“Then what about one of these invitations?” Harry plucked a card from one of the many floral arrangements. “Surely one of these must tempt you?”
“I’m afraid not, my friend.”
“You’re a bore! How dreadful. You mustn’t let word of it leak to the press or you’ll be ruined.”
But Grey had already been ruined once—and survived—so the threat of a similar fate had no merit. He shrugged. “Sorry to disappoint you, Harry.”
“You don’t appear the least bit sorry. You’re taking the part of a brooding artist, suffering from ennui too far. It isn’t healthy. Or profitable.”
“I don’t need more money.”
“Don’t you dare blaspheme! One always needs more money.”
“I’m just tired, Harry.”
Tired in his mind, his bones and his soul. He’d depended on grit and bile to get him through tonight’s performance, and now that it was over, there was nothing left to drive him, to inspire him, only the hollow thought of more tours, snobbery and heartless flattery.
The other man sighed. “At least come home with me and visit Mama. She hounds me, Grey—hounds me!—for your company.”
But Grey was even less interested in Lady Hickox, his mistress. She had rescued him from obscurity and launched his musical career abroad. She had taught him about business and pleasure, but he had grown tired of her, as well.
“Give your mother my deepest regard, but I must decline.”
Harry rubbed the back of his neck in obvious discomfort. “She’s going to cut me off, Grey. I’m her youngest. I’ve no fortune to inherit. I live entirely off her good graces. And I’ll not remain in her good graces if you don’t visit her soon. Can’t you two lovebirds patch things up?”
“I’m afraid I can’t prostitute myself for you tonight.”
“And why the devil not? You’ve no other plans this evening.”
Grey downed the wine in his glass. “I’ve plans after all, it seems.” He snatched the first invitation in reach and passed over the gold embossed lettering. “At Woodward’s.”
~ * ~
Grey scanned the smoky interior of Woodward’s Gentlemen’s Club with indifference. The bright red walls and dark wood paneling hinted at a high-class brothel. A woman’s laughter from one of the anterooms confirmed it.
Though he had no interest in gaming or whoring, Grey wasn’t prepared to go home, either. To be alone. Not tonight. The night he had achieved his greatest dream and no meaningful soul had shared it with him, save Harry, who was more a court jester than a confidant.
No, Grey would sit with a bottle of brandy and watch other men fall to ruins. The senseless orgy might smother the memory of one empty seat in the Royal Albert Hall reserved for his grandfather . . . and for her.
A liveried footman approached him. “Good evening, sir.” He bowed. “Might I assist you?”
Grey presented the illustrious invitation card, a true waste, for the club would see little profit from a guest as apathetic as Grey.
“Right this way, sir.”
The servant extended his gloved hand, and Grey followed him through a warmly lit passageway . . . right past the main lounge and game room.
He frowned, but said nothing. He had not looked at the card’s interior message, just the front address so he could direct his coachman. But when the footman guided him through another passage—then a hidden door in the wall—Grey wondered what sort of invitation he had accepted.
After descending a series of carpeted steps, he found himself in a small, shadowed theater. There was a low stage at the front of the room and about thirty upholstered seats forming a semicircle. The footman gestured in welcome, and Grey took the corner seat in the third and last row to avoid the other gentlemen.
Perhaps he’d made a wise decision, letting fate determine his plans tonight. Watching some other notorious performance might be just what he needed to silence the ovation in his mind from those thousands of spectators, none of whom could replace his grandfather’s clapping hands and proud, beaming face . . . or hers.
Grey shifted in his seat. Why the hell did he still hold fast to broken, boyhood dreams?
He pulled out a cheroot and patted his dress coat for a flint lighter, but a keen servant presented him with a flaming match.
He lay back, smoking the cigar. The seats were spaced widely apart so he stretched his legs, crossing them at the ankles, and waited.
Soon two ornate floor candelabras were lit by attendants, and a bearded man appeared from behind a red curtain.
“Good evening, honored guests.” He spread his arms wide in a show of fanfare. “We have a special presentation for you tonight. A rare bloom sure to delight the most amorous of men.”
The red curtain rippled again. A veiled figure stepped out, taking center stage. The girl was cloaked in white, every bit of flesh hidden except for her hands.
“She is as beautiful as a red rose and as pure as a white one.”
“Take off the veil!” a man ordered.
But the peddler of flesh lifted his hands. “I’m afraid that is forbidden, gentlemen. She is a young woman of distinction and wishes to keep her identity concealed.”
A murmur arose from the audience.
“She is seeking a benefactor—one gentleman to look after all her needs. I will personally guarantee, on my good name, that you will not be disappointed but utterly captivated and gratified by her attentions. Shall we begin at one thousand pounds?”
A dozen hands shot up.
Grey rolled the cheroot between his fingers as he watched the poor creature twiddle hers. In an era raging with syphilis, virgins were in high demand, and Grey had seen many such girls auctioned off to the highest bidder. While the sight disgusted him on some uncorrupted level, he wasn’t moved to save her from her plight.
“ . . . thirteen hundred, fourteen hundred . . .”
