by Sharon Page
Chapter Seven
HERE WAS ANNE? Damnation, he was tired of this.
Sebastian Beddington, Viscount Norbrook, ignored the presence of the strapping doorman. He strode past the brute into a foyer that stank of heavy perfume; it was papered a noxious red and was filled with pitiful faux Chinese ornamentation. The garish colors turned his stomach, and Sebastian seethed with frustration. He had planned never to return to this disgusting brothel, but he had no choice. For nearly a week, his private investigators had scoured the Whitechapel stews, searching for his cousin Anne. He’d spent a great deal of blunt on those damned men, yet they had given him no results.
He had believed she must be in hiding close to this whorehouse, the place she had run from five days before. How far could she get with no money, no friends, no resources? He’d been so certain he would find her quickly that he had joined the search himself.
It was foul. He had prowled down dirty lanes that reeked of horse dung. He had searched drafty taverns that stank of urine and sweat. In those wretchedly seedy places, he had been forced to consort with drunken, gap-toothed whores to ask them questions. Each one had instantly assessed his well-tailored clothing, his aristocratic bearing, and had fawned all over him, blowing their rank breath in his face, leaving their revolting smells imprinted on his clothing. And each and every one had cheated him. He’d handed over too many coins to too many tarts for information that had proved to be nothing more than lies.
In his present state of fury, Sebastian knew he might murder the next whore who promised to give him a lead to Anne and rooked him instead.
“Can I ’elp you, gov’nor?”
Sebastian whirled on the servant who had pursued him to the threshold of the salon. The footman tried to look menacing, with his beefy arms crossed over a barrel chest. A swift slice from the blade secreted in Sebastian’s walking stick would cut this idiot down to size.
“I assume there is a new madam here in place of the murdered Madame Sin. Tell the woman Lord Norbrook expects her to receive him. At once.”
The doorman lifted a brow, obviously preparing to give some excuse. Sebastian moved instantly. Grasping the man by the throat, he used the advantage of surprise to shove his heavier opponent against the wall. A painting of a nude rattled beside the servant’s stunned face. Pleasure surged at the man’s fear as Sebastian barked, “At once! Do you understand?”
All the bulky doorman could manage was a strangled sound, his coarse face turning red. Sebastian released his hold and the servant straightened his clothes, then hared away up the stairs.
Several gentlemen in the salon, and the large-bosomed whores fawning over them, had noticed the disturbance. They gawked and peered. He turned his back on them, pacing at the base of the stairs.
How this disgusted him. Having to come to a place such as this. And still, after what he’d endured, he did not have Anne. A thoroughly annoying thought struck him, as it did each day. His cousin could be dead by now and he would never know it.
He had to get her back.
It had taken him years to trace her to this brothel. Then that witch of a madam had kept Anne from him, had extorted an enormous fee from him before she would hand over the girl. And, when he finally thought it was over, he’d learned the bitch didn’t have Anne at all.
Now the woman was dead and of no use to him.
It had taken him so long to find Anne the first time because he had never dreamed she would turn to whoring in her desperation. He’d assumed her mother would have tried to secure a more decent occupation. Anne’s mother, Millicent, had still been a lovely woman when she’d fled from his house. She could have done much better than she had.
She’d had no right to run away and take Anne with her. He had offered them protection, comfort, and a home. He had even decided to condescend to marry Anne.
Instead, Millicent had chosen to take her daughter away from him. As if he was not good enough. Stupid bitch. Now Anne was a whore. Ruined. It made his lip curl. It made him want to vomit. This entire disgusting brothel brought bile into his throat. Yet where had Anne hidden so cleverly this time that he and a half dozen hired men could not find her?
