The streets of Bristol had fallen into darkness; an oil lamp on the corner had not yet been lit by the lamplighter and only a sliver of the moon peeked out from behind a breath of ragged cloud. The satchel shifted against his ribs and then subsided before the door opened.
“Mark.”
Of course Smite answered his own door. His older brother stood in the entry, barring his path. He stared for a few seconds before he turned. “Come in. Come in.” He cast another glance at Mark’s wet form. “I wasn’t expecting you in this weather. Come to think of it, I wasn’t expecting you at all.”
Twenty-four hours ago, Mark had been so full of hope for his future. Now, he’d landed on his brother’s doorstep. He hadn’t been able to think of anywhere else to go. On the ride here—half on horseback, half by steam train—Mark had imagined himself telling the entire story to his brother a thousand times. Sometimes he’d raged; mostly, he’d been confused. But he couldn’t imagine saying a word now. It was too humiliating, for one.
Mark handed off his wet things and then set the leather satchel he’d brought from Shepton Mallet on the wooden floor.
“Can I put that away for you?”
The bag wasn’t twitching, which was a good sign.
“Never mind,” his brother said. “You look like you need a drink. Never tell me she said no.”
Why, oh, why had Mark committed his foolish, burbling hopes to a letter? And why had he sent it before he’d had a reply from her?
“Can we…can we not talk about that?”
It must have been obvious from his face that something was wrong, because instead of teasing him, his brother shrugged his shoulders. “Suit yourself.”
Anyone else would have heard that airy dismissal as unkind or uncaring. But Mark had come here because he knew his brother would understand without Mark’s having to say a single word on the subject. That was the way it was between them.
He had been to Smite’s home before. Any other man in his brother’s financial position would have set himself up in high style—a home crowded with servants eager to do his bidding. Smite, of course, eschewed all of that. He’d been branded by their mother in a way that Mark scarcely comprehended and could never explain to anyone else. Smite was too proud to admit to the difficulties under which he labored. Not even to servants.
They didn’t ask each other for anything. Perhaps that was why Mark felt comfortable giving his brother everything.
“Your satchel. It’s moving,” Smite said.
“Oh, good. That means your gift is awake.”
“A gift?” His brother stepped back, suddenly wary.
Mark felt a rush of affection. Only Smite would quail at the thought of a gift. “Yes, a gift,” he said. “A good one.” He knelt beside the satchel and unbuckled the heavy, oiled leather. He’d shielded it with his cloak through the worst of the rainstorm, and the satchel was dry inside. Still, a rough wetness swiped his fingers as he reached in.
“Here.” He pulled out the bundle—it was wriggling, and that made it feel twice as heavy—and held it out.
Smite simply stared at him. “Dear God,” he said finally. “What is that thing?”
“Somewhere in the furthest reaches of your voluminous memory, you will recall seeing similar creatures.”
“Yes,” Smite said, gingerly extending a finger. “Perhaps. Somewhat similar creatures. But in all my prior experience, I have generally encountered puppies that have…eyes. Not great mounds of fur, topped by a big black nose.” He parted the gray fur on its head, almost tentatively. “Good Lord. There are eyes in there after all.”
Mark thrust the bundle out; Smite took it, his face a pattern of bemusement. “What sort is it?”
It was all long fur, gray everywhere except the white of its feet and chest. “It’s the progeny of the most capable sheepdog in all of Somerset. But don’t think you need to rush out and purchase a flock. The owner tested it for herding instinct. Apparently, it failed utterly, thinking it much more interesting to turn up grass.”
“Hmm.” Smite set the animal down, where it stood on clumsy legs. “And I suppose you thought I needed a puppy to dribble on the floor? You imagined I wanted a beast that would demand to be taken on great circuits of the surrounding areas? You wanted to make me a slave to sticks thrown and sticks fetched? Have you any notion how much work a dog is?” His words were harsh, but his tone was light, and he gently caressed the little dog, who immediately sank its teeth into his cuff. Smite tried to pull his hand back, but the dog dug its claws in and growled in mock play. “Don’t tell me. This is all part of a clever plan to see my shoes chewed to bits.”