Her fingers continued their fidgeting. The appendages danced in rapid, but light strokes, as if she played an instrument.
“. . . sixteen hundred, seventeen hundred . . .”
Grey narrowed his gaze on her lithe movements. There was something familiar about them, the way her knuckles bent and her fingertips flickered. She was counting beats, no, notes. He could see the music. He could hear the music.
“ . . . two thousand. Bravo! Do I hear twenty-one hundred?”
His chest tightened and he froze. He hadn’t heard the lullaby in such a long time, a lifetime, even. It welled inside him now, the childhood song, and he trembled—trembled!—for the first time in years.
“Ten thousand pounds,” said Grey.
The auctioneer paused, dumbfounded, then dropped his hand. “Sold!”
~ * ~
Grey waited in the alleyway behind the club. A light fog crawled over the cobblestones. He ignored the scuttling rats and uneasy neighs of his horse, his eyes intent on the back door.
What had just happened? He couldn’t fathom the situation. Of all the women in the world, what had she been doing on that stage? Selling herself, yes. But why?
He suppressed the explosive impulse to tear off the door and drag her from the club, into his waiting coach. He shifted from one leg to the other, reliving the heart-stopping moment he had first recognized her in the theater. If it hadn’t been for her anxious finger play, he would never have known it was her under the veil. He would have watched another bidder carry her away, none the wiser, and he fisted his hands at the disturbing thought—he had almost lost her to a quirk of fate.
The door opened at last . . . but the auctioneer, who was also the club’s owner, stepped out into the lane and extended his hand.
“A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Rees. I will send my man round in the morning to collect the funds. Not too early, though.” He winked. “I trust that will be agreeable.”
Grey returned the handshake, crunching the man’s fingers. “Perfectly.”
Woodward winced. “She is on her way, my good man, I assure you. And I d
o apologize for our unsightly surroundings, but the young lady requested the exchange take place far from prying eyes.”
Grey released the villain’s hand, his own shaking. Had Woodward kidnapped her? Forced her into sexual slavery? Had another man brought her to Woodward and sold her for a price?
The foul possibilities burned his blood. He clasped his restless hands behind his back to keep them from circling the other man’s throat. Until Grey had her securely in his charge, he wouldn’t risk the exchange souring.
“You did withhold my name from her,” said Grey, “as I requested?”
“Of course, sir. She, too, prefers a private introduction, and as you know, my good name is synonymous with discretion.”
“Indeed.”
His good name would be synonymous with pain if Grey discovered he had brutalized her in any way.
The alleyway was dark with the exception of Grey’s coach lamps. He made sure to keep his back to the illumination so she would not see his face—if she ever appeared. He wondered at the delay and clenched his fists at the thought that this was a ruse.
Again the back door opened, and a woman stepped out, escorted by a male attendant. She had removed her white garments, changed into a simple day dress. A long red shawl covered her hair and shoulders. She stared at the ground, hiding her face. And Grey wondered if she was even the same woman from the theater.
He next looked at her hands. Her slim fingers flexed, then curled around the handles of her carpetbag in the same skittish manner, and he knew . . . he just knew it was her.
Grey lost his breath in that moment. The pressure of so many heart wrenching memories unsettled him, and he couldn’t steady his hand as he opened the coach door for her. A strange sensation came over him as if waking from a heavy sleep to discover the last five years had never happened, that he was still a poor boy in her service.
In light steps, she climbed inside the vehicle. A wisp of lavender brushed past him, filling him with more hellish memories of passionate embraces and unquenched yearnings. At the stabbing pain in the center of his chest, he gritted his teeth.
Grey followed her inside the coach and took the opposite squab. As soon as he shut the door, the vehicle set off.
Inside the shadowed interior, he couldn’t see her face, but he sensed her in every other way—her hastened breath, her rustling skirt as she shuffled her feet. And the lavender oil. He’d avoided the fragrance for years, refused to be near a woman who wore the perfume. An artistic idiosyncrasy so many had assumed, but nobody knew the real reason, the emasculate reason.
She didn’t voice a single sentiment throughout the journey. Her fingers played with the wooden handles of her carpetbag, pressed tightly in her lap, but he dared not speak a comforting word, fearing she’d recognize his voice and disappear before . . .
Just what did he intend to do with her when they reached his house? He hadn’t planned that far ahead. He had only an overwhelming desire to save her—to own her.
At his home in Mayfair, Grey escorted her up the stairs, through a dark corridor and into his bedroom. He turned up the gas lamps.
She stood in the middle of the room, her back toward him. He let her take in the plethora of violins and music sheets scattered across the space. After a brief hesitation, she set down the carpetbag and slipped the shawl off her head, revealing dark auburn hair pinned in an elegant knot, the same dark auburn hair he remembered so painfully well. She turned and lifted her honey-brown eyes.
The orbs widened. “No!”
She bolted for the door, but he reached it at the same time and planted his palm over it, keeping it closed. It took every bit of strength to stop his voice from shuddering.
“You must always repay your debt, princess.”
Her father’s words. He had overheard them as a boy.
