Beauty Tempts the Beast

by Lorraine Heath

  He walked over to her. “He gave me mine, said that one was for you.”

  “He gave us each a sovereign?” The coin’s value of a pound was double the ten shillings—if she didn’t subtract the upended beer—she normally earned for the six days she worked in a week.

  The young man shrugged, the brown locks covering his forehead falling into his eyes. “Like all Trewloves, he’s probably as rich as Croesus.”

  He was a Trewlove? That was no doubt why he looked familiar. She’d probably seen him at the spate of recent weddings when a number of Trewloves had married nobles. The owner of this establishment had married the Duke of Thornley. Would this Beast fellow tell his sister how rude she’d been to him? Would she lose her position? But then why would he have left her a little extra with which to line her pocket if he was going to take action to see her gone?

  “Go on, take it,” Rob said as he began running a damp rag over the table.

  Very carefully, she picked up the coin and slipped it into her pocket. “Does he come here often?”

  “Depends what you call often. The brothers all used to spend a good bit of their time here before they got married. He’s the only one who’s managed to escape the matrimonial shackles but doesn’t come ’round as often now that the others are scarce.”

  When Mr. Trewlove returned she would not only let him know that Jimmy had apologized, but would also thank him for having a word with the rambunctious young man. She didn’t think anyone at his table was going to be giving her bottom any attention in the near future.

  Certainly no one troubled her the remainder of the night.

  Still, she was grateful when the customers were ushered out at midnight and the front door was bolted. She and the other workers began placing chairs on tables, sweeping, mopping, tidying up. It was a little over half an hour later when they all stepped into the alley. Mac locked the back door behind them, said his farewells, and headed up to the rooms that came along with his position. As the others—Polly, Rob, the cook, another bartender, and another serving maid—wished her good-night and carried on, she wandered to the street that the tavern faced. Her brother was usually leaning against the front of the building, waiting to escort her home. He didn’t like her walking alone about Whitechapel at night. She didn’t like walking alone at night.

  Once she reached the street, a fissure of dread speared her. Griffith wasn’t there. He was always prompt, which at first had come as a shock to her. As the spare, he’d only ever been interested in play, had never taken responsibility for anything other than having a grand time.

  The streetlamps dotting the area couldn’t hold at bay all the shadows. Glancing around, she saw a couple of people walking in the distance, becoming smaller as they moved away from her, but he wouldn’t have come from that direction anyway. Perhaps he was only running late.

  Please, dear Lord, don’t let anything have happened to him. While he was skilled at shooting at targets, had mastered fencing, and engaged in boxing for sport, she wasn’t entirely convinced all of that translated well to dealing with the villainous scoundrels who made Whitechapel their home. He was no more accustomed to wandering these dangerous streets than she was.

  Drawing her ermine-lined cloak more tightly around her, she began walking, hoping to meet up with him shortly and to be that much closer to their residence when she did. After ten hours at her labors, her feet, lower back, and shoulders ached. She wanted to be home. Even as she had the thought, she acknowledged they’d never go home again. It had been taken from them, and what they had now could barely be described as a residence.

  Unexpectedly, the fine hairs on the back of her neck quivered as though someone had placed a warm hand against her nape. She swung around.

  The people she’d seen earlier were farther away, weren’t coming for her. While she didn’t feel in danger, she couldn’t shake off the sensation that she wasn’t alone, that someone was near enough to hear her harsh breathing, that she was being watched.

  But she saw only the shadows, heard only the occasional skitter of rats.

  Reaching into her reticule, she pulled out the small dagger her older brother had given her and taught her how to wield, before he’d taken his leave to go God knew where. She doubted the four-inch blade would kill anyone, but it might at least give a miscreant pause, hold him at bay.

  Besides, it could just be her imagination playing tricks on her. Until three months ago, she’d never gone anywhere alone. Her lady’s maid, footmen, her mother, a friend—someone always accompanied her. She’d never had to be aware of her surroundings, never had to worry about being accosted. But now she’d become extremely vigilant and wary. She hated all the worry, the uncertainty, and tried not to recall all the years of security she’d taken for granted, assuming she would always be spoiled, well tended, without care. When every day had been filled with fun, laughter, and good cheer.

  Turning back around, she came up short at the sight of Griffith a few steps away and very nearly screamed at his sudden appearance. Doing so would have angered her more. “Where the devil have you been?”

  He ducked his blond head. “Apologies. I got caught up in something and lost track of the hour.”

  “In what, precisely?”

  “It’s not important. Let’s get you home.” He came nearer, put his hand protectively on her shoulder, and ushered her forward. Just like her, he was more aware of their surroundings, his head continually swiveling, as he searched for anything amiss.

  Before the upheaval in their lives, he’d barely given her the time of day. She’d never been particularly close to her brothers. The heir, Marcus, was five years older than she. Griffith three. She’d had the impression they viewed her as a nuisance more than anything, avoiding her whenever possible, seldom engaging her in conversation when they weren’t in a position to escape her company. They’d just sat in awkward silence. It seemed the only thing they had in common were their parents.

