by Adele Clee
Paralysed with fear, Nicole stared at his skeletal features. This man’s flowery protestations masked a lecherous oaf with a warped view of love and intimate relations.
He captured her hands between his sweaty palms. “I thought I had lost my innocent little dove.”
She was not so innocent anymore. She was one step away from giving her virtue to an earl she’d met but a few days ago.
“My little bird had flown away,” Lord Mosgrove continued. “And now she has come back to me. Wait until your brother hears the news. He’s been beside himself with worry.”
Nicole choked back a cry. Her heart pounded in her throat. She could barely breathe let alone speak. “Is … is my brother here this evening?”
Please, Lord, no!
“Not tonight.”
The sudden rush of relief was almost as debilitating.
“Your sister has a migraine,” Mosgrove continued. “I fear she has been ill for months. Not surprising really when one considers how long you’ve been gone. Oh, they’ve scoured the streets day and night. Even searched the Servants’ Registry Office of all places.”
How fortunate that the Earl of Stanton had posted his advertisement in the Times.
“But we will go to your brother this evening.” Lord Mosgrove brought her hands to his lips and brushed a slimy kiss on top. “We will tell him our good news.”
Lord Mosgrove was perhaps the most deluded man she’d ever had the bad fortune to meet.
“Our good news?”
“Indeed. You have found your way home, and now we can wed.” As though only seeing her for the first time, he cast a critical eye over the low neckline of her gown. “Where on earth did you find such a monstrosity?” He released her hands and tugged the ends of her silk wrap across her chest. “While I admire your effort to impress me, my dear. Such treasures are for one’s husband’s eyes only.”
Now her hands were free from his grasp, she stepped back. “But you are mistaken in your assumptions, my lord.” A little courage was all she needed. “I have not come home. Indeed, I have a home of my own.” Sometimes lies were necessary. “And I am betrothed to the Earl of Stanton.”
Oliver had openly declared it so. If he knew the truth about her brother and Lord Mosgrove, he would not object to her telling the tale.
Lord Mosgrove’s pale cheeks flamed red. “My dear, that is not possible. Not when you are betrothed to me. No. The excitement upon being reunited has left your mind muddled. But we’ll soon have you set to rights.”
Nicole straightened. “I am to marry Oliver Darby.”
“Like hell you are.” His benevolent mask fell away to reveal the controlling monster beneath. “You’re marrying me, and I’ll not hear another damn word about it. Now come here where I can keep an eye on you.”
Lord Mosgrove lunged forward.
Nicole darted out of the way, but he chased her around the small compartment. The lord grabbed her dress and yanked her back, tearing the material.
“Let go of me, you … you buffoon.”
Despite having a thin frame, Mosgrove was taller and stronger than Baxter. With the door closed she had no hope of escaping.
The lecherous oaf pulled her to his chest and wrapped his arms around her waist. With her back to him, she could see out over the vast auditorium. The boxes opposite were mostly empty. Other than those where the occupants were too engrossed with each other to care what was happening elsewhere.
“Oliver!” she cried as loud as she could.
“Will you stop that!” Mosgrove slapped his clammy hand over her mouth. “Why must you fight me? Don’t you know I only want to make you happy? Come now, my dear. Calm yourself so we can be on our way.”
“Miss Flint!”
Lord Mosgrove’s hand covered her mouth so tightly she couldn’t fill her lungs sufficiently to think. Consequently, it took seconds for the sound of Oliver’s voice to penetrate the haze.
“Miss Flint. Where are you?”
Nicole mumbled against Mosgrove’s hand.
“Be quiet.”
She tried to bite him but to no avail. Then she remembered he suffered from gout in the joint below his toe. If only she’d worn sturdy boots instead of flimsy slippers. Still, with all the strength she could muster she brought her heel down on the blighter’s left foot.
“Ow!” He immediately relinquished his hold on her mouth and waist. “For all the blasted saints,” he cried in pain as he hopped up and down. “Why did you do that? When your brother hears of this lunacy, he’ll be livid. Mark my words.”
