Secrets of a Gentleman Escort

by Bronwyn Scott

  Unless she came up to London and sought him out. He hoped not. That was an idea he rapidly pushed away. He wanted Annorah to remember him as he’d been here, not as the man she’d see in London: the paid escort, the man who made husbands jealous by paying indecent attention to their neglected wives.

  Nor did he want Annorah to know him beyond this context. He was riddled with imperfections. To know him much better would only sully him in her eyes and that would bring all nature of implications, not least of which would be—how could she have associated with such a man? He’d found it was much easier for women to love the fantasy than the reality of him.

  ‘What’s on your mind? You are a thousand miles from here.’ Annorah glanced at him over the rim of her tea cup. Was she thinking: he’s already left? She’d be wrong, though. He was in no hurry, and in many ways he was reluctant to go. Lady Burnham’s opera box had lost much of its appeal.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to drift.’ He was about to ask her what they should do today, but Plumsby entered, carrying a silver tray with the mail.

  ‘Miss, there are letters.’ Plumsby offered the salver to Annorah and then turned to him. ‘There is a letter for you, too, sir.’

  Nicholas took it with no small amount of worry. It would be from Channing. No one else knew where he was. But what would Channing have to say that could not hold another twenty-four hours? He tucked the letter into his coat pocket. He would wait and read it privately. Instead, he picked up the newspaper that lay carefully pressed beside his plate and rose. ‘I’ll give you some time with your letters. I’ll be outside reading and enjoying the morning sun.’

  ‘You don’t have to go,’ Annorah protested quickly, too quickly. Ah, so she was feeling it, too; the desperation of the last day, a desire to make every moment of their waning time together count. He didn’t want that, didn’t want her thinking she’d fallen in love with him. He no more wanted it for her than he wanted it for himself.

  ‘You’ll only be a few minutes.’ Nick gave her a reassuring smile, but did not relent on his decision. Like it or not, it was time to start planting some of that distance between them. There were little ways to do it, he’d learned over the years, yet another of his escort secrets. It could be done in the slight stiffness of his posture and the slight condescension of his tight smile, letting his body say what words would make too cruel to hear: it’s time to start remembering this is business. You and I have ties to sever.

  When he got back to London he’d tell Channing he’d never take another long assignment. This one had got too deep under his skin; it had him sleeping through stormy nights and finding genuine release in the act of coupling. Last night had been startling in so many ways. If he was smart, he’d leave it at that and not dissect those ways. No good could come from it.

  Outside on the veranda, he opened Channing’s letter and scanned the brief contents. Channing must have been in a hurry to make the post. There were only a few lines and the message was clear: he was not to come back. Burroughs was still on the warpath. Although fewer people were listening to his accusations, Burroughs had become more convinced of his suspicions that the man in the house had been Nicholas. Lady Burroughs had likely fed that fire, Nicholas thought uncharitably. Her sense of fortitude and perseverance had never really impressed him as being in great supply. The other lines of the note offered assurance that the agency wouldn’t suffer in his absence. Amery would take Lady Burnham to the opera and see to his other appointments.

  Nicholas stared at the note. He was not to go back. Just a few more days, Channing had written. Nicholas understood the double jeopardy. There was danger not only to himself, but to the agency, the League of Discreet Gentlemen. If one of them were exposed, so might they all be.

  Not all of them could afford the exposure; Channing Deveril most certainly could not. He was the son of an earl. Jocelyn Eisley was an earl’s heir. While Nicholas did this for the money, Jocelyn did it for the thrill and the adventure. Jocelyn had no need of funds. Jocelyn and Channing would certainly suffer for a bit, but they’d eventually recover. Nick wasn’t so sure about himself and Grahame Westmore. As a former officer who’d worked his way up in the ranks to attain the commendation, Westmore had desperate need of the social connections Channing’s agency provided him. Without the agency, Westmore would be destitute and, what’s more, he’d be cast out. As would Nicholas himself. His situation was much more akin to Westmore’s these days.

