Cecil had ignored his jest. “How the devil a man can engage in so much blasted praying and live like a monk, I’ll never know.”
The comment about living like a monk had surprised Magnus; after all, Cecil had been the most loyal man alive to his mistress, Alice Thompkins, an older widow who lived in one of the cottage on their father’s estate. Magnus guessed his brother would have married Mrs. Tompkins long ago if he thought his parents would permit it.
Now, Magnus’s other brothers—Michael, Henry, James, and Philip—on the other hand, were a completely different story from Cecil. Tales of the earl’s wild younger sons were told in every taproom in West Riding.
Lord how those four had teased Magnus when he’d turned sixteen and was still a virgin. It was a testament to his incredibly stubborn nature—which his doting mother claimed was his only sin—that he’d not allowed them to drag him to a brothel. But he’d stood firm. And he’d remained chaste even when other men at his seminary visited brothels or kept mistresses. Such activity wasn’t encouraged, but it was tolerated as long as it was kept discrete. After all, more than one of his fellows had observed, becoming a vicar was not like becoming a Catholic priest.
No, they weren’t taking a vow of celibacy, but Magnus couldn’t conscience paying women to slake his physical needs. Instead, he managed his needs himself, no matter how unfulfilling that might be, and looked forward to discovering the joys of the matrimonial bed with his wife. Until that day arrived, he tried to avoid thinking too much about the sexual act if he could help it. Today, he was finding he couldn’t help it.
Something about Miss Griffin had brought thoughts of a carnal nature to mind.
Magnus climbed the steps to Mrs. Tisdale’s tiny house, his face burning at the images running loose in his head. It wasn’t Miss Griffin’s fault that she emanated a seductive sensuality that wrapped around him like the tendrils of ivy.
An unwanted surge of lust rolled through him at the thought of her tilted eyes and that long upper lip. Magnus grimaced; the innocent young woman was probably unaware of the effect her face and figure had on men.
He pushed away the lustful thoughts and rapped on the front door.
Nobody answered, so he opened it a crack and stuck his head inside. The old lady was hard of hearing and her maid-of-all-work only came in the mornings. “Mrs. Tisdale?”
There was no answer so Magnus stepped inside and lowered his satchel to the hall floor. That was when he heard a faint tapping and soft cry overhead.
Magnus bolted for the narrow stairs. He’d never been anywhere on the second floor before but assumed it was where her bedchamber was.
“Mrs. Tisdale?” he called when he reached the landing, which held three doors. The first was a box room and the second a spare bedroom. He opened the third door more slowly. “Mrs. Tisdale?”
“Mister Stanwyck.” The voice, breathy and hoarse, came from the far side of the bed, which was unmade but empty.
Magnus found the old lady on the hardwood floor, her leg bent at an odd angle beneath her. He dropped down beside her and gently shifted her so her weight was not on her leg. She screamed.
“I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Tisdale,” he soothed, covering her blue-veined, painfully thin legs with her flannel nightgown before turning to look at her face. Her eyes had closed and he was wondering if she’d lost consciousness when her papery lids fluttered open.
“Cold,” she said, even though the house was almost unbearably warm and humid
Magnus did not think that could be good. “I’m going to lift you onto the bed where you can get warm and be more comfortable.”
She grimaced but nodded.
As careful as he was picking her up, she still gave a blood curdling scream that tore at his heart. Not until he’d laid her down and covered her with the heavy quilt did he risk looking at her face.
She was staring at him, her eyes tight with pain.
“I need to go for the doctor.”
Her hand shot out far faster than he’d believed she could move. “No! Not yet.”
“But—”
“Just. . . don’t leave me alone. Stay a moment.” She was breathing too fast and bright spots of color had settled over her knife-sharp cheekbones. Her hand tightened on his, her bony fingers like the claws of a bird. “Please.”
It was the first time he’d heard her speak that particular word. “Of course I’ll stay.” He hooked a foot around a nearby chair and pulled it toward the bed without letting go of her hand.
