by Gaelen Foley
“God, but you know how to wound me,” she whispered, lifted her head, and met his stare with anguish in her eyes. “Don’t equate me with her. At least I don’t hide the fact that I’m a whore.”
He threw his pen on the desk and braced his mouth against his hand.
“I have something to say to you,” she said in a brave, hushed tone.
No doubt, he thought, braced for a tongue-lashing, the way things were going.
Belinda shut the door. His veiled gaze followed her as she moved cautiously into the room where they had shared so many intimacies. Had her show of love been a delusion, like everything else? He couldn’t tell anymore what was real, and was honestly tired of trying to figure it out.
She drifted toward his piano and rested her hand atop its glossy lid as she stood gazing toward the empty hearth. “I wanted to say that I-I’ve tried over the past two months to make your life happier in small ways. To make you more comfortable and to bring you—pleasure.”
He clamped back the impulse to confess how well she had succeeded.
He was done with her and that was that. He was about to die for her, after all, for his refusal to hand her over to Dolph. Wasn’t that enough? It was treacherous, this urge he felt to go to her and enfold her in his arms, to give comfort and to seek it.
He sat at his desk in stoic silence, waiting to hear her out and watching the complex play of emotions that chased across her fine-boned features.
“Robert, that night in the dining room, it wasn’t greed that made me push you away,” she said quietly. “The truth is—oh, Robert, please.”
“What?” he asked prosaically.
Her graceful posture turned rigid and her small, delicate hand tensed where it rested on the piano. She closed her eyes but kept her face angled slightly away from him. “I know you look down your nose at demireps. Please try to understand. You are my f-first protector. The reason I pushed you away is because . . .”
Her words broke off as she struggled.
He waited, motionless, but made his tone bland and superior. “Yes?”
“I don’t know how to make love,” she said in a small voice.
He stared at her. “Forgive my indelicacy, Belinda, but let’s be reasonable. Love is your trade. It’s not as though you were a virgin when I entered you.”
“No.” Her voice dropped to an agonized plea. “There’s something I need to tell you—something I’ve never told anyone. Something that happened to me.” Her chin came up and at last she met his gaze with stormy yet weary intensity. “Robert, I didn’t just get tired of being poor one day and decide to become a courtesan. I was a decent woman. When Dolph got me fired from the finishing school, I kept my head above water by selling oranges in the day and mending shirts at night, just as the children told you. The work was endless, but I had my honor. I saw these children—Tommy and Andy—and it was winter and their bare feet were bleeding, Robert.” Her words were tumbling out faster and faster and a terrible foreboding was taking shape in his chest. “So I used the money for my father’s chamber fees at the Fleet to buy them boots,” she continued, her ladylike calm dissolving by the second. “Then I went to the warden to explain that I didn’t have the money and would he give me credit for a fortnight and he said he would think about it and it was raining.”
“Sit down, Bel,” he whispered, rising, moving slowly around his desk, not taking his eyes off her. Her face had grown ghastly pale.
“No,” she said vehemently, her orchid eyes feverish, her words exact. “Listen to me.” She backed away from him as he approached her, but her words kept coming. “The warden knew it was raining so he made his coachman give me a ride home. I thought he was just being polite, b-but he just wanted to find out where I lived. He asked me if I had any brothers or a husband to help me and I was such a fool, I told him no.”
“No, angel, please—” he begged her barely audibly, tears rushing into his eyes as something came into focus that he did not want to see.
“Yes. He came back in the nighttime, Robert, and he forced himself on me. Robert, I was a virgin. Oh, God, why did he do that to me?” she wailed as he took two swift strides and caught her in his arms, doubling over like a keening woman at a wake.
She clung to him, nearly gagging on her bitterness. “Why?” she cried. “I never hurt anyone. Robert, why did he have to do that to me?”
But all he could whisper was “Jesus, sweetheart, no, no, no,” as he held her, rocking her in his arms, horror and rage swimming before his eyes. His head reeled as if he had been struck with a sledgehammer. I’ll kill him.