The stairs creaked. Expecting the new madam—no doubt a henna-haired jade with big breasts and garish jewels—Sebastian jerked his gaze up. Instead, he saw a bald, muscular man dressed in a gentleman’s clothes, with a starched collar that grazed his cheeks, a foul waistcoat of scarlet stripes, and a poorly tailored dark-blue coat. Not quite as bulky as the doorman he had dispatched, but obviously a bruiser with a rough background. It would be tiresome to have to slay this ox, but if it had to be done, he would do so. Anything to find Anne.
The beast in gentleman’s attire reached the last step and swept a bow. When he straightened, he wore a smug grin. “Lord Norbrook? Madame Sin told me you were looking for Anne Beddington.”
“Who are you?” he asked coldly.
“Name’s Mick Taylor. I worked as bodyguard to Madame when she was alive.”
“You were apparently unsatisfactory in your capacity. Do not waste my time.”
Taylor reddened angrily, but he kept a convivial smile on his rough-featured face. “I was doing what I was told when Madame was killed—I was out searching for Anne Beddington and the three whores she stole. If you’re still looking for Annie, I can help you find her.”
The duke had agreed she could stay but he would not join her for dinner. The young footman brought Anne the news when he came to take her to the dining room.
She sagged in front of the vanity, where she had been trying to pin up her hair in a becoming way. The rain had turned it into a mass of untamable waves. “Why am I to go to the dining room if His Grace will not join me?”
The young servant was reflected in the mirror. A familiar flush rushed over the boy’s face. “His Grace said it would be more pleasant for you to eat there. He hasn’t scrimped on the food either, miss. I saw that for myself belowstairs.”
Anne hesitated. This afternoon, after they had come inside from the storm, she took a hot bath and changed into her gown. One of the duke’s footmen brought his sister to the house to act as her lady’s maid, at the duke’s command. Then Anne guided the duke around his house. Two footmen had trailed after them at her request.
Using what she remembered of changes her mother had made to Longsworth to suit her grandfather, she ordered the rearrangement of the duke’s furniture to ease his passage through his rooms. It had hurt to think again of the past, to remember her grandfather’s kindness, her father’s gruff affection, her mother’s soft and all-embracing love. But she didn’t have any choice. She must not make another mistake, though, if the duke asked about her past.
His refusal to dine with her bothered her. He was willing to learn to cope with his blindness. Even if his blindness made it difficult for him to manage his meals, how could he think she would condemn him? Why would he not let her help him?
Men were proud. Even Papa, who had been the best of gentlemen, had his moments of stubborn pride. Her cousin Sebastian, who had inherited the title and house after Papa’s death, was brittle and cold, as well as cruel and arrogant. The type of man who would terrify a young girl to get what he wanted. Who nurtured grievances and who lashed out at anyone who crossed him, whether the slight was real or imagined. All her clients had been proud men who treated her like an object to be bought, used, ultimately discarded.
She pushed that dismal thought aside. That was the past. She was now a duke’s mistress. More than that, she was the mistress of a kind, wonderful man who deserved to be made happy.
“What is your name?” she asked the footman.
“Beckett, miss.”
“All right, Beckett. I shall do as His Grace asks.”
The dining room proved to be enormous, lit by two fires. The table was set for just her, the silver gleaming, the crystal glittering in the light of three chandeliers. A battalion of footmen marched in, carrying enough food to feed an army, but Anne could bare
ly eat enough to fill one plate.
As she slowly chewed and forced each mouthful down, Beckett kept launching away from the wall to fill her wineglass, and she sipped more than she should. To quell her nerves. Tonight she would make love to the duke as his mistress.
Did she do anything differently now? Should she be more familiar with him? Or less? She knew she should think of some wonderful carnal activity to surprise him. That was what a good mistress should do. But it was hard to think of such things with Beckett and the other footmen standing against the wall.
She knew what she wanted to do. She wanted to kiss the duke again. Kiss him as she had in the rain, and do it for hours. But even if she began by touching her lips to his and playing with his tongue, it wouldn’t last all night. She knew he would want more.
What did the Duke of March expect of a mistress? What was the naughtiest thing he might ask for? She hoped it wasn’t too frightening.
