by Sharon Page
“Are you threatening Will?”
“You are an intelligent woman, Miss Winsome.” Whitehall glared at her—with his pronounced cheekbones and deeply set eyes, he looked like a death’s head. “I should think you know the answer to your question is yes.”
She struggled to stay calm. “I will do what you want, Mr. Whitehall, but I will not hurt Lady Maryanne. I will get at the duke’s journal tonight—no matter what I must do. But I warn you—do not ever approach me again when I am with the children.”
With that, she took advantage of his surprise and wrenched her hand free. And stalked away.
It was her afternoon out. With the children safely with Nurse, Helena left Winterhaven House and hurried as fast as she could to her family’s print shop on Fleet Street. She was out of breath as she opened the door and stepped inside. She had always loved the clatter of the press, the sharp smell of the ink, the bustle of activity as the men made the printing plates and assembled the pages.
It was so familiar. But she had irrevocably changed.
Last night, she’d discovered what pleasure truly was. She could never go back.
Now she knew—she was going to end up ruined.
Helena stopped and examined her cheeks in the window of the print shop to ensure they weren’t bright red. She was about to talk to her brother after all.
She had been young when her mother married Arthur Rains, and she looked on him as a true father. William now used Father’s office, a small room to the side of the entry. In there, Father had always been available to take in items of news, deal with his suppliers, trade cheerful witticisms with his competitors. Father had never been a cutthroat man of business. He’d been a happy man, and had spread happiness around him. He’d brought joy to Mother, he’d given them all wonderful childhoods; he had been surrounded by loyal and content workers. It was only after his death that they’d discovered Father had been kind but not careful, and he’d been losing money for years.
Helena pushed down her hood and hastened inside the office. Will sat at his desk. Like Father, he worked alongside his men in the print shop. Today his sleeves were rolled up, and his coat hung on a hook.
“Helena!” Will’s eyes showed raw hope when he saw her. “Have you got the journal?”
She hated dashing his hope but had no choice. “It’s not so simple,” she admitted. “I have to find a way to get away from him long enough to read through it. I don’t dare take it. If he discovered it’s gone, he’s going to know at once it was me.”
Will groaned. “I see the problem.”
“You aren’t still going to gaming hells, are you?” She was sure he was not, because of what Greybrooke had done, but it would look suspicious if she didn’t ask.
“None of them will let me through the doors.”
She fought not to look triumphant. “That’s for the best, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. However, before you act too bossy, sister, might I remind you that you are late with Lady X’s column.”
Heavens. She’d forgotten about it entirely.
Will just laughed. “For once I’ve caught you out.”
Seeing the old joy on his face made her smile in return. “I could try to write one.”
“There’s no need. Whitehall has a plan. He has decided to release information he has about the duke in Lady X’s columns. He wants to corner Greybrooke.”
“But we don’t even know if the duke is guilty.”
“Whitehall insists his information is correct. He believes it will force Greybrooke to make mistakes.”
“We can’t print things that might not be true.”
“We have no choice,” Will said, and she knew Whitehall must have threatened him. Will rubbed his hand over his chin, looking grave.
Heart in her throat, she asked, “Is there something else, Will?”
“Yes.” He looked at the corner of the office, not at her. “It’s something I must tell you, but I’ve been avoiding it.”
The floor quaked under her feet. She winced. “Tell me, Will.”
“Elise has received an offer of marriage.”
Her sister had received a proposal and she did not even know? “Heavens, why wouldn’t you tell me?”
“I’ve had to stall for time. There’s the issue of a dowry. We don’t have any money. I didn’t want you to know because I didn’t want to worry you. Or make you do something mad.”
Will stood and hit the desk with his fist. “I will break into Greybrooke’s house. You can help me—get in there and leave a window unlatched. I’ll get the journal. That will give us what we need. We’ll satisfy Whitehall, and then I’ll be free of debt, and Elise can marry. Greybrooke would never suspect you then. You don’t have to become his mistress. It’s the perfect plan, and it means our troubles will be over.”
But she didn’t want to be spared from being his mistress. Heavens, did she really just want an excuse to go to his bed? That was the madness. But it wasn’t just that....
“Will, you can’t break into Greybrooke’s house. You could be arrested. I can find a way to look at that journal. Tonight.”
Will grimaced, but she said, “It’s all right. I know what I am doing.” Then she hugged him, and left, hurrying back toward Winterhaven House.
It was only when she was halfway home that she realized she hadn’t even asked the name of her sister’s suitor.
All she could think about was Greybrooke.
And she knew the only way she was going to be able to look at the journal was to spend the night. Greybrooke hadn’t invited her to come to him. She was going to have to go—whether she had an invitation or not. No matter what the duke wanted to do with her. . . .
She must do it.
“Don’t be a damned fool, Orley. You saw your daughter and her child yesterday. They are in a house I’ve rented and are perfectly safe. I’ve assigned several of my footmen to act as guards. I’ve stationed one in this hospital. You have nothing to fear, so tell me who this damned blackmailer is.” Grey had refused to be beaten. He’d come back, despite Cary’s conviction he would learn nothing.