  After taking several steps, she realized that warm sensation of being touched against her nape had melted away. She glanced over her shoulder. Had someone been watching her and backed off with Griffith’s arrival?

  “Did you see anyone about when you came up?” she asked.

  “No one near, no one appearing to have any interest in you. Again, I apologize for my tardiness. I miss having the convenience of a bloody carriage whenever we damned well wanted one.”

  In all of her twenty-four years, she’d never heard him utter a profanity. Now his sentences were often peppered with words that shouldn’t be spoken in the presence of a lady, but then she was no longer a lady. She, too, missed being able to call for a carriage, especially when she wasn’t certain her legs could hold her upright much longer.

  But they did their duty, kept moving forward until eventually they arrived at the shabby little residence they were leasing. It was two levels. They lived in the lower level. Someone with extremely heavy feet inhabited the second level, which was only accessible from stairs on the outside. Griffith unlocked the door, shoved it open, and waited until she’d preceded him inside. It was not a newer accommodation. No gas to make their situation a bit more convenient. An oil lamp rested on the oaken table near the empty hearth and her brother was quick to light it.

  “Looks like Marcus has been here,” Griffith said as he reached for a parcel wrapped in brown paper, secured with string. Opening it, he revealed a few pounds. “This will keep a roof over our heads for a bit longer.”

  “Why is he so mysterious? Why doesn’t he visit with us, instead of just leaving little gifts when we’re not here?” When they’d lost their standing within Society, lost everything really, he’d taken them under his wing, found them this residence. Once they were settled, he’d simply disappeared. She’d not seen him since.

  “It’s safer, for us, for him.”

  “Why won’t you tell me precisely what he’s doing?” She’d asked several times.

  “I don’t know the details of it.” Always his an
swer, although she was beginning to suspect he was lying.

  “But whatever it is, it is dangerous.” Persisting with the topic, she was rather certain she should be worried about Marcus.

  He rubbed his brow. “It’s late, Althea, and I have to be at the docks early. I’m to bed.”

  “Let me see to your hands first.”

  “They’re fine.”

  “Griff, if they get infected, you’re going to lose them, and then where will we be?”

  With a long-suffering dramatic sigh—she’d once heard a rumor that he’d had an affair with an actress, and she couldn’t help but believe he’d adopted some of her theatrics—he nodded.

  Not bothering to remove her cloak because the air was cold and they wouldn’t have a fire tonight, she pumped water into a bowl, grabbed some linen and the salve. By the time she joined him at the table, he’d removed the bandages she’d wrapped around his hands that morning.

  “They’re looking better,” he mused.

  In spite of the fact he wore gloves, lifting and hauling crates had caused blisters, torn skin, and calluses. He winced as she saw to the raw places. She didn’t know how he managed to continue at his labors. Until three months ago, the most laborious thing he’d ever done was lift a tankard or a card at a gaming table. And he’d certainly never arisen before dawn. He’d seldom moved about before noon.

  “Oh, I forgot. A bit of good news. Someone left me a sovereign tonight.”

  “Why would he do that?” She heard the suspicion in his voice. They had learned to trust no one.

  “My smile?”

  He grinned. “It has been known to lay men flat.”

  Yes, once she’d been the darling of the ton, had been in no hurry to settle on anyone. Until finally, she’d decided on the Earl of Chadbourne. They were to have been married in January, a few weeks from now. “I’ll give it to you when I’m done here.”

  “Keep it. You might have a need for it.”

  “I want to contribute.” It was the reason she’d taken a position at the tavern. She’d begun feeling rather useless. Keeping things tidy, preparing meals—which had been a challenge in itself—and mending Griffith’s clothing had not taken most of her day. She’d been left with nothing to do but sit and worry.

  “Then simply hold it close. I’ll let you know if we have need of it.”

  While she appreciated the protectiveness, she also wanted to be viewed as independent, wanted her brothers to understand she was as equal to the task of handling their change in circumstance as they were. She very much doubted if he should run into Marcus, Griffith was going to tell him to stop sneaking into the residence and leaving them money. But he refused to take her coins.

  She patted his freshly covered hands. “There. Almost as good as new.”

  He gave her a crooked smile. “Not really.” Shoving back the chair, he stood. “Will you carry the lamp?”

  She didn’t know why he asked. It was their nightly ritual. They journeyed across the small room to the hallway where he turned right and she went left. She always waited until he disappeared into his bedchamber at the front of the house. He claimed not to be bothered by the dark, that he could navigate his way through it. When he closed his door, she went into her chamber at the rear of the residence and fought against the melancholy that usually came over her at the sight of the unfurnished room, the pile of blankets on the floor that served as her bed.

  She knew her life would never again be as it once was, but had to believe that in time, it would improve.

  Setting the lamp on the floor, she divested herself of her clothing, changed into her nightdress, undid her hair, brushed it a hundred times, and plaited it. She had just settled on the pile of blankets, bringing her ermine-lined cloak over her, when she remembered the sovereign. She dug it out of the pocket of her frock, closed her fingers around it, and snuggled back down. She didn’t know why she viewed it as a talisman of better things to come.