At that, the door to the private box burst open and Oliver stood there, filling the doorway. His frantic gaze settled on her. And then the devil rose up ready to relegate Mosgrove to the fiery pits of hell.
Oliver stepped inside and slammed the door. “You’d better have a bloody good reason for keeping the lady in this room.”
Mosgrove puffed out his scrawny chest. “I do not see what business it is of yours, Stanton.”
Either the man had the memory of a fish, or he was in complete denial.
“Don’t you? Then allow me to explain. The lady you are currently harassing is my betrothed. I believe I have every right to know what is going on.”
“You’re betrothed?” Mosgrove snorted. “How can that be when I have already made a down payment?”
The blood drained from Nicole’s face.
“A down payment?” The fine lines at the corners of Oliver’s eyes crinkled. “She’s not a horse at Tattersalls.”
Mosgrove shuffled towards her. “I paid her brother five thousand pounds for the privilege. And then she upped and disappeared, and I’ve not heard so much as a chirp from her since. We’ve been searching for months.”
Oliver turned his attention to her. “Is this true?”
The hard lump in her throat was pressing on her windpipe. “Yes. Lord Mosgrove had an arrangement with my brother though I had no say in the matter.”
“A written arrangement?”
Mosgrove made a puffing sound. “Written? No. A shake of the hand and the word of a gentleman was good enough for me.”
“And you were aware that the lady disapproved of the match?” Oliver cast her a sidelong glance. What was he thinking? He looked so serious and so damnably annoyed.
“Do ladies really know what they want?” came the ridiculous reply. “A host of pretty dresses and they’re content enough. She’ll come around to the idea.”
Oliver exhaled deeply. His blue eyes turned a cold silver-grey. “Then it is unfortunate for you, Lord Mosgrove, that I paid her brother eight thousand pounds for the pleasure of her hand.”
“What?” Mosgrove sucked in his cheeks. “But that’s not possible.”
“Oh, I can assure you it is.” Like a panther stalking its prey, the earl took a step closer. “Your gripe is with her brother. Now move aside and allow the lady to pass, else I shall knock your rotten teeth so far down your throat you’ll be chewing on your food for days after you’ve swallowed it.”
A little ruffled but still unperturbed by the threat, Mosgrove captured hold of her elbow, and she struggled to shake free of his grasp. “What sort of man would I be to relinquish my love at the mere threat of violence.”
“I do not make idle threats,” Oliver roared. He closed the gap between them, grabbed Mosgrove by the lapels of his coat and thrust him back over the viewing window. “Perhaps I should relegate you to the pit with the other miscreants where you belong.”
With nothing but Oliver’s strength stopping Mosgrove from falling back into the stalls below, he cried, “Wait! Wait!”
Arms flailing, Mosgrove tried to hold on to the gilt edge.
A scream echoed through the auditorium.
“Let him go, Oliver.” Nicole hovered at the earl’s side, too scared to touch him in case he lost his grip. “Come. We don’t have time to waste here. He’s not worth the time or the trouble.”
“Please. Please. I beg you.” Mosgrove whimpered like a schoolboy
cornered by the class bully. “Put me down.”
“I cannot abide a man who enjoys exerting control over women.” Oliver pulled him back to safety, released the lord’s coat and brushed his hands clean to show his disdain. “Lay one grubby finger on Miss Flint again, and I shall stalk you through the ballrooms, waiting for an opportunity to pounce.”
The words were chilling but were not the reason for the shiver running down Nicole’s spine.
“Miss Flint?” Lord Mosgrove sounded confused.
Damn it all. She would explain the nature of her deception later once back at Stanton House.
“Stop playing games, Lord Mosgrove.” Nicole moved to Oliver’s side and slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. “I’m to marry Lord Stanton. There is nothing you can do.” With luck, she’d be far away from the city before Mosgrove, or her brother discovered it was all a lie.
The tinkle of glass and the creak of pulleys in the auditorium drew their attention. The giant chandelier in the centre of the ceiling quivered as it was lowered down on ropes.