“Scared.” Her breathing had slowed but was still jerky.
Magnus looked up from their joined hands at the word. Her blue eyes, usually so sharp and pitiless, were watery and vague.
“I’m here now, Mrs. Tisdale. Nothing to be afraid of.”
She nodded, her gaze still fixed upon him, her grip unbreakable.
Mrs. Tisdale was the village outcast. Magnus supposed there was somebody like her in every town in Britain. He had no idea what she’d done to earn the status and he doubted her neighbors remembered, either. She’d simply occupied the role for so many decades it was like an old coat that fit too comfortably to shed.
He knew better than to ask a woman’s age, but he’d seen a book she’d left open once and the flyleaf had contained the words: “To my darling Eunice, for those times we can’t be together. James” The date below the inscription had been 1751. Even if she’d only been twenty it meant she was now somewhere in her eighties. The elegant bones of her face and her huge, deep-set eyes proclaimed she must have been a beautiful young woman.
Magnus realized her grip had loosened and her lips were parted. Her breathing was stertorous, but even and deep: she was sleeping at last.
He carefully disentangled their fingers, tip-toed from the room, and then ran with undignified haste to fetch the doctor.
∞∞∞
Melissa poured herself another cup of tea—which she’d found was far easier on her stomach than coffee—and broke the seal on Joss Gormley’s most recent letter. Joss wasn’t only her best friend; he was also managing the brothel in Melissa’s absence.
Dear Mel:
I hope this letter finds you hale, hearty, and relaxing in the village of New Bickford. Business continues as usual. Laura asks that I pass along her regards and also wanted me to remind you about the expansion she proposed just before you left on your trip.
Melissa sighed. She’d been avoiding thinking about the proposal that Laura Maitland, one of her other business partners, had made. To be honest, her heart simply hadn’t been in her business since she’d coughed up blood and almost died that day last fall. A brush with mortality made one reevaluate what was important in one’s life.
She frowned at the unpleasant memory of that day, took another piece of toast, and turned back to the letter.
Please don’t get angry.
Mel shook her head. “Oh, Joss. What in the world is it now?”
Laura did not stop at her reminder; she approached the owner of number nine and made an independent offer for the property, which he is currently considering.
Mel dropped her toast. “What?”
I know you wanted to wait until you, Laura, and Hugo had a chance to discuss the matter and agree on an offer for the property, but . . .
Melissa growled. She had wanted to wait. Now the seller, a hideously sly man, would know they wanted the building and would double the price. She ground her teeth. Laura was clearly running amok without Melissa there to curb her. While she could never love owning a brothel, The White House was her future. If she could sell it for a profit—like the woman she’d bought it from—then she could retire in the next few years. But that wouldn’t happen if she paid a fortune for her next expansion.
“Bloody hell,” she muttered.
I know how her behavior will have annoyed you, but it is nothing to Hugo’s annoyance.
A laugh broke out of her as Joss’s wry observation. “I’ll wager you’re correct, Joss,” she said, smiling at the though
t of her most prickly business partner’s reaction to Laura’s rash behavior.
I didn’t think Hugo had it in him to feel anger—or anything other than self-love, really.
Joss despised Hugo—Melissa’s most popular employee with both women and men—and made no secret of it. Of course, a lot of that dislike was due to a rather wicked trick Melissa had played on Joss a few months ago, when she’d used Hugo to get between Joss and the woman Joss had stubbornly refused to admit he loved.
It had been a foolishly dangerous plan, but it had worked.
She knew she should be grateful that the two men hadn’t killed each other that night. Melissa’s view was that all’s well that ends well. Unfortunately, Joss hadn’t seen it that way. While his anger at Melissa had abated, his loathing for Hugo had doubled. And, after he’d blackened Hugo’s eye, the feeling was mutual.
Mel made a tsking sound at the memory and turned back to her letter.