“That’s why I became a courtesan, but Lucy was a fraud and Dolph called you a fraud and I’m a fraud, too,” she sobbed. “I don’t know how to—the other night I thought I could because I love you so much—but that sound of the silverware clanking... It’s so stupid but it sounded like— his awful keys he carried.”
Hawk recalled the huge key ring on that brute son of a bitch’s belt.
“It all came back,” she moaned, leaning against him as if she had no strength left. “I would never tell you no because of money. Robert, help me. It hurts so much.”
“I’m here,” he choked out. She was unsteady on her feet, so he eased her down onto the couch. He pulled her onto his lap and held her as she wept with pain. He hugged her hard, his own fierce, agonized tears of fury and remorse stinging behind tightly closed eyes.
Oh, God, if only he had known, he never would have made her go into that dark room tonight with Dolph. The warden of the Fleet. Jesus Christ. That scarred brute made Dolph look like a choirboy. But he hadn’t known, for he’d been so careful not to get too deeply involved. He had been wrong about Lucy, wrong about Dolph, but with Belinda he had been willfully, blindly self-deceived. He had felt her innocence from the first time he had looked at her, but he had not trusted it, in light of what she had appeared to be.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered over and over again, kissing her tear-stained face. His apologies were not enough, but he couldn’t stop their tumbling from his lips. She was shaking in his arms as she clung to him.
“I can’t lose you, Robert. Forfeit this duel. Men don’t duel over demireps.”
He captured her face between his hands and stared fiercely into her eyes, tears filling his own. “You are more to me than that. I will prove it to you.”
“By risking your life? I don’t want to lose you!” She kissed him feverishly amid tears. “Stay with me. Love me, Robert. Make me whole again.”
He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers, fighting the black chaos of his rage. “I will, my sweet,” he said with measured calm, “but not tonight. Not like this.”
“Tonight may be all we have if you go through with this duel!” she said angrily, pulling back from his embrace. “Don’t do it, Robert.”
Gazing at her anguished face, blotchy from crying, he cupped her cheek and held her stare in fierce tenderness. “Have faith in me. I don’t deserve you yet, but after I’ve dealt with the men who hurt you, then maybe I’ll be worthy of that gift.” He stroked her face in anguish. “Oh, my sweet girl, who could ever hurt you?”
Fresh tears filled her eyes and he pulled her into his arms again, petting her hair and back as if to smooth away the pain. After a while, his touch calmed her, quieting her ragged breathing.
“I wish you would have told me this before you ever let me touch you.”
“How could I tell you? All I’ve wanted since I met you is for you to respect me.”
No reproach could have chastened him more than her meek confession. He lowered his head and closed his eyes, cursing himself to the deepest regions of Hell for his superior thrice-damned arrogance. How many times had he rubbed his disapproval in her face? What had ever made him think he had the right to judge her? Whispering another futile apology, he tucked her head under his chin and held her to his chest as though she was made of finest porcelain. They stayed like that until he could feel her tremors settle down in
to slow, restful breaths.
“Would you like some wine to calm you?” he asked softly.
She nodded.
Kissing her forehead, he set her aside and rose. He crossed to the liquor cabinet and poured her a glass of wine. He sent a shrewd glance over his shoulder at her, knowing she would try to stop him if she knew what he intended to do tonight.
Dolph was not the only one who would be punished before the dawn. Rage waited in his veins, quick and hot, savage. He veiled it from her.
Into her wine he slipped a drop of the laudanum that he kept in the cabinet for those nights when he couldn’t fall asleep. It would calm her, help her rest.
For himself he reached into the liquor cabinet and took out the silver flask she had given him weeks ago, in happier times. He filled it with some of the French brandy his brother Jack had sent him, for there was dark work to be done this night and he would need its fiery resolve.
He capped the elegant flask and slipped it into his waistcoat for later.