“Not in the least,” Mark informed him. “I didn’t think you needed a dog. I thought the dog needed you.”
Smite looked up, his expression momentarily stricken. He looked down at the dog. “Thank you,” he said quietly. It was the only acknowledgment Mark was likely to get from him.
Gently, his brother disentangled the dog’s teeth from his coat. “Cease that behavior, Ghost,” he admonished. “Here—you may chew on this instead.”
Mark clouted him on the shoulder. “That’s my satchel, you buffoon.”
Smite didn’t answer, and when the pup grabbed one end of the strap and pulled clumsily, a smile lit his face. “Good dog.”
It was almost an hour later—after the dog had been taken outside twice, and then fed remnants of chicken, had a ball of rags constructed and rolled on the floor, and a box found for it and lined with blankets—before Smite looked over at Mark. “In the normal course of things,” he said, “I would send you out to a hotel, where you might be comfortable. I assume that’s not a good idea tonight.”
Mark had almost forgotten it. But with those words, the past few weeks crashed in on him. He’d been certain that Jessica was the one, right up until he’d had the numbing realization that she most decidedly wasn’t. It hurt all over again.
“Probably not,” Mark said, aiming for nonchalance. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
“Hmm.” Smite tucked the edge of a rag into the ball. “You told me she was gorgeous and intelligent. I presume she’s virtuous, too. If she has any brains at all, I can’t imagine what the problem could be. Don’t tell me her parents don’t approve. Just get Ash to charm some sense into them.”
“Not you, too.” Mark put his head in his hands. “Why does everyone think that my dearest wish is to have some innocent little wisp of a virgin?”
“I can’t imagine,” Smite said dryly. “It couldn’t be because you wrote a book about chastity.”
Sarcasm. It flowed between them as naturally as breathing. He needed that, now—something familiar to grab on to, something besides anger and some deep, dark, cavernous want.
“It turns out George Weston hired her to seduce me. She’s actually a courtesan. Can we talk of something else?”
“You asked a courtesan to marry you?”
“Just be quiet about it already.”
Smite was silent for a while longer. “Do you care for her?” he finally asked.
“I asked her to marry me. What do you suppose?”
“That answer goes to whether you cared for her in the past. I did not ask you that question. I asked you whether you care for her now. In the present.”
“I don’t know. How could I? I was utterly misled. How could I have been so wrong about her?”
His brother leaned forward and set his hand on Mark’s shoulder.
“That’s simple,” Smite said. His voice was low and soothing, the gentle brush of his fingers comforting.
Smite was not one to indulge in physical affection. He froze when Mark embraced him, shied away from all contact beyond a handshake. Mark could hardly blame him, under the circumstances. And so if Smite thought it necessary to touch him in comfort, he must be in a bad way indeed.
He’d always wanted to protect Smite from this. For all that his brother was the elder, they’d been forged in the same place—Smite the anvil, Mark the
hammer. They’d come to blows often enough when they were younger. But when it had come down to it, they’d faced the fire together.
Perhaps his brother was right, and it was a simple case. Just clouded judgment.
But, oh, how his judgment had clouded. He’d wanted her, yes—but he’d wanted other women before. He knew what mere physical want felt like. With Jessica… He’d wanted her. He’d wanted to win her regard. And he’d thought that she’d seen him, really seen him, both bad and good. This was so much more than a simple rejection. He’d wanted to know her, not just her body, but her entire self.
She’d not wanted to know him at all.
“I wish it were simple.”
“It is simple,” his brother corrected. “I know precisely why you were wrong about her.”
“You do?”
“Yes.” Smite patted his shoulder. “It’s because you’re an idiot.”
That won a weak chuckle, but at least it was real. So. There was hope after Jessica. It only felt as if he was being torn to pieces. He would survive.