  Nestling her closed fist against her breast, she was torn between hoping this Beast fellow would return and praying she’d never see him again. He’d guessed correctly that she originally hailed from Mayfair.

  How long would it take him to determine that the change in her circumstance had come about because she was the cursed daughter of a traitorous duke?

  After striding into the residence, Beast crossed the foyer and peered into the front parlor. The madam, Jewel, was plying four gents—who were no doubt awaiting their turn—with alcohol and keeping them entertained with ribald stories and jests. It had been years since she’d taken a man to her bed. Catching sight of him, she gave him a little smile that signaled all was well, no trouble was afoot.

  Christ, but he hated this bloody business.

  He headed for the stairs. On his way up, he crossed paths with Lily escorting one of the gents down. The man looked so proud of himself that Beast briefly wondered if it had been his first time. It was none of his concern. He did not care. He was weary of the gentlemen lounging about, the women entertaining them. The need to protect them.

  He finally reached the top floor that served as their main living quarters. He and all the ladies who worked within these walls had private rooms along this hallway. He went into the library, poured himself a scotch, dropped into the comfortable wing-backed chair near the roaring fire, and tried not to think of the serving wench who was as fair as an angel, a beauty who would tempt a saint into sinning.

  Just the memory of her was enough to cause his body to tighten with need as though she sat across from him.

  Everything within him had gone on heightened alert when he’d seen the man approaching her after she’d left the tavern. It hadn’t been his intent to spy on her but because she didn’t appear to belong in Whitechapel, he’d wanted to assure himself that she wasn’t fool enough to walk the streets alone late at night. But it seemed she had a protector—a husband or a beau—and once Beast had acknowledged that she was in no danger, he’d slipped farther into the shadows and headed home.

  Home. A strange word for a place where women earned their keep on their backs. Over the years he’d managed to find other employment for many of them, until he had only half a dozen remaining. But they needed to learn other skills and to be buffed to a polish if they had any hope of leaving this life behind.

  Until they left it behind, he couldn’t leave it behind.

  Because he wouldn’t abandon the women who’d been under his care, wouldn’t leave them at the mercy of men who had no fear of harming them. He owed it to Sally Greene. She’d put her faith in him, and in the end, he’d let her down.

  After tossing back his drink, he set the glass aside and stared at the flames writhing on the hearth. The last of his charges needed to be as poised as the tavern maid who had served him tonight—although she was no doubt the product of a lifetime of refining that had begun the moment she was placed in the cradle. Every single aspect of her indicated that the minutest detail of her had warranted attention; no facet of her had been left to chance. If he had to guess, he’d say she’d had dozens of tutors. The elegant way she moved her hands, the calm with which she set down his glass, her hair—

  Her hair had been a rather lopsided mess, no doubt because she’d not been tutored on how to style it. She’d had a maid to do it for her, and that maid was no longer about to ensure every strand remained where it needed to be. He’d like to remove the pins and watch the heavy tresses tumble around her shoulders.

  He recalled the skewing of her mouth, the quick burst of air, as she tried to control the rebellious hair that had no desire to behave. He doubted she’d ever done that in Mayfair. It was pure Whitechapel, possibly the only thing about her that was.

  Had she been embroiled in a scandal? Was there some handsome swain who stole her heart and then did wrong by her? Had she fallen in love with a commoner, cast aside the world for which she’d been prepared? Was he the man who’d come for her tonight, the one whose arrival had pleased her so damned much, brought her such re
lief?

  Why was she even bombarding his thoughts? It wasn’t as though she’d have any role in his life other than bringing him his favorite libation when he visited his sister’s tavern.

  Perhaps he should take one of the women with him the next time he went. Show the bawd how gracefully every aspect of her moved in tandem, how perfect her posture, how calm and steady her mien—

  He’d have to explain mien and tandem. It wasn’t enough for them to observe. They needed to be shown how it was done, how to acquire that level of inherent confidence. They needed a tutor. Where the devil was he going to find one of those in one of the poorest areas of London? It wasn’t as though these streets were teeming with the posh.

  Settling back, he picked up his glass and studied the way the flames created dancing light over the cut crystal. Whitechapel wasn’t teeming with the posh. But it did have one.

  And he knew exactly where to find her.

  Chapter 2

  It was after ten when Althea felt him walk through the door. Her back was to it as she set two tankards on the table, and yet she knew with every fiber of her being that when she turned, he would be there. Tall, broad, bold, with his gaze homed in on her.

  Still, she was surprised when she finally spun around to see that he hadn’t moved beyond the entry, as though he’d been arrested by the sight of her. To say her gaze slammed into his was putting it mildly. What was it about him that made her feel as though he was brushing up against her, and not at all in the objectional way Jimmy had been touching her the night before, but in a manner that made her nipples pucker? Damned rebellious things.

  She was the first to break eye contact, heading to the bar to collect the drinks for a table of four. Don’t sit at my table. Do sit at my table. Don’t. Do.

  He did. He took the same table at the back that he’d had the night before, and it suddenly occurred to her that she’d never seen anyone else sit there. Was it a rule of the establishment that it was always to be open for him?