He brought her the glass of wine; she murmured her thanks. Then he let his favorite dog, Hyperion, into the library to guard her and keep her company. The golden-coated Newfoundland curled up on the rug by the sofa where Bel reclined, tear stained and exhausted. Hawk leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her clammy forehead.
She curled her fingers around his. “Don’t leave me, Robert.”
“I’m here.” He sat down on the edge of the sofa.
For many long moments he remained by her side while she sipped her wine. He caressed her hair and held her hand. He took her wine for her while she loosened the tight collar of her white riding shirt, then gave the glass back to her.
“Thank you.”
He smiled, feeling his heart wrench at her automatic politeness. “You were so brave tonight,” he whispered, stroking her hair. “If I had known, I would have never put you through that, not in a million years.”
“I know.” A tremulous smile quavered on her lips.
“This whole plan to use you as the bait for Dolph ... it was so wrong of me. Why did you let me do it?”
“I had to keep my word,” she said. “I wanted to show you I was brave.”
“You always do, Belinda. Ballast in your hull, my girl.”
She smiled wistfully at his words, settling more deeply into the sofa’s cushions.
He glanced toward the pianoforte. “Shall I play you a lullaby?”
“No, stay by my side,” she pleaded anxiously, reaching for his hand.
“I’m here, I’m here. Poor angel, you’ve been carrying this burden on your shoulders all this time by yourself.” He continued caressing her gently, brushing his knuckles against the soft feathery hairs that flowed back from her temple, but the thought of that scarred brute having his way with this gently bred innocent brought him to the brink of rage. It took all the self-control at his command to sit here quietly for another quarter hour and soothe her.
He remembered how coins had greased the palms of the prison guards and how the warden had been giving one of his underlings a verbal thrashing. Someone inside the walls of the Fleet would surely tell him what he needed to know, for a price.
Restless to be under way, Hawk glanced at the mantel clock. “I want you to rest, darling. Try to sleep,” he said softly. “I’ll be back in a little while.”
“Why are you leaving me? Stay,” she murmured, her eyes closed as the laudanum began to take effect.
“You rest now, my angel.” He leaned down and pressed a whisper-soft kiss to her brow. “Know that I am your protector and I will never let anyone hurt you again.”
“Mmm,” she said, drifting away. Silently he rose, made the final preparations, then left the library and armed himself with his pair of Manton pistols, pulling on a plain black coat over them. As an afterthought, he took off his ring emblazoned with the family crest. Better if no one identified him.
Jogging down the curved staircase, he stalked out to the graveled courtyard behind Knight House and crossed it to the carriage house.
Down the row of shiny vehicles—Belinda’s vis-à-vis, his town coach, traveling coach, and curricle—there sat an older black carriage that he had set aside years ago for his servants’ use. It was perfect for his purposes tonight, sturdy but nondescript. He had William harness the team of four, then Hawk climbed into the driver’s seat and took the reins.
William read his grim expression with worry and asked if he required his attendance, but Hawk didn’t want anyone else involved in the matter of vengeance that lay ahead of him. He pulled his hat down low over his eyes and set out into the thronged streets, where the fireworks crowd had begun to disperse.
He must have looked the part, for a few drunken young-bloods leaving the festival mistook him for a hackney coach and hailed him, then cursed him and shook their fists when he didn’t stop. His first destination was Faringdon Street and the Fleet Prison. He jumped down and called over a boy outside the Fleet to hold the horses, gruffly promising to return in fifteen minutes.
Hawk asked to see Alfred Hamilton and was admitted. He scanned the lobby as he strode through it behind the guard.
He noted that the warden’s office was closed. “Warden off duty tonight?” he asked in a careful tone of pleasantry.
“Only works days.”
“Ah,” Hawk said with a nod, sizing the man up. “Must be a relief. He’s a hard one.”
“Aye, you’re tellin‘ me. Bloody slave driver,” the young guard grumbled.
