by Enslaved
Hadrian and Rourke exchanged looks. Without speaking, Hadrian walked over to the sideboard, unstoppered the crystal whiskey decanter, and poured three fingers’ worth of the amber-colored alcohol into a glass. Turning about, he offered the drink to Gavin. “Fancy a spot of whiskey to take the edge off?”
Gavin didn’t like to think his nervousness was that obvious but apparently it was, to his friends at least. He shook his head. “No, thank you.” He wanted to be clear-headed when his “houseguest” arrived.
Hadrian shrugged and sipped his drink. “Our Daisy always did have a fancy to tread the boards, though I dare say she’ll find London tame compared to Paris. If even half of the rumors flying about are true, she’s experienced her share of living beyond kicking up her heels in the can-can.”
The rage rolled over Gavin with the swiftness of a thunderbolt splitting in twain a placid summer sky. “I don’t think I care for what you’re implying.”
Hadrian hesitated, but his gaze never wavered. “I’m not implying anything. I only mean she’s sure to have had a protector, perhaps several. Those Paris dance halls may cater to bourgeois families for the early performances, but after the sun goes down over Monmarte, ooh la la. The Moulin Rouge is known about Paris as a market for love.”
Legion of lovers. The Prince of Wales invited her to a very private supper when he was in Paris last. Talent onstage said to come as second to her talent between the sheets.
Gavin had spent the past few days replaying the rumors in his mind. As much as he wanted to believe they were gross exaggerations, Daisy’s behavior onstage and later in her dressing room certainly bore them out.
Still holding onto the hope that it was all or mostly an act, he snapped, “I wasn’t aware you’d been to Paris.”
The jibe hit home. Scarlet heat flooded Hadrian’s face and his grip on the glass tightened. “You don’t have to go abroad to experience life, or recognize it, for that matter. Any woman with Daisy’s … attributes and in that line of work is bound to attract a goodly share of male attention, not all of it unwelcome. Why, just the other day I happened upon a copy of one of Nadar’s photographic portraits of Sarah Bernhardt. Now there’s an example of a highly successful French actress who started out her er … career as a courtesan. The French don’t seem to attach the same stigma to these arrangements as we English do. Christ, Gavin, with an upbringing like Daisy’s, surely you don’t expect the girl to be a virgin—do you?”
Gavin shot out of his chair, sending Mia jumping off the armrest and scurrying for cover. Meeting his friend’s startled gaze, he said through set teeth, “You’re all but implying she’s a common whore. Would you care to rescind that remark?”
“Draw it mild, Gav, he dinna mean it like that.” Rourke stepped between them and laid a restraining hand on Gavin’s arm. Glancing down to the thick fingers curled about his bicep, Gavin realized he’d raised his fist with the full intention of planting it in Harry’s face.
Christ, what’s gotten into me? Among their trio, he’d always been the placid one, the peacemaker, the sometimes saint, and yet a casual comment about Daisy’s all too probable past had him on the verge of coming to blows with one of his two best friends. The situation sounded an inner alarm.
Backing away, he shook off his friend’s hold. “Sorry. I don’t know what came over me. Seeing her again after all these years, the same and yet so very different, has wreaked havoc with my head. It seems I’m incapable of rational thought.”
Hadrian picked up his drink. “No worries, Gav. A woman can do the very devil of a dance through a man’s mind. When that boudoir photograph of Callie landed on the newsstands, I wanted to murder every paperboy I could get my hands on even if I was the one who’d taken the blasted picture in the first place. How’s that for irrational?”
“Unlike Callie, Daisy apparently has earned her reputation.”
Hadrian nodded. “Well, you must admit, she’s on her way to being famous, or rather infamous, on two continents—hardly shabby work for an orphan girl born with one foot in the workhouse. I, for one, say good on her.”
“Why thank you, mate. I quite agree.”
The three men swung about. Daisy stood in the doorway, a carpet bag dangling from either gloved hand.
