“Lochley?” Gage arched a brow at him, ostensibly asking if he agreed to stay with Georgie and her companion.
“I’ll find Miss Gage now,” he said, finally breaking his silence. “Good evening, Mrs. Martin, Miss Martin.” Lochley left them and crossed the street to the confectioner’s.
When Gage returned and suggested the party make its way to the assembly, which was the reason they’d gone into Tunbridge Wells, Lochley cried off. He couldn’t imagine dancing and sipping tea while his head still whirled to make sense of what he now knew of Miss Martin.
Unwilling to deprive the party of the carriage, he’d walked back to the Friar’s House. He’d never been much of a walker, but at times he saw the advantage. His head was much clearer, and so was his shame. Why had he not said anything to Caro? Whether what the men said about her was true or not, she’d been attacked on the street. He should have comforted her. He should have been the one to see her home.
Instead, he’d stood there like a mute clodpole. He was an idiot, not just because of his behavior tonight, but because he now realized part of his shock had come from his feelings for her. If he’d cared nothing for her, he would have been merely surprised by the revelation of her past. As it was, he cared for her more than he had been aware. How else to explain the turmoil within him when his impression of her had not meshed with the reality?
He was still awake when the Gages returned from the assembly and Bertie knocked on his door. “I saw your light,” Bertie said when Lochley opened the door.
He’d changed into a brocade banyan with deep cuffs and which almost swept the floor when he paced. He’d paced quite a lot this night.
He pushed the door wide. “Come in. Fancy a drink? I have an open bottle of wine.”
“I wouldn’t say no. The refreshments at the assembly were awful.”
Lochley handed him a glass of ruby wine. “I supposed they would be.”
“You should have come. The music was at least decent, and the ladies were pretty enough.”
“You’re probably right.”
Lochley sipped his wine, while Bertie elaborated on the assembly—the neighbors who attended, the excitement for the fair next week, and whether or not Georgie had danced too much and must be forced to stay in bed the next day to rest.
Lochley grunted his responses, and finally Bertie set the wine glass down and gave him a hard look. “Is it the Martin chit? Is that what’s bothering you?”
“Nothing is bothering me.”
“And I’m the King of Spain. You’ve barely said three words since we found her at the apothecary’s, and immediately after I returned from escorting her home, you decided to forgo the assembly. You’ve been going on about how banal the country is, but you cry off at the first chance for entertainment.”
“I was tired.”
“And yet you are not sleeping.” Gage sat in one of the chairs upholstered in damask. “I was as shocked as you, you know. But we don’t even know if the story is true. She didn’t speak on the way home, not that we could have spoken of it with her mother there.”
“She didn’t deny it.” Lochley poured another glass of wine. He lifted the bottle toward Gage, who shook his head.
“No, she didn’t, but still. To think Miss Martin was a…”
“Whore?”
Gage spread his hands. “For lack of a better word. I’ve never been to The Pleasure Den—”
“Nor I.”
“But I’ve heard stories. From what I know of Miss Martin, I can’t think she would have willingly gone to work there.”
“I suppose now we know where she was during that absence of hers that fueled all the rumors.” Lochley drank deeply from his cup.
Bertie watched him, his brown eyes narrowed. “Why the interest in Miss Martin? You dined with her once, and though Georgie did make an effort to throw the two of you together, I didn’t think it took. Besides, everyone knows you have an aversion to the country which extends to its misses.”
“There’s nothing between us.”
Gage’s brows rose. “That was said with a bit too much force. Is there something I don’t know?”
Lochley sighed. “I met with Miss Martin accidentally while out walking. You remember that day you returned without me? I became hopelessly lost and encountered Miss Martin on a section of her father’s land that borders yours. She led me back to the Friar’s House.”
Bertie chuckled. “Some things never change. Do you remember that time we were in Lyon and we became separated from the regiment? You insisted we travel north, even though the regiment had been posted south.”
“My compass was broken.”
“Your head is broken. I suppose when you went out walking yesterday, you met with Miss Martin again.”
“How did you guess?”
“Ha! I told Georgie I was suspicious of your sudden interest in walking. You wouldn’t walk from the drawing room to the dining room if it wasn’t required.”
“Perhaps I’ve changed.”
“Because of Miss Martin?”
Lochley lifted his glass, perplexed to see it empty of wine. He placed it on the table between the damask chairs and lowered himself into the one beside Bertie.
“I liked her. More than I ought to, I suppose. She was refreshing and—good God, I cannot believe I am saying this—unpretentious.”
“She is still refreshing and unpretentious. Her past doesn’t change who she is now.”
Lochley rested his elbows on his knees and dropped his head between his arms. “Doesn’t it? Perhaps I don’t know her at all. And Bertie”—he raised his head to meet his friend’s eyes—“she was a prostitute. That is no small sin.”
Bertie sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “So now you are the authority on the ranking of sins? Who is to say one is worse than another? And it’s not as though you are blameless.”
Lochley felt his back bristle. “Neither are you.”
“I’m not condemning Miss Martin.”
“You weren’t thinking of marrying her either.”
