by Anne Stuart
“I don’t drink brandy,” Nathaniel said, sounding shocked.
“Yes, you do,” Killoran corrected him lazily.
“I shouldn’t be here. Your… friend would be embarrassed to meet a stranger under such circumstances.”
“You mean my mistress, do you not? Friends do not usually arrive at a house uninvited and avail themselves of the master’s bed. Though Lady Barbara is not, as yet, my mistress. She’s merely campaigning for the post.”
“Sir!”
“Nathaniel!” he mocked in return. “It’s time for your education to begin. Meeting Lady Barbara should be a most felicitous start.”
“I couldn’t—”
“Killoran!” Her voice, powerful, melodic, demanding, sounded from the stairwell. A moment later the door was slammed open, and a vision stood there, all rage and beauty and quivering emotion.
Lady Barbara Fitzhugh was surprisingly young for a female of her reputation and habits. A mere two and twenty, she’d been reputed to have had more than a dozen lovers, though Killoran knew he was counted as her current paramour, and he’d yet to lay a hand on the delicate white skin that was quite deliciously exposed by the half-fastened gown. Her blond hair tumbled down her back, her blue eyes flashed, and her color was high as she marched into the room.
“Lady Barbara,” he murmured, deliberately not bothering to rise.
“How dare you!” she shrieked, unaware of the silent young man standing in the shadows, staring at her. “Threatening me! You coldhearted bastard, I could have any number of men call you out for the insult.”
“I doubt it,” he drawled, feeling wicked enough to goad her. “I’m quite deadly in a duel, and most of your paramours know it. You’re not worth dying for, my dear, as neither of us is certain you have any honor to save.”
Her face was pale, and she reached out to slap him. The unfastened dress began to tumble, and she wisely hauled it up again. If she’d slapped him, he would have been obliged to slap her back, and then Nathaniel would have called him out, and the fun would be over even before it began.
“I hate you,” she said in a tight little voice, turning to leave. And then she halted, as her magnificent eyes fell on Nathaniel’s tall, silent figure.
She blushed. Killoran watched in amused astonishment as a faint wash of color spread over Lady Barbara’s porcelain skin. Nathaniel was just as bad. While his mouth was pursed in unhappy lines, his eyes were staring at her with complete, smitten adoration.
“Lady Barbara,” Killoran murmured, rising at last. “Let me make you known to my guest. Nathaniel Hepburn is the son of a distant connection of mine, come to London to see a bit of the world.” His tone of voice left no doubt as to what part of the world Nathaniel was currently viewing as Lady Barbara was struggling with her dress.
Ah, but Barbara was up to the challenge. She tilted her chin defiantly, sailed forward, gown still clasped to her fabled chest, and held out a slim white hand bedecked in diamonds. Diamonds that Killoran had, in fact, paid for when she’d been bold enough to request them. “Mr. Hepburn,” she greeted Nathaniel regally. “Welcome to London.”
He took her hand. Indeed, he had no choice, but Killoran expected he wanted the excuse to touch her. He looked like a child at Christmas, surrounded by fantastical treats, the most delectable of which was the spun-sugar fairy holding out her hand.
“I am honored, Lady Barbara,” he said, and the poor fool meant it, bringing her delicate hand to his lips with perfect courtesy.
Killoran considered giving vent to a snort of derision. Oddly enough, he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. “This is Lady Barbara Fitzhugh, Nathaniel. A dear friend of mine.”
She stared at the young man, an odd expression on her face, and Killoran found he was beginning to enjoy himself. He fancied himself a great black spider spinning a web, and Lady Barbara and Nathaniel were two succulent flies, caught for his amusement. It was a wondrously entertaining prospect, he assured himself.
“I’ll see you to your carriage, Lady Barbara,” Killoran murmured, coming up behind her and breaking Nathaniel’s surprisingly firm grasp of her. “I’m certain you’re anxious to be on your way.”
She glared at him, hiking her dress up further, before turning to glance at Nathaniel. “Watch out for him, Mr. Hepburn,” she said frostily. “He’ll steal your soul if you don’t have a care.”