Tearing his gaze away from her, Gavin looked between Rourke and Hadrian. Standing at stiff attention, they resembled the Queen’s Guard outside Buckingham Palace rather than two friends reuniting with a third. But then Daisy wasn’t their Daisy any more but Delilah du Lac, a celebrity whose fame had reached across the Channel. Though Hadrian was besotted with his Callie, and Rourke had set his cap for the lovely if prickly Lady Kat, they were still men with the normal male curiosity.
Gavin’s manservant, Jamison, appeared red-faced in the doorway behind her. A sparely built man of fifty-odd, Jamison had been in Gavin’s employ since he’d left his grandfather’s residence and set up his own five years before. Ordinarily it took a great deal to disrupt the servant’s implacable calm, but it seemed Daisy had managed the feat within mere minutes of her arrival. “Please accept my apologies, sir. I asked the lady to wait while I announced her, but the moment I turned my back, she—”
“Hightailed it through the foyer and barged directly in,” Daisy finished with a wink. “Truth be told, I’ve never been terribly good at waiting.”
“That’s quite all right, Jamison,” Gavin said. “If you’ll see about some refreshment, we’ll take over entertaining Miss Lake.”
Dropping her bags inside the door, Daisy swept into the room. Smartly turned out in a princess-cut emerald green carriage dress and matching hat festooned with blond fringe, she looked elegant and imminently respectable albeit more stylish than the typical Englishwoman. With the exception of a telltale tinge of color accentuating the high curve of her cheekbones and wantonly full mouth, she might have passed for a society beauty back from a shopping excursion to Paris. But had he really expected her to show up in broad daylight wearing full stage paint and short striped skirts?
Rourke rushed forward and captured her in a hearty hug, lifting her from the floor. “Why, you’re a sight for sore eyes.” Setting her down, he held her at arm’s length. “I always knew you’d grow into a beauty. Turn about, lass, and let us have a look at you.”
Obviously used to being at the center of male attention, she obliged by stepping back and executing a perfect little pirouette sans blushing or begging off. “I’m glad to see you haven’t changed a jot, Patrick. You’re as charming a rogue as you ever were, only far better looking and taller than I recall.”
Rourke grinned. His lack of height had been a sore point for him when they were boys. “Aye, you’ve the right of it, sweeting, only I’m a prosperous rogue these days—what respectable folk call a businessman.”
Daisy looked suitably impressed, and Gavin saw how her gaze took in the gemstones twinkling from Rourke’s earlobe and the little finger of his right hand. Fighting a twinge of jealousy, he explained, “Rourke has done a great deal better by himself than setting up shop. He’s what is known as a railway magnate—or ‘robber baron’ as the Americans fancy saying.”
Daisy swiveled her head back to Rourke, who nodded. “Aye, stealing railway shares from under the quality’s toffee-covered noses isna all that different from pinching their watches and purses, save the law can’t hang you for it nor lock you up, either.”
She turned to Hadrian. “And you must be our very own Handsome Harry all grown up. Why, you’re just as fine looking as you ever were, only more so I dare say.”
He planted a kiss on the proffered cheek but, catching Gavin’s gaze, swiftly stepped back. “You’ve a glib tongue, my girl, but so long as its compliments you’re serving up, I’ll gladly take them—only the name’s Hadrian now. You’re not the only one to take a stage name.” He punctuated the admission with a wink.
Watching the three of them slip into flirting and teasing with good-natured Cockney ease, Gavin felt very much the outsider. Even though he live
d in an East End tenement for his first thirteen years, he’d never been a part of that world, not really. Despite the menial work she’d undertaken, his mother had always borne herself as a lady and had imparted her fine manners and cultured speech to Gavin from the cradle.
Remembering his duty as host, he invited everyone to take seats. “Tea should be along shortly.”
Daisy sat on the settee. Smoothing out her skirts, she gazed at the whiskey glass Hadrian held and said, “I wonder, do you have any sherry or perhaps a nip of that lovely looking whiskey? I could do with a drop.”
Gavin winced, but predictably Rourke declared a round of whiskey to be a capital plan. Gavin made a mental note to take up the topic with Daisy at a later time. For the present, rather than embarrass her in front of their friends, he rose and poured out the drinks.
