Secrets of a Gentleman Escort

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘He had no choice,’ Westmore answered, crossing his legs and settling back deep in his chair. ‘Your uncle couldn’t allow Nicholas to stay. Your uncle had to think about saving face for himself, too. If this evening’s events had been done in private, your uncle would have had more latitude to decide.’

  ‘I could have saved him if you had let me speak,’ Annorah challenged.

  Westmore scoffed. ‘A noble but foolish sentiment, Miss Price-Ellis. What would you have said? Yes, you’d hired him for five nights of pleasure at the going rate of a thousand pounds? How exactly would that have exonerated you or him? That would only have condemned you both. He worked too hard to protect you in there. I could not let his efforts go to waste, all undone in a gallant moment of unnecessary sacrifice.’

  Annorah shook her head. ‘You don’t understand. I told him once that I’d be proud to stand beside him in any drawing room. The first chance I had to prove it, I ran, even if I was forced to it. I should have found a way.’

  She was gaining no leverage with Westmore. He was a rugged, practical man by appearance and apparently by temperament, too. He had no empathy for sentiment, something he’d evinced on three occasions this evening. Make that four. His next comment affirmed it just in case there’d been any room for discrepancy.

  ‘Why is that something you’d want to prove?’ Westmore cocked his head and arched dark brows in query. ‘I think your sentiments speak well of you, but they are misdirected. You won’t want to hear what I have to say, but you should listen. Nicholas is a handsome, charming man, much more charming than I’ll ever be. There isn’t a woman in London who would turn him from her bed, paid or not. He is the stuff of dreams. So, let him tell you that he loves you and all of that foolish romantic drivel that goes with it and then let him go, because that’s what we do with dreams. We wake up from them and we go into the day, if we’re smart.’

  ‘Or if we’ve been hurt,’ Annorah snapped. Westmore was right; she didn’t want to hear a single word of what he offered. ‘I’ve been hurt before, sir, by men who would use me for my money, Redding the worst among them. But you have been hurt far deeper and you’ve refused to recover. That’s the difference between us.’

  A dark shadow passed over Westmore’s face, giving his features a menacing cast. Annorah feared she might have gone too far with this man she didn’t know beyond Nicholas’s recommendation. He took a step towards her. ‘You call hiring a paid escort for sexual pleasure recovered? I call it cowardly. You thought it would be a safe playground in which to indulge your curiosities—all the benefits of an intimate relationship without any of the costs. You wouldn’t be the first to do so, but that doesn’t mean you’ve recovered.’

  Through the sheer panels draping the window Annorah could see signs of early light. She could be away. ‘I do not care for your insinuations, Mr Westmore.’

  ‘My insinuations or me? Let’s not mince words, Miss Price-Ellis.’

  ‘Perhaps both, to be fair. Please excuse me. I am going to call for my carriage.’ She was determined to make a dignified exit and she almost did, too, but Westmore had the last word just as she reached the door.

  ‘The worst lies are the ones we tell ourselves.’

  Annorah shot him a hard look, opting to let silence speak for her instead of words. She was going home to Hartshaven, where she could separate the débâcle from the beauty of these past two weeks and put herself back together. She just hoped all the pieces would be there when she was done.

  * * *

  The thought sustained her as she woke Lily and saw her trunks loaded and the carriage rolled down the gravel drive of Badger Place as the sun peaked over the horizon. She would never come back here again. Annorah laid her head against the padded side of the carriage and gave into weariness, secure in the knowledge that when she awoke she’d be at Hartshaven where everything would be as she left it.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘You did not stay where I left you.’ Channing steepled his hands and leaned back in his chair in his office. A newspaper lay open on the desk. Nicholas didn’t need three guesses to know what he was reading.

  ‘You told me not to come back to London, to stay in the country.’ Nicholas was surly. He hadn’t slept in nearly two days.