Killoran followed her out into the hallway. He caught her shoulders and held her for a moment. “You’ll catch your death, Barbara,” he said softly, fastening the tiny hooks that traversed down her narrow back.
She pouted. “You wouldn’t care.”
“On the contrary. You provide me with a fair amount of entertainment.”
She glanced up at him, her coquettishness so blatant an act that he wondered that it managed to fool most of London. “I could provide you with a great deal more than that,” she said in a husky drawl.
“I doubt my young guest would approve.”
The sultry expression vanished from her face abruptly. “Why is he here?”
“I thought I explained. An act of kindness. I promised his father I’d give him a bit of town bronze.”
“You’ve never done an act of kindness in your life,” Barbara hissed. “Leave the poor boy alone.”
“He’s hardly a boy. He’s older than you are.”
Barbara’s laugh was mirthless. “No one is as old as I am,” she said bitterly. “Send him back home before you destroy him, Killoran. Leave some innocence in the world.”
“I seldom waste my time with innocence,” he replied reaching out and stroking her perfect skin. “Not when debauchery is so much more interesting.”
She preened under his casual caress, a practiced gesture, and no warmth reached her bleak eyes. “Send him away Killoran,” she murmured, “and let me stay.”
He smiled at her, gently, and gave her a gentle nudge toward the open door. “You forget, I know you too well. Good night, Babs.”
Killoran had little doubt that Lady Barbara Fitzhugh’s blasphemous response, echoing all the way to the library, made Nathaniel Hepburn’s love-struck countenance darken in embarrassment once more.
Chapter 3
Emma had always considered herself to be possessed of a few fortunate qualities, offset by the same number of drawbacks. She was brave, but when someone raised a threatening hand to her, that calm, faintly contemptuous expression on her face usually made the punishment far worse. She was strong, which made her able to withstand greater pain, both physical and emotional, whereas a weaker soul might dissolve into tears that would stop the torment. She considered herself to be passably pretty, though not quite in the common style, since she was built on large lines, but her height and her quiet life kept overeager swains at bay. Her face was lovely enough, yet her pale skin was marred by an unfortunate arrangement of freckles, and her brown eyes, pretty though they were, were alarmingly nearsighted. And there was the problem of her most unfortunate shade of hair. She would have given anything to have hair a plain, mousy brown, rather than the flame red she’d been born with. Miriam called her hair devil’s silk.
On top of everything, Emma was far too intelligent for a woman. That intelligence, however, had served her in good stead. Were she not possessed of more than a mere competency of brain, she would never have guessed what her uncle had in mind when he entered her room at the Pear and Partridge.
Apart from all her other mixed blessings, she came equipped with a fortune. Not a sufficiency, not a comfortable independence. A fortune. Little good it did her. Cousin Miriam had ruled the household in Crouch End and Uncle Horace with an iron hand, and she had made certain Emma had no claim on even a penny of the money her father had left her. The income went to God’s works, Miriam had righteously informed her, though Emma had yet to see evidence of that. Doubtless if she were a pauper, they never would have bothered with her in the first place, much less planned to kill her.
The notion still astounded her. She had never lik
ed Uncle Horace, with his soft hands, his rounded belly that always seemed to brush up against her, his sour breath overlaid by peppermints. She had never liked the glistening look in his pale eyes when he thought no one was looking, or the cruel pinches, but she’d been naive enough to ascribe them to a misplaced lust. Not that she had much acquaintance with lust in her nineteen years. Cousin Miriam was twice her age, a woman of unassailable virtue and morals, and she’d kept Emma so well protected that she was practically immured behind the walls of the ugly house in Crouch End. The few men who’d been admitted to her cloistered presence were either very old or suitably terrorized by Miriam DeWinter.
But Gertie, Cousin Miriam’s overworked maid, had explained it all to her in terms that, while shockingly frank, were also quite fascinating. The details of procreation sounded disgusting, particularly when coupled with the image of Uncle Horace DeWinter, and Gertie left her with little doubt that that was exactly what Uncle Horace had in mind with his seemingly endless, soft touches and the gleam in his eyes when he thought no one was looking.