Hadrian grinned. “Still determined to do everything we lads do, I see.”
“Indeed, only better.” Her drink in hand, she shot him an unladylike wink. “Bottoms up, lads.”
The threesome laughed and touched glasses. Gavin sat stiffly, looking on.
The arrival of the tea tray forestalled further awkwardness. To his surprise, Daisy set her drink aside and served them all without being asked, performing the ritual competently, if not expertly.
Cup and saucer balanced on her lap, she asked, “What did you lads think of my act the other night?”
Compliments poured forth from Rourke and Hadrian, but Gavin kept silent, wondering if she wasn’t baiting him. Afterward, they chatted about a variety of topics, including the world’s first moving picture show, which had debuted in New York City the year before. Hadrian was curious as to what effect, if any, the new medium might have on the future of theater. Not surprisingly, Daisy was a staunch defender of live performance though she admitted to some curiosity to see the former for herself.
The conversation wound down with Gavin contributing nary a word. Hadrian set aside his cup and saucer and rose. “If you’ll pardon me, I’ve promised to fetch my wife home from her office. No doubt she’s too knee-deep in paperwork or placard making or some other worthy task to miss me overmuch, but the plain fact is I miss her—damnably.”
Rourke popped up beside him. “You’ve your bride in pocket, but I’ve yet to bag mine. A wee bird whispered in my ear that a certain wild Kat means to take her filly for a trot about Rotten Row this afternoon, and I’ve a mind to show up there myself.”
Goodbyes were said and their two friends filed out into the foyer. Resuming his seat, the moment Gavin had been dreading and anticipating in equal turns arrived. He and Daisy were alone.
In the bright light of day and without stage paint to mask her, she looked younger than she had the other night, fresh and pretty if not precisely beautiful. Her heart-shaped face was more piquant than classic, the nose adorably turned up at the tip, the jade green eyes arched upward at the edges, a trait she accentuated by lining her eyes.
But it was her mouth that kept drawing him back, filling his head with fantasies about all the ways he might kiss her. He rather thought he would start by brushing ever so lightly over first one corner of her mouth then the other, then move on to trace the tantalizing ribbon of full upper lip with his tongue before teasing her lips apart and deepening the kiss and gliding inside to taste her, really taste her. When the fantasy progressed to where he was twining his fingers through cinnamon-colored tresses, Daisy’s bowed head between his thighs and her moist, hot mouth sliding like a velvet vise over his ready hard member, he knew it was time for this cozy tête-à-tête to end. It promised to be a long four weeks.
She took a sip of tea and set her cup and saucer aside. “Catch me up on our friends, if you don’t mind. Harry, I mean Hadrian, is a newlywed, I take it?”
Forcing his thoughts back to the present, he nodded. “He married the suffragette leader formerly known as Caledonia Rivers almost a year ago. Until then, she was one of the chief spokespersons on behalf of a Parliamentary bill to grant women the right to vote in national elections.”
Daisy hesitated. “She sounds a very worthy woman. I wouldn’t have imagined our Harry pairing off with such a sobersides, but then I wouldn’t have imagined him pairing off with any woman for longer than it took to coax her out of her knickers.”
Her frank speech bothered him more than he cared to let on, but beyond that it had him worrying over her future. Celebrating bawdiness had died out with Nell Gwynne and the Restoration and though many of the current actresses in vogue such as the celebrated Sarah Bernhardt weren’t born ladies, they were expected to at least act the part.
He noticed she hadn’t touched any of the tea treats, a respectable array of bite-sized cakes, scones, and finger sandwiches as well as a bowl of fresh strawberries served with a side dish of clotted cream, the latter a special indulgence in honor of the new arrival. Wondering if she might be one of those women forever worrying over her weight or if the selection simply wasn’t to her taste, he asked, “Is the tea all right? Would you care for something else?”
“Oh, no, this is lovely.”
As if waiting for his cue, she piled her plate with strawberries and several sandwiches. She peeled off the bread from a sandwich and popped the filling of cucumber, dill, and cream into her mouth.