  ‘I can see that you didn’t take those instructions either. Instead you went and got engaged to your latest client,’ Channing scolded. ‘This is serious, Nicholas. Burroughs is after your hide and you were less than circumspect at the Timmermans’ house party. It’s not just you on the line here, although that alone should have been enough to warrant some caution from you.’

  He’d never encountered Channing quite so angry before. Nicholas pushed a hand through his hair. ‘What do you want me to do? I’ll duel with Burroughs if that will make things right.’

  ‘Dear God, do you ever listen to yourself?’ Channing exploded out of his chair with frustration, pacing the room. ‘How do you think a duel helps anything? A duel is as good as an admission. The league is all but exposed. We can’t afford that.’ People might know or highly suspect what each of the individuals who worked for Channing did, but no one knew they worked through the same agency or that Channing Deveril, son of an earl, coordinated it all. It was a business built on secrecy. Clients had a need for discretion as much as Channing’s gentlemen.

  ‘What do you want from me, then?’

  ‘I want to know what happened in Sussex.’

  Nicholas stared blankly at Channing. How could he explain it to Channing when he couldn’t quite explain it to himself? He did have an explanation for it, but the explanation seemed improbable and, even if it were true, it merely created an impossible situation. ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘It sure as hell better be.’

  ‘I assure you it’s a regular Gordian Knot,’ Nicholas replied drily. Just like the knot in his stomach. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t do much of anything except think about Annorah. Had Westmore taken care of her? Was she raging mad at him? Had she forgiven him? Probably not. Two days was not long when it came to a woman’s wrath.

  Channing rolled his eyes. ‘I’m sure that’s a mythical reference from a book I’ve never read.’ Channing was smart like a fox, not a scholar. ‘Can you try at least?’ Channing’s tone softened, his anger receding.

  ‘Nothing out of the usual. You know how these long-term arrangements can be.’ That arrow would hit its mark even if Channing’s expression gave nothing away. Channing had done an extended assignment over the Christmas holidays and hadn’t been the same since. Nicholas highly suspected something had or perhaps hadn’t happened. He moved the conversation swiftly forwards. ‘I’ll be fine.’ Doubtful, but why admit to it? That made it too real.

  Channing gave him a sceptical look. ‘And the engagement? Will it be fine? Forgive me if I doubt it. You look like hell. I can’t imagine the engagement will fare much better.’

  ‘It will last a year. It was what was agreed upon,’ Nicholas said staunchly. It was the last bit of loyalty he could show Annorah.

  Channing blew out a breath. ‘I suspect this means you won’t be working. It would be awkward for an engaged man. What will you do with yourself?’

  Nicholas shrugged. Annorah had asked the same. He had no ideas. ‘London is an entertaining city. I am sure I’ll find something to do.’

  ‘Burroughs will hear you’re back,’ Channing warned. ‘Have you thought about going home? It would be safer.’ He reached into his coat pocket for an envelope. ‘Miss Price-Ellis has sent the money for the engagement.’ Channing waved a thick envelope.

  ‘I can’t take it.’ But lord, it was hard not to, hard not to salivate over the pound notes and what they represented. His mind was already spending them: care for Stefan, dresses for his sisters, relief for his mother. But he owed Annorah more. She would have her engagement, but if rumours trav
elled to Hartshaven, the engagement would be covered in scandal after the house party.

  Channing tossed the envelope to him. ‘Then you can send it back yourself.’

  Nicholas took himself upstairs to the private chambers, where each of the league had their own bedrooms. The rooms were not for work. This wasn’t a brothel after all. The rooms were for privacy. Most of the men Channing employed had nowhere else to go. They needed a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. He certainly had needed both when Channing had run across him in the East End.

  Nicholas unpacked his trunk, putting his shirt studs and cravat pins in a small box on his bureau. He’d come a long way since then. When he’d first come to the city, he’d not had a single cravat pin to his name. Anything he’d had of value he’d sold and sent the money home while he tried to make a living wage, clerking for a shipping firm on the docks.