“It’s late.” Oliver turned and opened the door. “They’re set to extinguish the candles. And so we must be on our way. I suggest you leave too, Mosgrove, lest you stumble in the dark and do yourself an injury.”
“This is not the end of the matter.” Mosgrove’s threat hung in the air. “Let us see what your brother has to say.”
A crippling sense of foreboding surfaced as Nicole imagined Jeremy’s face twisted with the need for revenge. Indeed, the vision was still with her as they descended the stairs to go in search of the maid.
It would be with her until the day she finally faced her wicked sibling.
Chapter Fifteen
The foyer of the Haymarket was empty except for a few stragglers. Oliver tried to access the door leading to the dressing rooms, but the steward who gave permission for members of the public to enter, and who took bribes from those not on the list, was nowhere in sight.
“Mosgrove has a lot to answer for.” Oliver could think of nothing but punching the lord’s sunken eyes even further into his head. “Come, we’ll have no choice but to wait outside.”
With a firm grip of Nicole’s hand, they exited the theatre and hurried across the street to the George Tavern. The entrance to the alehouse afforded a view of the unmarked door to the far right of the Haymarket. Drunken patrons hovered on the pavement, their loud and garish behaviour made it a perfect place to blend in and keep watch. A perfect place to avoid Lord Mosgrove should he take it upon himself to follow them.
Nicole looked up at him. “Do you think we’ll find Miss Brooke’s maid?”
“There is every chance we’ve missed her.”
Blood still flowed through his veins like hot, molten lava. Though he did not need spectacles, the imposing building before them seemed much further away. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. He should have beaten Mosgrove to a pulp for laying his filthy hands on Nicole.
“Are you angry?” Her hard stare fixed on his face.
Anger was a mild emotion compared to the rage burning inside.
The feeling had nothing to do with missing the maid. If there was one thing he hated, it was the sight of fear in a woman’s eyes. He’d witnessed his mother’s pallid face and frozen expression so many times the sight still haunted him. After one glance at Nicole’s deathly pallor, he’d happily hang in his quest for retribution.
“Yes, I’m angry.” He turned his attention to the brown painted door opposite, but his mind insisted on conjuring images of Mosgrove assaulting Nicole in his private box.
“I should have told you about Lord Mosgrove. But I hoped never to lay eyes on him again.”
There was no need for her to offer a defence. Mosgrove was the one on trial, the only one who should swing from the gallows.
“When I heard you call my name …” The muscles in Oliver's stomach twisted into painful knots. “When I heard the desperate plea in that one word, my heart almost stopped beating.”
In truth, his mind was a jumbled mess of chaotic thoughts and emotions. And yet the tender ache in his chest remained constant. Since declaring his love for Nicole in an effort to wipe the smug look from Lady Foster’s face, he could not shake the feeling that there was some truth to the statement. The words had not been formed in his head or his throat but from a foreign place yet to be discovered.
“It was foolish of me to leave your box.” She squeezed his hand to make him listen, or perhaps by way of an apology. “Had I stayed a moment longer I was in danger of throttling that woman.”
“You and me both. Why do you think I left for Italy?” Had he remained in London, his father would have forced the marriage. At heart, Oliver was an honourable man. Found in a compromising position, he would have had no choice but to do the right thing.
“Even though she married Lord Foster, it is apparent she has feelings for you.”
“Feelings?” Oliver snorted. The only person Lady Foster loved was herself. “Anyone would think we were involved in a passionate affair when we’ve done nothing more than pass pleasantries.” The lady’s obsession had come from nowhere. Then again, he did not know what assurances his father had given. “I may have danced with her once, fetched her a glass of lemonade but therein lies the end of our association.”
A whiff of ale and the screech of an out-of-tune ballad filled the air. A drunken lout stumbled past them, dragging his feet. The fellow kept one eye on the road while the other surveyed the quality of their clothes.
The streets were not safe at night and with Oliver’s volatile mood he would swing for the first man brave enough to pass comment.