She set down her wineglass. Beckett sprang away from the wall, hurried to her, and bowed. “Now that you’re finished, miss, His Grace wishes you to come to the study.”
Anne pushed back from the table. “There is to be no brandy in that study tonight, Beckett, do you understand?”
The lad’s face paled for a change. “His Grace won’t be pleased.”
“His Grace can come to me with his annoyance.”
Beckett’s sandy eyebrows shot up. He muttered something, and when she firmly asked him to repeat it, he flushed scarlet again. “His Grace used to have lots of women here, and they had lots of demands. Hot chocolate in gold-rimmed cups. Plates of cakes. Rose petals in their baths. We were supposed to treat them like duchesses. But none ever gave an order that went against His Grace’s wishes.”
Lots of women. Anne had no idea why it irked her so much to think of the duke entertaining other women here. Especially when she was his mistress, and she knew many women had come before her. Had he kissed other women the way he’d kissed her?
Be sensible, Anne. This is a transaction of business. Think!
“I am different from other women who have been here,” she crisply told Beckett. I am probably more desperate. And, ironically, I probably have much more to lose if I annoy him. But she could not let him spend his nights in a chair in his study, drinking nightmares away. She’d seen women in the stews who lived for gin. Eventually it destroyed them.
“I intend to do things that are for the duke’s own good,” she said.
Scalding hot coffee hit his finger. Devon flinched, ground his teeth, but kept pouring. He had to stick his finger in the blasted cup to ensure he didn’t overfill it.
“Goodness! Let me do that, Your Grace.”
It was Cerise. Her skirts swished. She was striding toward him like a governess who’d caught him scribbling upon the wall. Or like his mother when she would seek him out to admonish him for his excessive card playing or the fact he’d stayed in his bed until late afternoon, suffering from a blazing hangover.
“Thank you, angel, but I don’t need help. I am learning to cope. Learning how to do all the things I once took for granted.” Hades, why did she have to see him do this?
She’d given him something good in the rain this afternoon, but the passing hours had made him realize he wanted more than to create ways to survive with his blindness. He still wanted to see again. He knew he had to let go, but he damned well couldn’t.
“By pouring hot coffee over your hand?” she asked briskly. “I don’t want you to suffer needlessly when I could simply help you.”
“I suppose it does hurt. But then, there are women who would tell you I don’t mind a bit of pain along with my pleasure.”
“Oh.”
He heard her surprise, though she’d tried to smother it. He’d shocked and scared her. And he didn’t know why he’d done it. Sighing, he said, “Angel, I made you an offer to be my mistress. Agreements must be made.”
“Agreements?” She sounded astonished.
Speaking to her without seeing her was damnably awkward. “Yes, love. You require a contract. We have to negotiate your reward for all the hard work you will have to do. When I lease a house for you, you will be given its use for the duration of the lease. You will be given a settlement if I choose to end our arrangement. That sort of thing.”
Dead silence. Devon stuck his finger in his coffee again, for no reason other than to locate his cup. He swallowed half of the bitter brew. Finally, because she wasn’t saying a word, he added, “It’s to protect you, angel.”
“I know,” she said. “I know a clever mistress should make a contract. But I have no idea what to ask for. Do we barter, Your Grace? Do you try to whittle down my demands while I try to elevate your offers?”
Her voice was flat and cold. There was nothing like business to make sex a damnably awkward thing. Most courtesans were hardened to it and presented an army of solicitors to negotiate their contracts. But Cerise appeared as naïve about this as she had about kisses. It touched his heart. It made him want to hold her. Comfort her. Caress her until her nerves vanished. He swung around on the chair, toward her voice, spread his legs, and patted his thigh. “Come and sit on my lap, love.”
“While we negotiate?”
“I’m willing to take the chance you will put me at a disadvantage.”
“How—oh! You mean I could wriggle on your lap and manipulate your desire while we discuss the fine details.”
