life studies hung on every side. Breasts, buttocks, rapturous smiles—Pru had no choice but to focus on her food and eat as quickly as she could without choking to death. Mr. Shaw seemed untroubled by the scenery, tucking into the slapdash lunch that his man assembled with gusto. Between bites he did everything in his power to assure her that his brother Cyrus was worthy of Sophy, but Pru remained unconvinced.

  Her reluctance must have been obvious, for at last he pushed himself away from the table. “Mrs. Thorne, I have proof that my brother wants to be a better man. He has refused all his life to take part in the family business.”

  “And that makes him responsible? One who is idle and lives off the work of others?”

  “Hear me out. The Shaws are not precisely respectable, I am sorry to say. My father founded an importing company and attempted to train both his sons to take it over when he passed. Cyrus would have nothing to do with it, and rightfully so. His sensibilities are far too refined, too delicate.”

  “Good Lord. What is it that you import? Opium? White slaves?”

  “Nothing quite so egregious, but some in the ton might find the items equally repugnant. Come. Allow me to open one of the crates and you can see for yourself.”

  Pru felt herself pale. What horror could be inside the box. A shrunken head? A voodoo doll? She spent a great deal of time reading about the fantastical finds of great explorers and naturalists. She’d really had very little else to do as she sat by her mother’s bedside. But to actually lay eyes on such things—she was by turns curious and terrified.