Bertie’s jaw dropped, and Lochley raised his hands. “I don’t know why I said that. I didn’t mean it. I am not marrying Caro.”
“Caro? Oh, you like her, Peregrine. You more than like her, else you wouldn’t give a fig that she was once a moll. You’d say something interesting finally happened in the country.”
It was exactly the sort of thing he would say.
“I can’t possibly like her now.”
Without a word, Bertie rose and marched to the door.
“Where the devil are you going?”
Bertie opened the door and made a show of peering out. “To look for the real Peregrine Lochley. The man I know would never judge someone so harshly. Good God, man, you haven’t even asked her for an explanation.”
“What explanation can there be?”
Bertie shook his head. “I always thought you the fairest, most decent of men, but tonight you show a prejudice I find I dislike intensely. Good night.” He slammed the door.
“Good night!” Lochley slumped back in his chair. “Who the devil does he think he is anyway?” He answered his own question. “Only your most loyal and truest friend.” He stood. “He’s not acting like much of a friend right now.” He sat again. “You’re one to talk—and bloody well stop talking to yourself!”
There was only one thing to do—for himself and to prove to Gage he wasn’t a complete arse. He had to confront Caro and hear her story for himself.
* * *
She didn’t know why she’d come to the stream. Lochley wouldn’t join her, not after what he learned about her last night. He hadn’t even been able to look at her, or speak to her, after her secret had been revealed. She was certain he would never deign to acknowledge her again.
That was his loss, then. She didn’t need him. Yes, she’d enjoyed talking with him. Yes, he’d amused her on occasion and intrigued her with his knowledge about wine, but it wasn’t as though she cared what he thoug
ht of her. It wasn’t as though she cared if she ever saw him again.
She perched on the log, and her fingers strayed to her lips. Staring at the sun glinting off the burbling stream, she brushed the pads of her fingertips across her mouth. She would have to forget the kiss he’d given her first. When she couldn’t remember the feel of his lips on hers, then she’d stop caring about him.
She heard a twig snap and leaves crunch underfoot and turned with amazement to see Lochley emerging from the woods. She didn’t say a word as he crossed the expanse between them and came to stand before the log. His legs were braced apart as though he was a pirate on a ship in the turbulent sea struggling to maintain his balance. He could have been a gentleman pirate with the scruff on his cheeks, those golden eyes, and that perfectly tied cravat puffed out like a peacock’s feathers below his chin.
“You came,” he said, breaking the silence. But for the rushing of the stream, there was no sound but her heart beating.
“I don’t know why I did. I did not think you would want to see me.”
He looked at the stream. “I didn’t think I would either.” His gaze focused on her. “I was wrong. I must apologize for—”
She rose. “No, it’s I who should apologize. I played the lady, and I allowed you to believe I am someone respectable. As you saw last night, I am far from respectable. The truth about me is worse than any of the rumors.”
“The truth about you.” He rubbed a knuckle over his chin. “And what is the truth about you?”
She lowered her head, shame making her cheeks heat. “You saw last night—”
“No.” His fingers grazed her chin, lifting her face so he could look into her eyes. “Those men don’t know you. You’re nothing but a bit o’ sport to them. I see you.” His golden eyes searched hers, as intense as she imagined a lion’s might be. “You’re much more than a bit o’ sport.”
“But last night, when you didn’t speak”—she waved her hand because the words seemed to escape her—“the look in your eyes, and I thought…” She didn’t know how to finish. She had not thought he would come to see her today. Now she didn’t know what to think.
His finger trailed away from her chin, leaving a frisson of heat in its wake. “I must apologize for last night. I have no excuse.”
She shook her head, denying his need to make amends.
“My only explanation,” he continued, ignoring her protests, “is that for a moment I forgot who I am. Who am I to judge you? I’m far from perfect, and I’ve made too many mistakes to count.” He adjusted his cravat. “That is not to say you made a mistake. I don’t want to imply—”
“No!” She grabbed his wrist and held it. “I mean, yes. Yes, I made a mistake. You’re right to call it that. I made a rather large mistake that snowballed into another and another until it was the most mammoth mistake anyone could ever make.” She released his wrist, aware of the heat under her fingers.
“Will you tell me about it?” he asked. “Only if you want to. I don’t mean to pry.”
She sat back on the log, her legs wobbly beneath her.
“I shouldn’t have asked.”
“It’s quite all right. I want to tell you. I’m never allowed to talk about it, and there are so many times I’ve wanted to tell someone, anyone. My mother begins to cry if I speak of it, and my father becomes enraged. It’s not something I can speak to my brother about, and I’ve been shunned like a leper since I returned. I have no friends. Even if I did, I couldn’t tell them. The things I’ve seen”—she met his gaze directly—“the things I’ve done would shock most respectable ladies.”
“They won’t shock me.”
“No, I daresay they won’t, but once I tell you, you may feel quite vindicated in judging me.”
“Try me and see. As I said, I’m no saint.”
She suppressed the urge to smile. The men who’d used and abused her had not been saints either, but that had never stopped them from condemning her. Men and women lived by very different rules.
Caro twined her fingers together in her lap, watching the sun dapple her skin through the trees. It reminded her of another summer when she’d been just a girl.