“Probably,” he admitted. “But you know—it runs in the family.”
THE CARD THAT JESSICA had saved directed her to the middle floor of a Cheapside flat. A young maid-of-all-work let her in and deposited her in a faded parlor. The white of the walls had gone to yellow, and the brown of the upholstery had bleached to sand. Even the wood of the furniture seemed muted.
Jessica sat on a chair, as directed; it squeaked ominously, even under so slight a weight as hers. Jessica was tired. After Mark had left, she and her maid had spent the night packing frantically so that Jessica and her trunks could be loaded onto a dogcart in time to reach the railway station at Bath. The train had been delayed, though, and she’d stayed on the smoky platform two hours.
Her last few coins had paid passage for herself and Marie. When they’d arrived in London, she’d scrawled a note to her solicitor, advising him to give the girl enough to survive on and a reference. Jessica, after all, would soon have no need for a maid.
Her muscles ached from the train ride. She’d not thought it would be so strenuous to simply sit in one place—but the car had rocked back and forth in an ungentle, insistent rhythm, and the strangeness of the noise had kept her from nodding off. It had given her time to think. By the time she’d reached London, she had known how to proceed.
She was going to do what she always did. She was going to survive.
The curtains in Mr. Parret’s room were thrown back to show a dark London street. Maybe it was not the room that was muted. Maybe it was her.
“Oh, my.”
Jessica turned at the words. A young girl stood behind her, one hand on the door frame.
“Are you a lady?” the child asked.
The girl was undoubtedly Parret’s offspring. On her, those weedy features had muted into delicate femininity. Nigel Parret hadn’t been lying about having a beautiful daughter.
“No,” Jessica said, “I’m not a lady.”
The girl’s eyes widened, and she took a step forward. “But you cannot be a gentleman!” she exclaimed. “And you don’t look like a maid.”
The girl was maybe four years of age—a bit younger than Jessica’s sister, Ellen, had been when Jessica left home. Clearly not of an age to learn the various sordid distinctions among women.
“Belinda!” Mr. Parret’s voice interrupted from the hall. “Sweetheart, where is your governess? How many times must I tell you, you’re not to disturb my guests?”
“Miss Horace fell asleep.”
Parret turned the corner and lifted his daughter into his arms. “Very well, then. I’ll just—”
He stopped, looking at Jessica. “Ah,” he said, the good cheer vanishing from his voice. “You. You’re the one who had me sent out of Shepton Mallet. You’ve cost me a pretty penny, you know. Reporteress.”
Perhaps that was what she’d become, over the course of one train ride. A reporteress. Jessica simply inclined her head to him.
“I knew it.” Parret’s arms clasped his daughter, and he half turned from Jessica, as if to shield young Belinda from the horror of a woman with a vocation. “Have you come to gloat, then? You had the exclusive interview. These last days, since Sir Mark tossed me out on my ear, I’ve had precious little to write about. I suppose you’re very happy indeed.”
“No, I’m not happy,” Jessica said. “But it happens that I came to sell you a story. I’ve written it partway already.”
“Oh, and now you’ll come crawling to me.” He snorted. “And why should I do business with you?”
“Because otherwise I shall go to your competitors. They haven’t your reputation for the truth, but in a pinch—”
“Go! Why should I care?”
In response, Jessica reached up and undid the simple chain at her neck. The unwieldy pendant that hung on its end emerged from between her breasts. She set it atop the papers she’d brought.
Mr. Parret stared at the item she’d placed in front of him.
It was, of course, Mark’s ring. The onyx in its center winked up at her.
Slowly, Mr. Parret set his daughter on the floor. “Belinda,” he said quietly, “go find your governess.”
“But I want to hear about the lady.”
“Go. Now.”
He waited until she’d disappeared. Then he walked forward, slowly, and picked up the ring. He dangled it from its chain, turning it from side to side. “Well,” he said softly. “One of the complexions that could be put on the matter I observed in Shepton Mallet was…precisely this. I didn’t want to think it. After all, I don’t want to ruin Sir Mark’s reputation.”