Orley looked up at him, sorrow in his eyes. “What will ’appen after I’ve told you and after I get out of this ’ospital?”
“I will provide an income for you and your family.” He outlined his plan.
“Why, Yer Grace? What is my daughter to you?”
“Some men spend their lives atoning for a wrong. There was a young woman I didn’t protect. My penitence is to help others in need. You have my word as a gentleman that your daughter and grandchild will be protected until this blackmailer is arrested,” Grey said. “I will extend that protection to you. Now, the name.”
The frail old man clutched the blanket that covered him. “That’s the trouble, Your Grace. I don’t know who ’e is. It’s no lie. He was masked when he met with me. Never gave me a name. You won’t ’elp us now, will ye? Now that I can’t ’elp you.”
Sighing, Grey paced by the bed. “This does not change my promise, Orley. But there must be something you can tell me. Did he say anything that would give a clue? With me he spoke like a Cockney, but his accent sounded false.”
“Aye, he sounded like a gent with me. A toff.”
“Any idea where he came from?”
Orley frowned, and his lips worked as he thought. Finally, he gave a smile that showed a lack of teeth. “When he left me, he took a ’ackney. I was listening and I ’eard the address ’e gave. Twere on the Strand. Number fifteen.”
Grey knew the address. “A brothel.” It wasn’t promising, but it was something.
His carriage hurtled out of the gates. Brooding by the window, Grey caught a fleeting glimpse of a figure in a hooded cloak hurrying down the sidewalk toward his house. The disguise was good, but he glimpsed a golden curl, and he knew from the determined way she moved exactly who it was.
He rapped hard on the ceiling, a summons for his coachman to stop at once. His footman opened the door, panting. Grey jumpe
d down. He met Miss Winsome, who rushed toward him.
“What are you doing here? I didn’t summon you tonight because I have business.”
Enormous blue eyes gazed at him. Bewitching eyes.
“I’m sorry.” She was breathless, and her tone was throaty, husky, and damned erotic. “I will return to the Winterhavens’. I came because I am ready. Ready to try your games. And once I’d made the decision, I wanted to carry it through.”
He shook his head. Her timing was damned inconvenient, but he could imagine Miss Winsome doing exactly that.
If he had her wait for him in his house until he returned, she could change her mind and bolt. Now that she’d come to him on his terms, he had no intention of letting her go. “Come with me.” He offered the crook of his arm.
She slid her hand there. “Where are you going?”
“A brothel,” he said carelessly.
Her hand jerked free, her fists landed on her hips, and she glared at him under her hood. “A what? You’re going to be unfaithful to me—?”
The hurt in her voice touched his heart. “No, my indignant governess, my business at the brothel has nothing to do with sex. I’m looking for someone.”
“Who?”
“Someone who has wronged me.”
“Who is it?”
“Enough questions. Into the carriage, Miss Winsome.”
Black lace was wrapped around the woman’s head like a blindfold, and she was bound hand-and-foot to a metal contraption. The whore twisted her head as a man in a black mask, dressed in the style of a century before, including satin breeches of silver and a frock coat of ice blue, strolled around her flicking a whip.
Grey found he was watching the couple without a spark of arousal. Directed to this room to find the madam, he’d brought Miss Winsome with him. Her eyes were huge and shocked.
“Do you want me to do that? Like Lady Montroy and the riding crop?”
Looking around for the madam, he answered, “I said I don’t inflict pain. Ever. We would start by tying you up, my dear. I love to devise complex ways of tying a woman up so her movement teases her nipples and cunny, so her every wriggle brings her close to orgasm. But when it comes to crops or spanking, it would be what you want, what you wish to explore. And I would ensure you find it erotic, not painful.”
She looked up at him, her face partly shielded by her hood. “I don’t know about these scenes, these things. I liked what we did last night.”
“I thought you were ready to agree to my terms.”
“Could we compromise? Sometimes we will play your games, and sometime we will play mine?”
God, she fascinated him. No other woman had tried to negotiate sex with him. He didn’t know what to answer. Deep inside, he wanted to give her what she wanted.
But making love to her the way she wanted—with intimacy, without ropes and crops and games to keep a barrier between them—would make her believe they had love, and he didn’t want to build hopes he would only destroy.
Let her go, whispered the voice of logic in his head. You will only hurt her.
That startled him, but he saw it was true. He cared about her—
“You are mine, wench,” the frock-coated man crowed. “Mine to punish as I see fit. Let me give you a taste.”
Grey jerked his head up. He stared at the man’s face. The black mask was a strip of leather molded over his nose, with narrow slits at the eyes. The man’s chiseled jaw and full lips were revealed. The face meant nothing to him. But triumph and arrogance filled the voice. The man laughed as he gave a flick of the whip, and the lash struck the woman’s large, pale rump—a smirking laugh that rose several octaves.
This man was the blackmailer.
Blind rage drove Grey. It would be so easy to grasp the smug, overconfident bastard by his scrawny neck and strangle the life out of him—
He’d taken a step forward without realizing it. The man jerked his head up at Grey’s sudden movement. “Bloody hell,” the blackguard spat. He turned on his heel and ran, pushing through the crowd of men and prostitutes filling the room.