She eased her grip on the latch, then her hand slipped away.
He immediately retreated, unable to stand so close to her without feeling strapped for breath.
Emily.
His soul raged to be near her, cried out for her touch. A shadow surfaced from the past. He tried to quell the haunting image, but it rushed to the forefront of his mind, overpowering him. He found himself back on the roof of her townhouse, watching her climb through the skylight, dreading her sweet touch and yet yearning for it all the same.
He shut his eyes before he surrendered to the mooning impulse. Another memory came up. Those same brown eyes, glassy with tears, staring at him in horror and shame, and he squashed the maudlin sentiment—and the stupid boy who had once cherished her.
“What were you doing there?” he demanded, his voice uneven. He stepped back further, hoping the physical distance would strengthen his composure, but she’d always had a devastating affect on him, and the years had not lessened it.
She frowned. “You must know. Papa’s disgrace was in every broadsheet . . . right next to articles of your rising fame.”
“I don’t read the broadsheets.”
He had made that mistake once and read an announcement for her engagement. What that had done to him was unforgettable, and he’d put all his energy into his music. Since then, he had Harry read to him any articles of personal interest, but he never opened the broadsheets himself.
“Tell me,” he said again.
“He lost everything.”
“A savvy businessman, like your father? I don’t believe you.”
“Believe it or not, it’s true.”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Yes,” she countered. “He broke his own business rule and invested more than he could afford to lose.”
“And why would he do that?”
Her chin cocked. “I don’t know.”
He eyed her, dubious. “Where is your husband?”
She furrowed her brow.
“You were engaged to be married to an earl, weren’t you?”
“At one time.” She nodded. “But he was poor to start and needed my money. It didn’t seem right to hold him to his promise, so I broke the engagement after the scandal became public.”
She maintained her bearing throughout the retelling, and he wondered if it was true. She shed not a tear for her impoverished situation, even lifted her chin in defiance.
But why else would she have sold herself at the club? It would be easy to verify her tale, to ask about Town after her and Wright. If his downfall was the public humiliation she claimed, everyone would know about it. There was no reason for her to lie. Not this time.
“A wise decision, princess, to find yourself a wealthy benefactor. Tell me, do you receive any of the funds I put down for you?”
She stiffened. “No. Mr. Woodward retains the money. I only receive the promise of an affluent gentleman for my protector.”
He fisted his hands at her nonchalant answer. “Why did you go to him?”
She glanced away, then back at him. “I had no choice.”
“You could have come to me.”
He had only recently returned to England, but she could have written to him while he was abroad. His tour was detailed in every broadsheet. How could she have approached a bloody whoremonger instead of him for help? Pride? Shame? Fear? Did she really believe he would have denied her as she had denied him?
A dark part of him wondered if that was possible. Would he have slammed the door in her face had she come to him for assistance? Was he angry with her now because she’d denied him that revenge?
His belly clenched at the disgusting thought.
But the longer he inhaled her perfume and listened to her soft breathing and watched her fingers dance with musical lightness, the more he realized he would never have let her fall—even if she believed it.
She frowned. “I didn’t think you would—”
“And your father approves of your choice to sell yourself?”
He didn’t want to hear her admit the past, that she didn’t think he’d have helped her because of what she’d done, what her father had done to him. He w
asn’t prepared to revisit that night.
“Papa is dead.”
Grey expected to feel something at the news that the man who’d destroyed his grandfather’s violin was dead—but he felt nothing at all.
“He died from shock,” she explained.
Or shame, thought Grey. A man so high had far to fall.
“I lived off what little money remained for as long as I could, but the funds are now gone, and my landlady doesn’t run a charity house.”
She had said the last part with unmistakable bitterness, and he suspected those were the landlady’s very words to her. They were also the words her father had used when he’d evicted Grey’s grandfather.
“And now you’re mine, princess.”
“So it would appear.”
“Take off your dress.”
Her features fell. She remained still for a long while before her shaky fingers reached for the front buttons of her garment in resignation. She said not a word after that.
He watched her remove the outerwear, listened to her labored breathing. When the dress fell to the ground, she stepped out of the fabric pile, looking slim, perhaps a little waifish, and if he’d doubted her story before, he didn’t doubt it now. She had clearly lived off few means.
You should have come to me.
“The corset,” he said next.
She pinched together the front of the jaeger corset, trimmed with lace and rosettes, and released the hooks and eyes. All her accessories were fastened from the front so no maid was needed for dressing—or undressing.
She remained in her stockings and chemise, but there was still one binding contraption that needed to be removed.
“Let down your hair.”
At that, she sent him a rebellious stare. She had once lived in his heart, ruled his every waking thought. She had mastered him, and she had broken him. Now he was her master. And he would tame her, if only to wrest from her the power she still yielded over him.
He stood firm and waited.
His lungs cramped when she finally pulled the pins from her hair, releasing the thick tresses. The long locks tumbled down her back and over her shoulders in wild waves, and his every nerve throbbed with temptation.
“Sit,” he whispered.
The Princess and the Pauper Page 4