  Nicholas put his carefully pressed shirts into a dresser drawer. Those days on the docks had been a rude awakening for a gentleman’s son used to the outdoors and the freedom of his own hours. He’d been twenty-one at the time and had only recently fallen from the standard of living that had sustained him during childhood. But he’d set aside his pride and gone to work, scraping together whatever he could for his mother and two sisters. He’d lived over the fisherman’s shop and shared their meals, learning with shocking clarity how the rest of the world survived. Channing had met him when he’d been assigned a delivery to Deveril House in Mayfair. Within a week, he’d taken Channing’s offer to join him at his business on Jermyn Street.

  That had been six years ago. Now, he lived comfortably under Channing’s standard and, thanks to Annorah, he was debt-free, something he wouldn’t be if he’d stayed on the docks. He’d not once regretted his decision. His work was not much different than what his social life might have been had his father lived. He’d have come up to London and done many of the same things on occasion. The only discrepancy was that he was doing them every night, all year, instead of just during the Season. Channing had not forced him to make the jump from escort to intimate partner for hire. That had sort of evolved on its own and he’d not minded. Until now.

  Until Annorah had come along and reminded him of other pleasures, that life could be more than moving from one activity to another. Nicholas put his valise of sexual enhancements in the closet. He was unwilling to unpack it and risk unpacking his memories as well. They’d made good use of the items: the massage oil, the treasure hunt, the silken ropes, his sheaths. He thought about their last real conversation the night before the ball. Did she understand the interest had been mutual? Did she know he’d lost himself in the fantasy, too?

  Nicholas caught sight of himself in the mirror over his dresser. Channing was right. He did look like hell. At least that was easily cured with a bath and cucumber rings. He rang for one of Channing’s footmen to bring up hot water. It was William who answered the bell. He was eager to please, another person who owed their financial surety to Channing. The footmen who populated Argosy House were often young boys Channing had rescued from the streets in Seven Dials. He trained them up here, letting them learn the skills of running a big house and the skills for valeting. When they turned eighteen, they were given a reference from Channing and offered a chance to go into service.

  ‘I’m glad you’re back, sir.’ William dumped in the last bucket of hot water. ‘Did you have good time? I have your cucumbers here, too.’

  Nicholas sank into the warm suds. ‘Yes, I had a good time and thank you for the cucumbers.’ He shut his eyes and opened them again, sitting up. ‘William, one more thing before you go. There’s an envelope on the bureau. Can you see that it’s posted back to the woman who sent it?’ He slid down in the water once more, placing the cucumbers over his eyes in hopes of blocking out thoughts of all he had given away. It wasn’t working.

  * * *

  It hadn’t worked. Annorah stared out over the gardens of Hartshaven, hands gripping the stone balustrade of the veranda. Nicholas was simply everywhere. It had been weeks and she’d not succeeded in purging Hartshaven of his presence. There were memories wherever she looked or went. She couldn’t walk in the garden without recalling his audacious talk of stamen and irises. She couldn’t stand on this very veranda without remembering his first kiss, or eat at the table without recalling their long conversations.

  Those places weren’t even the worst. Her bedroom had become uninhabitable. She’d moved out of her bedroom under the pretence of wanting to redecorate and taken up residence in a guest room. She was pretty sure the staff was growing suspicious since she had yet to order any paint or wallpaper or fabric samples.

  Oh, she had tried to forget him. She’d thrown herself into the ladies’ circles in the village, doing more than usual. She’d cleaned out the attics and donated old furniture for a refurbishment project the vicar was undertaking. She continued with the summer school for the younger children in the village to encourage literacy. She had enjoyed that the most, although it was full of memories of Nicholas. She loved it when the little ones would climb on her lap to hear Bible stories or when they’d show her their attempts at printing on their chalk slates. In the autumn, she vowed to spend more time with them. There was much to do in conjunction with the vicar’s schooling efforts and she could do it.