When they reached the door to old Hamilton’s cell, the guard turned to him expectantly, awaiting the fee for turning the key.
Hawk put ten gold sovereigns into his hand, probably more than the man earned in a month. “Know where I might find him?” he asked quietly.
“The warden?”
“I was hoping to speak with him.”
The guard stared at the coins in his hand. His fist closed around them and he swallowed nervously. “The Cock Pit Tavern, I’d wager.”
“And where might that be?” Hawk asked gently.
“Pudding Lane, stone’s throw from Billingsgate.”
“Are you sure?”
The guard cast a furtive look over his shoulder. “I’m sure. We just got paid and that’s where he goes to wager on the cockfights. Plus the place serves liquor out of hours to serve the fish porters. Warden likes his drink, early and late.”
Hawk nodded, satisfied. “It would be best if any record of my visit were removed from the log, don’t you agree?”
“Could be arranged.”
“Smart lad.” Hawk smiled, gave him another few gold coins, then went into Alfred’s cell to serve up the hard truth.
He did so without pity; the old man’s anguished cry still echoed in Hawk’s ears as he left the Fleet with a knot in the pit of his stomach. Whatever inclination he might have had to release Alfred Hamilton from debtor’s prison had withered upon learning the consequences for Belinda of her father’s irresponsibility. The old man could rot here as far as he was concerned.
He paid the boy the promised coin and climbed back up onto the coach, then drove east through the City to Lower Thames Street. A fog was rolling off the river. When the stink offish from the sprawling riverside market of Billingsgate filled the air, he knew he was close.
In the distance the ominous hulking Tower of London loomed, shrouded in mist.
Hawk turned left onto the small side street called Pudding Lane and quickly found the Cock Pit Tavern, doing brisk business by the sound of it. He eased the coach into the shadows of an alleyway down the lane, then ducked into the mobbed pub, keeping to the wall as he searched the raucous crowd for the warden. Hawk spied him amid the knot of men clamoring around the blacklegs, who were busily jotting down their wagers.
Hawk slipped back out into the night and returned to his carriage. Climbing up onto the driver’s seat, he sat back, folded his arms over his chest and waited in brooding, implacable silence. Occasionally he took a swig from the silver flask
. The brandy kept him warm as the night sky began to drizzle on and off.
Each time the pub door opened, spilling a glow of warm light onto the wet cobblestone, he came alert, but the warden didn’t appear.
After the first hour he got down from the coach and walked around the alley to stretch his legs. Something glinted on a heap of rubble by the wall of one of the buildings. He sauntered over, bent down and picked it up—a length of lead pipe. He hefted it in his grip with a narrow smile and went back to wait, biding his time. Another hour passed. He checked his fob watch. Quarter past two. His duel with Dolph Breckinridge was only two hours away; dawn came at four a.m. in the summer.
The drizzle turned into a more determined rain. He glanced in irritation at the sky from under the dripping brim of his hat, and then suddenly the door of the pub opened and out stumbled the warden of the Fleet.
Hawk tensed. His heartbeat kicked into a gallop. He sat forward slowly on the driver’s seat as thunder rumbled in the distance.
The warden was with two other men, but they exchanged farewells on the corner and the others zigzagged away toward the river while the warden turned and started trudging up the street. Hawk waited like a predator in the gloom.
Silently he slid down from the driver’s seat. As the warden lurched nearer, Hawk emerged from the shadows, walking toward the man. The warden saw him, then squinted through the rain toward the coach.
“Hackney! Take me to Cheapside,” he slurred roughly.
Hawk was taken aback by the order, then gave a narrow smile. “Right this way.”
Moments later the warden was sprawled on the floor of the coach with a gag around his mouth and Hawk’s knee in his back. The warden had ferocious strength; they fought in the coach like two wild beasts thrashing in battle, but in the end, the man hadn’t a chance. Hawk was too filled with wrath even to feel the blows the warden struck. Holding him down, at last Hawk bound the warden’s wrists behind him, then went back up to his team.