Grey planted Helena against a wall. “Stay there. Do not move until I return for you.”
He took off in pursuit. Chasing a villain through a bondage room proved interesting.
The bastard used his whip to make people scatter. Oddly, people who wanted to be tied up and whipped now retreated from the lash. But as they raced to-and-fro, they got in Grey’s bloody way, and he had to push them over torture racks and whipping benches to clear his path.
He managed to fight his way out of the room to the corridor. Shoving back his hair, he peered in the gloom toward the back of the house.
Ice blue flashed at the door to the servant’s stairs, and Grey sprinted down the hall. A half-naked woman came out of the room, and he had to jump to the side to avoid her, crashing into the wall. Plaster dust fluttered around him, and she hurried to him. “Sirrah, are ye all right?”
“Fine, my dear.” He had to dance around her breasts, for she thrust herself at his chest. Free, he raced for the stairs, pounded up them.
His boots thundered on the wood steps. He rushed out the door onto the second story. Then he heard gasping behind him, and he jerked around. Helena was struggling to rush up the stairs, holding her hems in one gloved hand.
“What are you doing?” he barked. “Stay there.” Why in God’s name had she followed him?
When he turned back to his quarry, he’d lost the man. “Blast.” He ran to the end of the hall and pushed open the two bedchamber doors on either side. In one, a man bellowed, “What in the blazes?” as another man looked up from the same bed. In the other, a woman squealed with shock and fell off the man she rode.
The blackmailer must have cut through a bedchamber to get to a window. It was the only way he could have disappeared so fast.
Behind him, Grey heard whispers of sound: a soft movement of satin, the slight creak of a board. His entire body tensed, and his heart hammered. He knew what it was to be ambushed from behind. To have a hand clamped over his mouth, his hands roughly bound behind his back.
Fighting for calm, he turned and faced the barrel of a pistol.
The frock coated man chuckled gleefully. “Walked right into it, didn’t you, Your Grace?”
Grey folded his arms over his chest. He’d grown up facing threats. “Going to shoot a duke in a whorehouse full of witness, you scum?”
In the dim light, Grey couldn’t distinguish much of the villain’s face. The hair was covered in a powdered white wig. For carnal games, many men came in costume. They dressed as devils, Roman gladiators, and sultans to live out their fantasies and hide their identities. He still couldn’t identify the man, though now he knew where to hunt for this bastard. Assuming he got out of this alive.
Slowly, he stepped closer to the villain.
The pistol jerked. The man’s arm trembled. “Don’t move, Your Grace—”
“Or you’ll shoot your source of income?” Grey growled. “I think not.” Grey took another step, and as he expected from his last two encounters with this scum, the coward retreated. But cowards could do dangerous things when cornered. He couldn’t take the risk that the shaking bugger would pull the trigger.
“Oh, my goodness! Greybrooke!”
The feminine gasp slammed into Grey like a brick. Miss Winsome stood behind the villain at the top of the steps. She clutched the doorframe, frozen. She stared at the pistol, her mouth wide open.
“Get out of here,” he roared, but it was too damned late. She turned to flee, but the blackmailer grabbed her by the arm and jerked her to him. He hauled Miss Winsome like a sack of gravel, yanking her so her back was to his chest and his arm was clamped around her bosom.
Sweat stood out on the blackmailer’s forehead, but his nervousness had gone.
The pistol’s muzzle moved to rest against her temple, an evil, heavy piece of metal pressing to her delicate skin. Grey had never felt so much pounding pressure in his skull. H
is heart hadn’t raced like this since . . .
Since he’d been a frightened boy. He could handle a threat to himself. But seeing a gun pressed to a woman’s head was almost crippling.
Fighting rising panic, he faced the frock-coated man with feigned control. “Let her go, you bastard. She’s got nothing to do with this. Release her and you will get your foul money.”
A wide grin showed beneath the black mask. “You care about her. That should ensure I get out of here.”
“Put this weapon down at once. There is no need to hurt anyone.” Miss Winsome’s voice wavered, but she issued the command like a governess. Even held tight against the body of an attacker, she fought to be strong. Such courage astounded Grey.
Her wide eyes met his, but she spoke to the blackmailer. “His Grace will let you escape if you put the pistol away and you do not hurt anyone.”
She was concerned about the safety of everyone else. “Listen to her,” Grey snapped.
But the man snarled at him. “I think not. Not when I’m in charge, Your Grace. This is too much bloody fun.”
The blackmailer straightened his arm so the gun aimed at Grey’s heart.
Grey relaxed slightly. Miss Winsome was still a captive, but she wasn’t about to get shot, even by accident.
The blackmailer took several steps back, toward the servants’ stairs. He wouldn’t drag Miss Winsome down them. Would he let her go? One way to assure an escape would be to shoot her.
The man twisted to see how close the stairs were. Grey sprinted, and as the man cursed and corrected his aim on Grey’s chest, Grey grasped Miss Winsome and pulled her free. He pushed her so she was clear of the line of fire. With a cry, she landed on the floor, while Grey waited for the explosion and the sensation of a pistol ball tearing through his body.