No. Jessica had thought long and hard about her options. There were only so many ways she could find money, and she wasn’t going to—she couldn’t—sell herself again. But even if she wasn’t selling her body, she could still sell her integrity.
You have an odd sort of integrity to you, he’d told her once. Maybe…maybe after this was all said and done, she could have her security and her integrity, all at the same time.
“I think,” Parret said, settling into a chair, “that you need to tell me your tale.”
Jessica took a deep breath. “It began,” she said, “when I met Sir Mark in Shepton Mallet. I had come there, you see, with the express purpose of seducing him…” The story she conveyed was mostly truthful. It required only a few alterations to change the entire tenor of it. She spoke, and Parret listened, nodding intently. When she was done, he picked up the pages she’d scrawled that morning and read through them.
“You write well,” he said in surprised tones, as he turned over the first page.
“For a courtesan, you mean?”
“For a woman.” He spoke absently, his fingers drumming against the table. He turned another page. “For that matter,” he said, “you write well for a man.”
Jessica searched for an appropriate response. Her mind covered everything from sarcasm to outrage. Finally, she settled on the simplest reaction. “Thank you,” she said graciously.
When Parret reached the end, he looked up. His mouth was set in a grim line beneath the ragged line of his mustache. “I don’t think this will work,” he told her.
“Then I’ll have to take it to your competitors.” She tried not to hide her disappointment. She’d hoped that Parret would be able to give her enough to survive—enough that she wouldn’t have to think of money for a good long while yet.
Parret scowled. “Oh, not the piece,” he explained. “I meant that we can’t call you a courtesan. It’s too risqué. Why don’t we call you a ‘fallen woman’ instead, and leave the precise circumstances of the fall a mystery? That way, the public will be free to imagine anything they wish.”
Jessica took a staggering breath of relief.
“Of course,” Parret continued, “I can offer you my normal rates—a shilling per column inch. It’s a fair offer—what I would give a man under the circumstances.”
Jessica almost smiled. “My dear s
ir,” she said, “you must be joking. No man could possibly have told this story. We are talking about the most incendiary article that London has seen in years. You can’t fob me off with a few shillings. This isn’t piecework. I want fifty percent of the proceeds.”
His eyes narrowed. “All the expense of production is mine, and all the risk. Two pounds, no more.”
“Forty-five percent. I can take my account to anyone else. I’ll have a share of the proceeds, or you’ll have nothing.”
He slapped his hand on top of the papers, as if to ward off that threat. “Twenty-five.”
“Thirty, and I get five pounds upfront.” Enough to clear the debts in her name. Enough to survive for months. Enough for the future to become suddenly possible, and not some grim, looming fate. Even the city street outside the window seemed to lighten.
Mr. Parret cocked his head to the side. “Very well. I accept.” He reached out one hand.
Jessica took it carefully. “You bargain well,” she told him. “For a man.”
He pursed his lips ruefully and shook her hand. And apparently, that was all it took to turn a courtesan into a former courtesan. She’d just earned enough to survive for a good long while. Before this ran out, she would find a way to earn more. She wouldn’t need to sell her body ever again.
“Sir Mark will be furious.” It was the worst part of this deal, knowing how much he hated private inquiry—and knowing that she would be thrusting him into the public eye with a vengeance.
But Parret didn’t even shrug as he smoothed out the papers. “He usually is. I never let it bother me.”
Maybe one day she’d be able to view Mark’s response with such equanimity. That day was a long way off.
“I want to publish this one section each day, for five days—that will really get everyone interested, and we can charge double for the last printing. As for a title, I thought to call it ‘The Seduction of Sir Mark.’ That has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”
“But what is he going to do, when he sees that?”
“Hopefully,” Parret said, “he’ll get very angry. It will confirm everyone’s suspicions, and make us a great deal of money.”
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