“I met him on a day like today. Sunny and warm, a perfect day for a fair. We went to the fair, the same one Hemshawe hosts every year.” She could still smell the scent of baking bread and sweet corn and underneath it the straw lining the pens of the animals being shown. She’d spent most of the morning by her parents’ sides, admiring the sheep and cows and pigs, eating too many sweet pies, and clapping with joy at the jugglers and other performers.
Her brother introduced her to the man. She was sixteen, and he was closer to Matthew’s age at one and twenty. “I don’t remember how my brother met him. Perhaps they had a mutual friend, or they’d done business together in London. My father and brother travel to Town a few times a year to deliver wine to merchants and settle accounts.”
Lochley nodded, encouraging her to continue.
“My parents must have thought that because he knew Matthew, he was acceptable. They were ready to return home, but I begged to be able to stay at the fair with my brother and enjoy the music that night. They agreed, instructing me to stay close to Matthew.”
“But this man managed to separate you from your brother. He wanted you alone,” Lochley said, voice tight.
She’d almost forgotten he was there. “Yes, that’s right.”
“I’ve heard this story before,” he said. “Not yours, in particular, but I know how it goes. He separates you, plies you with gifts and sweet words, tells you he loves you, and then begs you to run away with him.”
She blinked back tears. “You must think me horribly naïve.”
“I think you horribly brave. You escaped and came back home. You’ve held your head high, and that’s more than I can say for most. Tell me what happened when you reached London.”
“I had no money. I’d had to spend it on the journey.”
“Of course. He said his blunt was in London, and when you arrived you’d have everything you desired. Did he take you to the bawdy house right away?”
“No.” She took a deep breath, willing herself to say the rest of it. “He took me to his flat, where I met his wife, or at least a woman who claimed to be his wife. Now I’m sure it was an act they’d perfected, but she came out screaming at me and accusing me of stealing her husband. They made an awful scene. People had gathered on the street to watch. So many people.” She remembered the grimy faces and the open mouths as they mocked her.
“You’d never been to London.” He really had heard her story before.
“No. I didn’t know where I was. I have cousins in Town, but I didn’t know where they live. I had nowhere to go and no coin. David—that was his name—told me he just needed a day or two to sort things out. The woman wasn’t his wife at all, just a jealous former lover. He would send her on her way and come for me. Then we’d marry and be happy. He knew a nice woman, his aunt, who ran a lodging house. I’d be safe there.”
She supposed he knew the rest of the story. She’d gone willingly into the devil’s lair. The woman, a Mrs. Nicholson, hadn’t been David’s aunt but the owner of The Pleasure Den. Later, Caro realized she probably paid David to deliver young girls to her.
“I never saw David again.”
“How long before you realized Mrs. Nicholson was a bawd?”
“Not long. She sold me to a wealthy man whose taste ran to virgins. He raped me that first night.”
She saw his fists clench at his sides and could feel his suppressed anger. Once, she’d felt that same anger, but it had since faded. She didn’t want to taste bitterness every morning. Little by little, she’d laid down her anger and hurt and pain and made the decision to forgive herself for her mistakes. Perhaps one day she’d even forgive David and Mrs. Nicholson and all the men like Mutton Chops.
“I wanted to run away—”
“You don’t have to explain to me.”
She gave him a w
an smile. “Perhaps I explain for me. I wanted to run away, but I had no blunt and no place to go. Mrs. Nicholson said it would go worse for me on the streets. At least in the Den I would have food and a bed. She said if I worked for her for a few days, she’d pay me and I’d have enough to go home, if that was what I wanted. What did it matter if I lay with another man or two? I was already ruined.”
Lochley closed his eyes. “But you never did earn any blunt, did you?”
She shook her head. “Whenever I asked to be paid, she’d open her account book and tally numbers. I owed her for food and dresses and the roof over my head. Rents were higher in London. Everything cost more in London. I threatened to leave anyway, but she said she’d send the constable after me for stealing from her. I didn’t know what to do or how to get out.”
“How long were you there?”
“About six months. The worst of my life, if you can call that sort of existence a life. I hated myself. I hated the men. I wanted to die, and I thought about killing myself more times than I could count. And then one day my father stormed in. It was midday, and we were all sleeping. I heard him bellowing and recognized his voice. He’d come for me. Somehow he’d found David, found out where I was, and he’d come to take me home.”
“I find I like your father more and more.”
“You see now why he is a bit overprotective.”
“Good man. Did he pay off the abbess?”
She glanced at the ground. “He said she was a criminal and he would as soon pay the devil. I think she was a little scared of him. Even the footmen were scared of him. They let me go.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Three years, but it feels as though it’s another lifetime. Except for the ride home with my father. That, I remember quite clearly. I sobbed most of the way, asking him to forgive me, and finally after hours of silence, he looked at me and said, Caro, there’s nothing to forgive. You are my child, my daughter, and nothing you could ever do would alter my love for you. It ’s forgotten. It never happened.”
“Would that more people were like your father.” He crouched down and took her hands. “He’s right, you know. There is nothing to forgive. You were not at fault.”
A Gentleman For All Seasons Page 15