“It was foolish of me to give Lady Foster the opportunity to air her views,” he continued. “The woman is a consummate gossip, desperate to heal her injured pride.”
“I am the only one guilty of stupidity. Lord Mosgrove craves attention and often follows the crowd. There was always a chance we’d meet him here tonight.”
Her irrational fear of Town made perfect sense now. Once they’d dealt with the matter of Morton Manor, Oliver would find out where her brother lived and help her solve the problem once and for all.
“And so your eagerness to remain in my carriage has nothing to do with the new seats.”
“No, although your vehicle is remarkably comfortable.” A weak chuckle left her lips. “I was frightened to come to Town because … well … the last thing I wanted was for Jeremy to find me.”
“Jeremy is your brother?”
In the cool night air, her sigh materialised as a cloud of white mist. “He is. And now that he’s married Rowena they are double the trouble.”
Oliver drew his gaze away from the door of the Haymarket and turned to look at her. At times, she appeared so strong and independent. Now, with her emerald eyes swimming with sorrow, she looked so vulnerable he wanted to scoop her up into his arms and never let her go.
“Any brother capable of selling his sister to the highest bidder should be thrown into a pit of rabid dogs.” Oliver had left Rose in the hands of a devil, too, though he would never treat his sister as property to sell.
“Since developing a fondness for gaming, Jeremy is not at all like the sweet boy I once knew.” She clutched the flimsy wrap to her chest but her teeth chattered, and her lips were tinged blue. “His love of the tables has blackened his heart.”
Oliver shrugged out of his coat. “Here, it is far too cold to be out wearing nothing but a few thin layers of material.” He draped his coat over her shoulders. The garment swamped her, but she snuggled into it and inhaled deeply.
“Thank you. It smells divine.”
Oliver smiled. “So it should. That cologne was made specifically for me by a perfumer in Florence.” It wasn’t that he was frivolous. He’d taken pity on the man and had accepted the scent in place of his vowel.
“It’s not the smell of cologne that warms me,” she said with a soft, seductive lilt. “It is the natural scent that clings to your skin. The same essence I
tasted on your lips.”
Heaven help him. She was simply conveying her opinion, yet her sensual tone sent every drop of blood in his body racing to his cock. He shuffled on the spot in a bid to find a more comfortable position, but there was only one way to ease his torment.
“For a woman who believes in true love, you are incredibly talented when it comes to inciting lust in a man,” he said, although it wasn’t just lust he felt.
“Perhaps it is honesty you find stimulating.”
No. It was her. Everything about her spoke to him in a way no one else had before. He wanted her … in his arms … in his bed … in his life.
“Then I must say that I find myself a little besotted with honesty, Miss Flint.”
He expected a flirtatious response, but she shrank back. “About that. It is not in my nature to deceive anyone. But you must understand that I had to get away from Jeremy.” She shook her head too many times to count. “You saw Lord Mosgrove. He is irrational, utterly deluded. I’d rather die than marry such an odious creature.”
She was rambling, and her sentences lacked coherence.
“Nicole, I understand your reason for wanting to hide from your brother and for not mentioning Lord Mosgrove’s involvement. Indeed, had you told me I would have felt compelled to intervene.”
She appeared mildly appeased. “There is more to it than that.”
The sound of a door slamming dragged their attention back to the theatre. Two ladies stood on the pavement. One of them fiddled with the ribbons on her bonnet. Her companion batted the woman’s hands away and laughed. Then she removed the straw hat and brushed back the stray ebony locks before repositioning it and tying the ribbons.
Nicole nudged Oliver in the ribs. “Either Miss Flint has a twin sister, or that is the lady we met in Mr Jameson’s office.”
“Yes. As I suspected, she is Charlotte Brooke’s maid.” He had been in the same room as her on more than one occasion, though she had hovered in the background as maids do. “I cannot recall her name, although I have an inkling it could be Matilda.”
What he was yet to determine was how she knew to use the name Miss Flint. And if she used the alias to acquire Morton Manor fraudulently, then someone else knew that his father had hired a paid companion.