She’d learned to enlist Cousin Miriam’s aid, subtly, of course. If that thin, overdressed martinet suspected her father of harboring any indecent tendencies toward Emma, she would have made life a holy hell for both of them. Not that she didn’t already.
But Miriam loved her father, inasmuch as she was able to love, of that Emma was certain. And Miriam cared not one whit for her orphaned cousin with the vast inheritance that would all, one day, go to Emma’s husband, and not a penny to herself. She wouldn’t take the news of Uncle Horace’s death well.
Emma had no idea when Uncle Horace’s rapacious designs on her had turned deadly—the idea was so outlandish that even now she couldn’t quite believe it. Any more than she could believe he was actually dead, killed by her own bloodstained hand.
But he was. She had stood over his body, numb with horror, the small part of her mind that functioned telling her to run before they dragged her outside and strung her up on the nearest tree.
And then He had appeared. That strange, drawling creature who’d mocked her, shocked her, taken in the desperate situation, and then quite calmly accepted the blame.
His professed motive shouldn’t have astonished her. She had looked into the glittering depths of his eyes and seen only cold emptiness. That he’d saved her life out of boredom should have come as no surprise. She only wondered why she didn’t want to believe it.
She could hardly object, since he had saved her life. And indeed, if his professed motive was true, she no longer owed him anything. It was a fair enough trade for a winter’s evening—her life for his entertainment. They were quits.
She still wasn’t sure why the landlord had appeared with a gold coin and the name of a mysterious woman in London, any more than she could fathom why that previously distrustful fellow had been willing to arrange a ride back to the city. She imagined it had something to do with her mysterious rescuer, but she had no intention of questioning her erratic luck.
The first welling of panic had filled her, and she squashed it down, ruthlessly. She was young, she was strong, she was—as her cousin had often informed her—lamentably intelligent. Surely she could find a way to survive.
She didn’t want to become a whore, which was doubtless the profession that mysterious Mrs. Withersedge would offer her. There was little enough for a female to do on the streets of London, and the gold coin wouldn’t last long. Indeed, it was a judgment upon her, one she should be willing to pay. She’d taken a life. If Mrs. Withersedge offered her a suitable penance, she would accept it.
Surely it would be preferable to life on the streets, and two days later, she presented herself at Mount Street, ready to begin life as a high-priced doxy.
She still wasn’t quite sure what that life would require of her. Her information on the act that gentlemen seemed to set such a store by was sketchy at best, and she preferred it that way. She had little doubt she could manage to lie in a bed in the darkness and allow someone to fumble beneath her nightdress and take liberties with her. After all, she would have to do the same thing if she ever married. It was a woman’s duty, a woman’s curse, and she might as well be paid for it.
The house on Mount Street didn’t look the slightest bit like a brothel, but then, Emma had no idea what a brothel would look like. The doorman who ushered her inside didn’t appear to be steeped in the ways of sin, and there were no dissipated females lounging around. Mrs. Withersedge was even more of a surprise. Her simple gray wig seemed better suited to a widow than a procuress, and her striped gown was high-cut with a wide white fichu. The only adornments to her face were thick white powder and a very discreet beauty mark near her fearsome nose.
Emma stood in the middle of the room, not having been invited to sit, when Mrs. Withersedge entered. Emma had bathed, arranged her unruly tangle of red hair as best she could, and dressed as boldly as her demure wardrobe allowed. Cousin Miriam had always made certain Emma’s clothing was dull, drab, and discreet, better suited to a parish orphan than an heiress, and the few pieces Emma had brought away with her, while slightly more colorful, seemed rather unfit for a whore.
Mrs. Withersedge said not a word, walking around Emma’s tall, upright figure, her eyes narrowed. “You have definite possibilities,” she said abruptly, her voice rich and plummy as gentility overlaid her working-class upbringing. “What did you have in mind, child?”
Emma blinked. “I’m not quite sure.”