Chewing, she said, “It sounds as though Rourke’s set his cap for an heiress.” Gavin admitted he had. “But I thought he was rich already?”
“Lady Kathryn Lindsey’s family is top-drawer, although land poor. It’s her pedigree he’s after, not her purse.”
“Top drawer, is she?” Daisy snorted. “That must mean she’s squint-eyed and plain.”
Making a mental note to add some rudimentary lessons in manners to her program of study, Gavin shook his head. “Hardly. Lady Kat may not be a beauty in the classic sense, but she’s comely enough to have sat for Hadrian as a photographer’s model as well as possessed of a razor sharp wit—and the tongue to match it. The only fly in the ointment is that so far the lady can’t seem to abide him.”
Daisy frowned and picked up another sandwich from her plate, giving it like treatment. “Don’t tell me the toffee-nosed bitch doesn’t think he’s good enough for her?”
He winced at the ease with which the vulgarity rolled off her tongue. “If that is indeed the case then for once our friend, Rourke, finds himself in company with a goodly number of London’s finest gentlemen.”
Popping another cucumber slice into her mouth, she asked, “How so?”
“The lady simply won’t have him—or any other man, for that matter. She swears matrimony is the province of fools, and she’d sooner end her days a maid than submit to a man serving as her legally appointed jailor.”
He expected her to shake her head, but instead she tilted her face to the side, a faraway look in her eye. “I can’t answer to the maid part, but I’d say she has the right of marriage. Most men treat their mistresses a great deal better than they do their wives—and they don’t always treat them so very well.”
The statement struck him as sadly jaded for one so young, but more to the point, it was obviously a veiled reference to all the men who’d enjoyed her favors, which in turn led him to ponder the depressing question of just how many men that might be.
Turning back to him, she said, “The other day, I didn’t think to ask what sort of law you practice. There are different sorts, aren’t there?”
Her question surprised him. He wouldn’t have imagined his profession would have interested her, but then it was likely she was only humoring him or being polite. “Most of the cases I take on are felony offenses tried in the criminal courts. Assault, theft, embezzlement, offenses against Her Majesty such as counterfeiting and coining with the occasional murder trial tossed in for good measure.”
Gaze shining, she said, “How splendid. I’m so proud of you.”
He shrugged, the compliment bringing him back to the awkward boy he’d once been. “There’s the occasional satisfaction, but for the most part the work is deadl
y dull—and frustrating. The law isn’t class blind by any stretch. Those with the money to do so generally purchase their way out of trouble whereas the poor and working classes are left to suffer the harshest penalties for oftentimes petty crimes driven more by desperation than any appreciable evil.” He stopped himself. “Sorry, there I go stepping up on my soapbox again.”
She shook her head. “Not at all, but speaking of soap boxes, do you remember that little makeshift stage we set up in the Roxbury House attic?” She punctuated the reminiscence with a soft smile.
Gavin found himself smiling with her. “Indeed, how can I forget? Given what little we had to work with, boards salvaged from milk crates and nary a proper tool in sight, it was a marvel of architectural design. With all the banging that went on, I wonder we were never caught out.”
She hesitated and then admitted, “We were. That miserable tattletale Lettie Pinkerton found us out and threatened to go to the headmaster.”
“Piggy Pinkerton.” Lord, but it had been years since he’d so much as thought of her, indeed of any of the Roxbury House orphans beyond their immediate circle.
She nodded. “Fortunately she proved even fonder of sweets than of tattling. With Harry’s smuggling hot cross buns and lemon tart from the kitchen, she must have gained a full stone that last month.”
So she hadn’t told him quite everything even then.
It wasn’t like before but still it was nice, this easy conversation, this sharing of memories, the good ones at least.
She turned her attention to the strawberries and cream, apparently saved for last. “This is good,” she said, and licked a dab of clotted cream from the corner of her mouth.
Watching her, Gavin felt as if the temperature in the room had shot up several degrees. “Jamison has the scones and tea cakes brought in from a nearby bakery. You’ve only to tell him your preferences and he’ll purchase accordingly.”