  There was a rustle of skirts behind him. Annorah had finished reading her correspondence. Nicholas tucked the note back into his pocket and pasted on a polite smile before he turned to face her. ‘How were your letters?’

  The look on her face answered before words could. Something had upset her. Nicholas’s gut clenched and all pretence of distance was set aside. Her face was pale and her hands gripped one another at her waist. ‘We have to talk.’

  Usually, when a woman said that, it meant one of two things: she wanted to declare undying love for him or it meant she thought she was pregnant. The latter was impossible. He’d been careful with his French letters, besides the fact that it was far too soon to know such a thing. As for the former, he was prepared for that, an occupational hazard. He’d handled it several times before. He knew how to let them down easy. He wondered who would let him down this time. He’d become far too caught up in this for his peace of mind.

  ‘Annorah, what is it?’ He stepped towards her, taking those tightly clenched hands in his grip.

  ‘I have a business proposal for you. I know we aren’t supposed to talk about such things, but this can’t wait. My aunt Georgina has invited me to her house party.’ She held up the invitation in her hand. ‘Actually, she’s been inviting me for weeks. Will you come with me?’ She rushed to add, ‘I will pay you.’

  The offer would have been a miracle from the gods if not for that last part, given Channing’s news. Nicholas pushed a hand through his hair. She looked so desperate but he didn’t want her to beg any more than he wanted to feel cheapened by the money she’d attached to the request. He’d at least like to pretend money had nothing to do with his acceptance as he’d done with Channing.

  It sat poorly with him that she might think he would allow himself to be bought. Although that was foolish in the extreme. She already knew he could be bought. He’d been paid to come here, after all. The idea that he’d go anywhere, do anything as long as he was paid suggested he had absolutely no moral code. That was not the man he wanted to be in her eyes.

  You shouldn’t care what she thinks, came the firm voice in his head, the one that helped him keep a practical equilibrium when his emotional balance was threatened. It seldom happened these days, but it was rearing its head now as she faced him on the veranda, anxiety written on her features. Not all of the anxiety was focused on his acceptance. The event that had prompted the offer had no doubt contributed, too. The need to defend her stirred deep inside him, primal and protective as it awoke. Nothing would invade her sanctuary if he could help it and the rules of the game be damned. ‘Who do you need me to be?’

  Annorah held his gaze as she said words that nearly floored him in the most literal sense. ‘I need you to be my husband.’

  ‘It’s not that simple,’ Nick began, trying to gather his thoughts but there were so many of them at the moment it was like herding cats—why did she need a husband so suddenly? What was it about this house party that had her anxious to the point of paleness? What was he to say to her? A husband was the one thing he couldn’t be, temporary or otherwise.

  ‘Yes, it is that simple.’ Annorah’s response was quick and fierce. Her hands gripped the invitation, leaving indents in the white paper. ‘London is a half-day’s ride. You can ride out this morning, get a special licence and be back tomorrow. We can marry the next day before we leave for the party.’

  Two thoughts emerged from the pack roiling in his head. One, she’d t
hought all this out in the short time he’d left her, and, two, she meant for this to be a legal marriage. She wasn’t asking him to play her husband. She was asking him to be her husband, as in for ever and ever until death did them part.

  ‘Please, Nicholas. I’m running out of time. You are my last hope. I know it’s sudden and I know it’s crazy—please consider it. I swear I’ll pay you handsomely. You’ll never want for anything.’

  ‘Except perhaps my freedom and my pride. Two things, I assure you, a man holds dear.’ His words were sharp and they cut; he could see the hurt in her eyes. This was getting worse by the minute. He should pack his bags and walk away right now. There was nothing but trouble behind this offer. Besides, he shouldn’t even consider it. He couldn’t be her husband. He’d already betrayed his family. He wouldn’t betray hers, too, by aligning them with his dirty past. This was absolutely as far as his association with her could go. Yet his boots couldn’t seem to find their way off the veranda.