The result of Laura’s precipitate action is that Hugo and Laura hate each other more than ever. I think there will be trouble between those two before too long. I’m glad I sold my interest in the business to you. At least I don’t have to worry about the two of them badgering me night and day to sell to them.
No, but Melissa would when she returned.
If I return.
Mel paused, the letter crackling between her clenched fingers. Now where had that thought come from? Of course, she was going back—where else would she go?
Her mouth tightened. Nowhere: there was nowhere else to go. At least not anywhere she wouldn’t have to hide her past and who she was. Even staying here temporarily brought a certain amount of anxiety. Men from all over Britain knew her and there was always a possibility—nay, an inevitability—that she would encounter one even in a place as bucolic as New Bickford.
Well, no point dwelling on that right now. This was only her third day here and nobody had recognized her yet. The handsome curate floated into her mind. She snorted. He was one more thing she could never have and should put out of her mind. The two of them were so different they might as well be separate species.
She straightened out the crumpled sheets of paper and turned back to the letter, the rest of which was largely to do with business, some repairs, two other new employees, and a young lord whom Joss had barred from the men’s side of the business for excessive debt. It wasn’t until the end that he said something about himself.
My father passed quietly in his sleep last week.
She laid a hand on her throat. “Oh, Joss.”
As you know, it was a happy release. He’d become little more than a vegetable these past months and my sister was working herself to the bone.
Although she will go to Joseph, her betrothed, soon, I wish to spend a week with her before she marries. I have convinced her to take a brief holiday at the seaside. Please let me know if you would feel uncomfortable if I left Laura and Hugo in charge while I was gone for ten days.
Uncomfortable? No, that wasn’t the word she’d use. Terrified was more like it; terrified that there might not be anything to go back to. But that was hardly Joss’s fault. He’d only offered to help manage the business so that Melissa would agree to this stay in the country. He had his own life and expecting him to sacrifice it for the health of the brothel wasn’t fair. Especially not when she had two managers who were supposed to operate the business.
She sighed and glanced down at the bottom of the page.
I miss you and hope you are well. Say hello to that spitfire Daisy from me and tell her that more than a few men are mourning her absence.
Your friend,
Joss
She folded up the letter, her mind on Joss’s comment about leaving Laura and Hugo in charge: tantamount to leaving the inmates in charge of the asylum. The two whores were the worst possible combination: Laura was willful and rarely stopped to take other people into consideration.
And as for Hugo?
Just thinking his name made her head pound. Hugo was a force of nature. He was, quite frankly, the most sexually attractive man she’d ever met. It was boggling how much fascination he held for both genders—especially considering he wasn’t good looking at all. His whipcord lean body, coal black eyes, and thin, cruel lips should have made him downright ugly. But there was something about him that drew and held the eye; a person would always notice Hugo in a crowded room.
He was the only employee who’d never refused a customer’s request. When it came to sex, Hugo would do anything.
Leaving him in charge of her business would be putting the proverbial fox in charge of the henhouse. A fox who might ransack the building, sell all the valuables, and then set the whole thing on fire just to watch it burn.
“Melissa?”
She looked up to find Daisy standing in the doorway. “Yes?”
“Where were you? I called your name three times.”
“Just thinking and relaxing—what I came here to do.”
“Well, the time for relaxation is over—you’ve got visitors.”
“At this time of day?”
“It’s past noon, luv.”
Mel looked at the clock on the bedside table. So it was. “Who is it?”
Daisy’s full lips curved into a wicked look that had made her a lot of money over the years. “I’d hate to spoil the surprise.”
Chapter Three
“Would you like another scone, Mrs. Pilkington?” Daisy had changed into a dress Mel had never seen before—a demure, high-necked pale blue gown with long sleeves. It should have made her look more “aunt-like” but it didn’t.
“No, thank you, Mrs. Trent.”
Mel hid a smile at the Pilkington woman’s pointed tone and stare. She was like a bloodhound that could scent something but couldn’t quite get the trail. Daisy’s act wasn’t fooling her for a second. They would all need to be careful around Mrs. Pilkington.