  ‘Miss, there’s a letter for you.’ Plumsby came out on to the terrace with the salver.

  Annorah picked it up, a little thrill running through her at the thought of contact at last. Even a letter, a brief thank-you note, would be something from him. But the thrill was quickly replaced by anger.

  The letter was her own. He’d not taken the money. She turned the envelope over in her hands, her temper rising. Why? Was this because he wanted nothing more to do with her and this was his way of letting her know his job was done, or because he was making good on the truths he’d told to protect her in her uncle’s ballroom? Westmore had told her Nicholas had proclaimed he’d taken no money to accompany her to the ball.

  In the end, Nicholas hadn’t been all that different from her other romantic débâcles. He’d simply been the worst. They’d wanted her for her money at least. Nicholas hadn’t even wanted that.

  That’s not fair! her heart cried out against the cruel judgement. Maybe there was yet a third option: Nicholas had returned the money because he’d wanted to accompany her, not because he needed to. That was a slim hope indeed. She knew very well circumstances had prevented him from returning to Hartshaven, but it was difficult to accept. She wasn’t believing that line of reasoning as much as she was understanding her anger.

  She would honour their agreement even if he wouldn’t. He would not redeem payment on his own, he was proving to be stubborn. But it would be more difficult for him to refuse cash in front of him. An idea began to grow. Annorah tapped her fingers on the balustrade, the plans coming fast now. She would go to London and give him the money herself. No one returned a thousand pounds for a job they’d been hired to do without significant reason. She would see him one last time and know once and for all if there was anything real between them.

  Annorah fully acknowledged the answer might hurt. She knew she was going to London to present him not only with payment, but with herself as well. She would stand in front of him and she would challenge him to refuse her heart and her money.

  When Nicholas D’Arcy had awakened her, he’d awakened a tiger. For thirteen years, she’d passively dealt with her situation. She’d waited for lawyers, waited for her aunt, waited for suitors, waited for the inevitable. Perhaps she’d even waited for this moment when there was nothing else, no one else, but herself to stand between her and her destiny.

  She slapped the envelope against the palm of her hand. It was up to her. ‘Plumsby, tell Lily to pack my things. I am going to London for paint and fabric samples.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  London thrummed
with the pulse of life everywhere she looked. It was almost overwhelming, and that was just the view from her hotel room. Annorah did not recall the city being so busy the last time she’d been here, but she’d managed. Anger was an amazing energy source. She’d become a whirlwind of efficiency, of doing things now, not later. She had rooms at Grillons, an appointment with a dressmaker and one with a prestigious warehouse on the docks that carried fine fabrics. It had taken the better part of her first day in town to secure those arrangements. Now it was four o’clock and she had a decision to make.

  Annorah pulled out a card from her reticule and thumbed the corner, debating. Common sense dictated she should go down to the restaurant and take tea like the other ladies staying here, or she could go to the agency. The address on the card stared back at her, daring her to do it. Perhaps she should send word ahead and make an appointment for tomorrow?

  Anger fuelled her response. No, she could not wait. What if he refused to see her? Advance warning would give him that choice. She would lose the element of surprise, but she’d retain her dignity. If he didn’t want to see her, the agency wouldn’t be forced to slam the door in her face. There would be a polite note and a refusal wrapped in equally polite euphemisms about busyness and genuine regret that he could not connect with her.

  She would not tolerate such a response. That would not solve the issue with the money, nor was it truly what she’d come here to do. If she’d braved this crowded, stinking city in July, she was not going to settle for half-measures of sitting in a hotel and sending a note. She had money to give him, money that was rightfully his and she had to do it in person. He’d left her no choice when he’d returned her letter unopened. And Annorah Price-Ellis was tired of being left with no choices.

  Annorah called for Lily, who was just in the bedchamber beyond the sitting room. ‘I need the blue carriage ensemble. We’re going out.’ There, she’d publicly proclaimed her intentions. She couldn’t back out now.