  * * *

  Oh, Lord, he was going to refuse and why shouldn’t he? She’d just offered him the same arrangement that had been offered her: money for her freedom. She had resisted such a situation for years. Why should Nicholas D’Arcy be any different? She would let him out of it eventually, if she could. But for now, she wasn’t sure that was something she could legally promise.

  Annorah hoped she didn’t look as desperate as she felt. She didn’t want his pity, but she would tolerate it if that’s what it took. If anyone was going to help her face this, it would be him. Her aunt had sent a ‘gentle reminder’ that the coach would come for her the day after next and that she should pack all she would need. Mr Bartholomew Redding was looking forward to becoming reacquainted and there were high hopes all around for a match this time. She did remember Mr Redding, didn’t she? He’d courted her once and still held her in high esteem.

  That had put her into a high panic. Redding was the stuff of nightmares, the very man who had nearly forced her into marriage years ago. It had all come down to marry or surrender and this morning, those options weren’t good enough. There had to be some middle ground.

  That’s when she’d thought of Nicholas. He could be her middle ground, the husband who saved Hartshaven. He would certainly be a far more tolerable husband than Redding, who’d suspiciously buried two wealthy wives already and who had attempted to force his attentions on her once before.

  ‘Annorah, what is going on?’ Nicholas took the card from her. At least he was still standing there. That had to be a good sign.

  Now she had to give him an honest answer. ‘My aunt Georgina is hosting her annual house party and she has someone she wants me to meet. I’d prefer not to meet him.’ There, that was succinct and to the point.

  Nicholas crossed his arms and leaned back against the brick planter. ‘You could simply stay home.’

  Annorah shook her head. ‘I know it looks like an invitation, but it’s really a summons in disguise. She holds a house party every year in the hopes of matching me up with someone.’ It was a party designed to drill Annorah with guilt for having failed the family. She knew very well her aunt held the party near or on her birthday to serve as a reminder time was passing. Every year she remained unmarried was a year closer to the family’s demise, in her aunt’s eyes.

  ‘This year, she’s been particularly determined. She’s been writing since April.’ There was too much history she didn’t want to unearth.

  Nicholas handed the invitation back to her. ‘I’d make her come here.’ Mischief was starting spark in his eyes.

  ‘And risk being unable to dislodge her?’ Annorah had an answer ready for that. ‘I think not. I’d much rather be able to leave and be rid of her when I choose.’ But that was merely the surface. She knew better than Nicholas that this was not a minor female power struggle over who could make whom do what. Or maybe not. Nicholas seemed to sense the incompleteness of her answers.

  He held out his arm. ‘Come walk with me, Annorah, and tell me what’s really going on.’

  ‘What makes you think anything is going on?’ Annorah said crossly.

  ‘Well, for starters, you want to make your secret librarian-consort of four days into your husband. Forgive me for thinking a game is afoot.’ It was not said unkindly and they both laughed a little, the sun returning to their morning. Nicholas covered her hand with his where it lay on his arm and said more seriously, ‘I’ve known from the start that a woman like you doesn’t hire a man like me unless she is desperate. Tell me everything, Annorah. What has caused a beautiful, wealthy woman to think she has no way out except marriage to me?’

  Annorah turned her face to catch his gaze, moved by his words, the soft tenor of his voice filled with genuine concern. She felt her throat tighten as the words spilled out. ‘I’m only wealthy if I marry by my thirty-third birthday. If I don’t, by next week, I lose all of this.’

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘What?’ Nicholas’s head shot up, his brow knit. Surely, he had misheard or maybe he’d misunderstood. But he hadn’t. He knew the truth of it in his gut. This was the answer to the darkness and it shattered the perfection of Hartshaven.

  ‘If I remain unwed by the age of thirty-three, the Price-Ellis fortune reverts to charity and the church,’ Annorah said plainly.