“The Summer Fête is in just three weeks,” Mrs. Heeley said, blissfully unaware of any undercurrents in the room and accepting another scone, her fourth, Mel noted.
In addition to the vicar’s wife there was Mrs. Pilkington and her three downtrodden daughters; Miss Agnes Philpot; her improbably named sister, Gloria; and two other women whose names Mel could not recall at the moment. An entire church committee, apparently. It seemed like an odd way to call on a complete stranger, but what did Mel know about such things?
She realized everyone was looking at her and waiting for a response. What the devil had they all been yammering about?
She looked at Daisy, who mouthed the words summer and fête.
“Ah, a fête.” Mel cleared her throat. “I’m afraid I’ve never attended such a thing.” They continued to stare. “At least not at our church in London.”
Mrs. Pilkington’s eyebrows shot up. “Is that so? And to what parish do you belong?”
Mel opened her mouth but couldn’t make anything come out of it.
A knock on the door saved her.
“Yes, Jenny?” she said, wanting to kiss the curvy young maid who appeared as guileless as a cherub but in reality, had whipped a sizeable portion of the ton with a riding crop.
“You’ve a visitor, Miss Griffin.” The girl’s eyes met Mel’s in a way that most maids probably wouldn’t and she hesitated as if she were about to deliver a wicked surprise. Melissa would have to talk to Jenny about her acting later. The girl wanted to be on the stage, so she’d better learn to embrace her role. “He says he’s a curate.” She said the word the way another person—one who hadn’t worked in a brothel until a few weeks ago—might say “mermaid” or “unicorn.”
“Please show him in, Jenny.”
Every eye in the room swiveled toward the doorway.
“Ah, good afternoon, Miss Griffin.” Reverend Stanwyck’s blue eyes widened as he took in the number of people in the room. “I see I’m interrupting something—”
“You are more than welcome.” Mel said a silent prayer of gratitude for the curate’s distra
cting presence. She motioned to Daisy, “You remember my aunt, Mrs. Trent?”
“Naturally. Good afternoon, ma’am.” He gave Daisy an elegant bow that brought out her carnivorous smile and Mel wanted to groan. Could the woman behave any more like a tart if she tried?
The arrival of the handsome curate threw the dynamic of the room completely off-kilter.
Mel leaned close to Daisy. “Quick, what church do I attend in London?” she whispered as the reverend bowed and greeted the cluster of women.
“Don’t ask me—the only church I know of is St. Paul’s.”
“Good Lord. Do they even have services there?”
Daisy snorted. “Why are you asking me these questions?” She gestured with her chin toward the curate, who was sitting in the middle of the flock of women looking far more comfortable than any man had a right to be. “There’s your local expert.”
Mel gave her a filthy look.
“Two sugars and milk, please,” Mister Stanwyck said to the elder Miss Philpot, who’d somehow won the competition among the women to serve him his tea when Melissa did not immediately spring to her feet.
He took the cup and saucer, thanked her, and turned to his rapt audience. “Please, I was serious about not wishing to interrupt.”
“We were just talking about Saint Botolph’s Summer Fête,” Melissa said, before Mrs. Pilkington could unsheathe her claws again and reintroduce the subject of London churches.
“Yes, we were speaking of the bazaar and what we had assembled thus far.” Miss Gloria Philpot was staring worshipfully at the curate and had scooted all the way to the edge of her chair, until only the tiniest sliver of rump was keeping her from falling on the floor.
“I’m not sure I understand what a bazaar is,” Daisy said, as if she were genuinely interested.
“It is the same as a fair or market, just with a more varied selection of items rather than vegetables and such. We set up booths in the park and people sell different things. At the end of the day all the money is counted and the booth that earns the most gets a surprise gift. All the money goes toward the church windows,” Mister Stanwyck said.
Melissa and The Vicar (The Seducers Book 1) Page 3