Hades, but she sounded unhappy. “You’ll be best protected this way, Cerise. You are free to wriggle all you wish. I want you, and I’m willing to be generous to keep you.”
She gave a halting giggle. “I’m sorry. You are already being very generous.”
At least he could tell her voice had softened, as if she was no longer hurt, or cold, or nervous. “Not as much as I’d like to be, angel. If we were in London, you would have carte blanche at various modistes. I would have sealed our arrangement with a gift of some pretty jewels. You would be decorating your town house tomorrow and admiring your new carriage.”
He leaned back in his chair. “I must admit, I’ve never negotiated a lady’s terms while making love to her,” he said thoughtfully. “Would you like to see how generous I would be then? I’m intrigued to discover what you would ask for when you think I’m completely at your command.”
Why did her belly feel so unsettled and her heart so tight? Anne couldn’t understand what was wrong. This was what she had wanted, and the duke was being honorable. He was ensuring she took care of herself.
She was foolish to argue with him. What startled her was how vulnerable he looked. He had gone into battle and survived, but now he appeared uncertain. If she did not rein in her foolish emotions and use her wits, she was going to ruin everything.
Lifting her hems, she settled on his lap. He closed his eyes and made a murmuring sound of approval. He reached for the fastenings of his trousers, though she had no idea how he would remove them with her on top of him.
“Perhaps we shouldn’t.” She made her voice a sultry purr. “Truly, I wouldn’t want to take advantage of you, Your Grace.”
He laughed. Thank goodness for that. He moved his hands, leaving his falls closed, and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Here is what I propose, love.” He proceeded to set out an arrangement that would encompass the next year. It rolled off his tongue with ease, as though he’d done it a thousand times, but she refused to think of that.
He promised to acquire a house for her. One in the country or, if they returned to London, a town house there. For one year—unless they chose to part ways earlier—she would be safe, she would have a roof over her head and a considerable amount of independence.
“Satisfactory, love?” he asked at the end. “There will be jewels too.”
Satisfactory? “Yes,” she whispered. He had just laid heaven out for her on a silver platter. She could have the life she used to dream of when she’d lived in poverty, when she’d been trapped in the brothel. If only her circumstances were different;
if only she wasn’t suspected of murder. She could not risk staying with His Grace for a year. He’d promised her an allowance—as soon as she acquired enough money to buy passage on a ship and begin a new life, she would have to escape England.
She should be happy. Soon she would be safe. She would be free. “It is … more than I could have hoped for.”
“Angel.” His expression grew serious. “Never underestimate your value. You are a delightful lover and a charming companion.”
She swallowed hard and flushed with shame. She would have to escape long before the end of their contract. The duke had no idea she had agreed to terms she could not meet.
Unless she told him the truth and he believed her. She would be safe if he believed her, if Bow Street accepted her innocence. She turned on his lap. He had been generous, and surely he must expect her to behave like an adoring mistress in return.
But, first, she could tell him the truth.…
Anne bit her lip. No, it was too early to try. What if he thought her guilty without question? What if he chose to turn her over to the local magistrate? She had no way to prove her innocence.
The duke slid his hands up and cradled her breasts in her gown. They were his to do with as he pleased, of course. He had just paid very handsomely for them.
It was a stupid thought. This was what she wanted.
In the brothel, she’d learned not to feel anything at all. She must not let emotions get the best of her now. “Thank you,” she whispered. But her voice wobbled, and tears welled in her eyes. She threw everything she could into the role of bold courtesan, for it would keep her from doing something foolish. Such as bursting into tears or spilling the truth.
She cupped his face. His mouth curved into a smile, one that brought deep lines to frame his lips. Heavens, he was beautiful, but though he smiled at her, he wasn’t looking at her. That made her heart ache for him. One tear disobeyed, leapt free, and rolled down her cheek.
What was wrong with her? She hadn’t let herself feel emotions for so long. She couldn’t seem to stop them from flooding her now.