  The answer might be simple enough, but its implications were not. Questions rioted in his head as Nicholas tried to grasp all the tendrils spiralling from the premise. Why hadn’t she married? Surely there had been suitors? Any one of them could have stopped this from happening, from getting this far. But that was the mystery. Why had it got this far?

  ‘Have you challenged the will?’ It was the question he was least interested in having answered, but it was the most harmless of the questions swirling in his mind.

  ‘Of course I’ve had it looked at.’ Annorah gave him a withering look. ‘I’ve had every lawyer of merit in England take it apart piece by piece. Not one of them found anything wrong with my father’s request. In the eyes of legal England, there’s nothing unusual about a father setting conditions on how and when a fortune is handed over to his only surviving child.’ She shrugged. ‘When put that way, I am hard pressed to quibble with the letter of the law. People set similar conditions like that all the time when it comes to inheritance.’

  ‘But the spirit of the law?’ Nicholas prompted.

  She gave a wan smile. ‘I find little to dispute over the spirit either. My father didn’t want me to be alone. He believed the inheritance being contingent upon my marriage would ensure I would marry. When, in fact, it has ensured just the opposite. Fortunes attract the most unattractive of men.’

  Nicholas could imagine a drawing room full of questionable gentlemen: sharps and shades, gamblers and roués. ‘But surely a fortune would have drawn a nobleman or two?’ he pointed out. He knew several barons and even viscounts who wouldn’t mind seeing their second sons married to such wealth, even if it came without a title.

  Annorah’s answer was tart. ‘Having a title doesn’t preclude a man from being an inveterate fortune hunter. There were plenty of titles looking for money. I just didn’t want to be married for the sake of being married. Nor did I want to be bartered away for my money.’ She looked up at him. ‘I thought to wait it out. I thought something better, something honest, would come along. When you’re eighteen, fifteen years seems like for ever.’

  There was hurt in her tone. Her green eyes held sadness. Nicholas pieced a little more of the picture together. He could see how a woman like Annorah, who’d come from parents who had loved one another intensely, would be ruined by the idea of marrying simply to protect her money. Jaded and disillusioned, perhaps even broken-hearted. No, definitely broken-hearted, Nicholas decided. Young and impressionable, she would have thrown herself into love, believing that anyone she courted would feel the same. It was why she’d demanded his lovemaking be
more than a performance. She would not settle for half-measures from anyone, even herself.

  ‘And now you are desperate for a husband at the eleventh hour?’ Nicholas said softly. Her principles had betrayed her here at the last. There’d been no knight in shining armour.

  ‘Yes, or else I must pluck up the courage to face a new life in the north.’ She played with her fingers, lacing and unlacing them. ‘I’ve had all this time to decide what my choice will be and I still haven’t made up my mind. If I don’t decide, it will be made up for me.’

  Exile. That was what the new life in the north was. She’d be cut off from life as she knew it both in terms of family and finances. Nicholas had no doubts the family that remained would not tolerate that choice and remain on friendly terms. ‘Didn’t your aunt say she had someone for you to meet? She has a suitor for you.’ He meant for the words to be encouraging. There was an eleventh-hour husband waiting in the wings, although it galled him to think so. He had to think about what was best for her.

  Annorah stopped him with a swift glare. ‘Bartholomew Redding is the man my aunt has chosen. I know who he is and I’d rather the choice of a husband be mine. He is not a man I would willingly tie myself to.’

  But she would bind herself to him, a man she barely knew, Nicholas mused, even when she knew nothing about him, which spoke volumes as to Bartholomew Redding’s character. Of course, if she really knew him, she’d be less inclined to throw herself away. The north might start looking a whole lot better.

  ‘I’m not husband material, Annorah,’ Nicholas began apologetically.

  ‘I’m not asking you to be a husband in the traditional sense. I’ll make it worth your while. I’ll set up a fund for you and, after a decent period of time, I’ll let you go your own way. I fear I may not be able to give you a divorce, but I can give you some freedom. I won’t demand much.’ She was begging. It soured his stomach to see her so desperate and he so powerless to help.