Mrs. Withersedge moved away from her to sit behind an elegant, spotlessly neat desk. “I’m very particular about who I work with, my girl,” she said. “I don’t take on just anyone. I like references.”
“References?” Emma echoed faintly. For a whore? she thought with wonder. “I’m afraid I can’t provide you with any.”
Mrs. Withersedge tapped a pale finger against the mahogany desk. “Fallen on hard times, have you?” she asked. “You’re a better breed of female that I usually work with, but I’ll consider it nonetheless. What are your qualifications?”
Emma blushed. She hadn’t the faintest idea what the proper qualifications for a doxy were, apart from the obvious physical accoutrements, and she assumed most women came equipped with the basics. “I’m a virgin,” she said abruptly.
Mrs. Withersedge simply stared at her for a moment. And then she laughed, a deep, rolling belly laugh. “Good for you, child,” she said, wiping the tears from her eyes. “That’s not something you see too much of nowadays, though I doubt it’ll have much bearing in my finding a position for you. Sit down, child. You’re too tall as it is, and it hurts my old neck to stare up at you.”
Emma sat, also abruptly. “Position?” she said, afraid she was sounding like a lackwit.
“Isn’t that why you’re here?”
“Er... of course.” Position, she thought, racking her brain. Gertie had mentioned something about different positions, with the man behind, or perhaps beneath, the female, but she hadn’t paid much attention...
“Any other qualifications aside from your pure state?” Mrs. Withersedge demanded. “Can you read and write? Sew a fine seam? Paint with watercolors?”
“Of course,” Emma said, surprised. Her education had included that much, even if her watercolors were confined to religious subjects and her reading material consisted of improving tracts that bordered on the fanatic.
“Of course,” Mrs. Withersedge muttered underneath her breath. “Doesn’t everyone?”
“Is there much call for that?”
“In governesses, yes.”
“Governesses?”
“Do you have trouble hearing, young lady?” Mrs. Withersedge was losing a bit of her temper. “I run an employment agency. I specialize in finding upper servants for the wealthy. Isn’t that why you’re here? Don’t you want a job?”
“Of course I do,” she said, the stiffness in her shoulders relaxing fractionally. “And I should love to be a governess.”
“Not if you had much experience a
t it,” the older woman said wryly. “I know who sent you here. It could be no one but Killoran, curse his hide.”
“Killoran?”
“The Earl of Killoran. If you’ve met him, you’re not likely to forget him easily. A most unnerving gentleman, dressed in black and white and silver, with no heart and soul but the most malicious wit—”
“It was his lordship,” Emma said hastily, remembering those deep green eyes so devoid of life and feeling.
“And exactly what did you think he was sending you to when he gave you my direction?” Mrs. Withersedge asked sternly.
Emma had never been one for discretion. “A brothel,” she replied.
Mrs. Withersedge shook her head for a moment. “You’re not likely to be paid as well, and you’ll work a great deal harder,” she said. “If you’ve a desire to be a whore, I could always make some arrangements...”
“No, thank you,” Emma said swiftly. “I think I would make a very good governess. I’m very fond of children.”
Mrs. Withersedge surveyed her doubtfully. “Fondness for children and an ability to paint with watercolors won’t take you very far in this life, my girl. What’s your name?”
“Emma,” she said, without thinking. Belatedly the need for subterfuge stopped her. “Emma Brown,” she added.
“Brown, is it? The most common name in England. I don’t have many possibilities. Miss Brown. I try to avoid sending young women such as you into households where there are impressionable young men, but I’m afraid in this case I have no choice. Mrs. Varienne isn’t the most genteel of employers, and she has not one but two older sons, just of the age to get into mischief with an attractive young female beneath their roof. You’d best keep an eye out for them if Mrs. Varienne is willing to take you on.”
Unexpected hope had begun to fill Emma, stiffening her shoulders and brightening her eye. “I’ll devote myself to my charges,” she said. “Besides, I don’t suppose I am the sort to appeal to man’s baser instincts.”
Mrs. Withersedge looked her up and down and then emitted a genteel snort. “And I thought you were acquainted with Killoran,” she said obscurely.