by Eva Devon
Now, she’d simply fit in with these slumming lords.
The room was densely packed, the plaster and paint a deep yellow hew with the years of smoke and perspiration that had stained its walls. A fire blazed in a large hearth at the opposite end of the room and the bar was manned by a large, ham-fisted fellow.
Girls with bosoms plumped up like pillows, wandered the room, their hands laden down with heavy trays decked with tankards of ale and bottles of gin.
A scraggly, silver-haired fiddler sat spryly atop a three legged stool in the corner. He played with surprising skill. He held his instrument to his chin and shoulder with more love than she’d seen most parents cradle their children.
The noise was a wild din as people drunkenly chatted and sang along to the fiddler’s tune.
She half expected angry glares at the wealthy toffs who’d dared to venture into their midst.
On the contrary, several men grinned dark-toothed, stained grins.
Aston threw out his arms and roared greeting to several of the rough fellows.
Charles was more reserved but still greeted many of the patrons as if they were brothers, clapping them on the back and ordering drinks all around.
No one assailed her to her surprise.
It was as if her companionship with these two massive men gave her free passage.
And she didn’t think it was strictly because they were lords.
There were tales told of toffs who’d had their faces beaten in heading down the wrong alley or entering the wrong ale house. She had a suspicion that these two could enter any establishment and be unchallenged.
They were several stones of hulking muscle after all and for all their joviality she sensed a deadly undertone.
How did they do that?
How did they go from one moment bantering like two characters in a Congreve play to putting off the kind of sense that put the fear of God into their fellow men?
However they did it, she’d be putting it into her book. Men like them. Men the world feared. Men who didn’t even have to try to be feared.
At long last after several pauses to greet more fellows, all of whom completely ignored her, they came to a rough-hewn, wood table.
Aston plunked himself down and sprawled in what appeared to be a careless manner.
There was nothing careless about him.
The room seemed to know it.
He waved a bejeweled hand towards one of the barmaids.
Charles waited for Patience to sit, but there was a sleek sort of feel to him as he eyed the room.
His waiting had nothing to do with manners or gentlemanly conduct. He was assuring that she was safe in this room before she committed to anything as risky as sitting.
When she finally did sit on the hard chair, observing all she could as she did so, Aston grinned at her. “You look like a spinster in a whorehouse. Now how is that? Is that your line? Do you like to play the governess with your customers?”
“Aston,” Charles warned.
“I do beg your pardon. Have I overstepped?”
There it was again, that feeling that the Duke of Aston was having her on. She cleared her throat. “Not at all, Your Grace. I value your candor.”
“Do you, by God?”
She nodded emphatically.
“Well, then you’ll be happy to tell me the name of your pimp,” Aston said.
Her pimp.
In the nick of time, the barmaid swayed up to their table, breasts on display, hips swinging with confidence under her full, slightly stained skirt.
A mop cap sat atop her black curls and she smiled, her lips rouged to the shade of a pomegranate.
She was quite pretty really.
Prettier than Patience would ever be, but she had a feeling the barmaid was younger than she appeared. Life had a tendency to age one quickly in these parts.
“Gin,” Aston said.
“A beer for Lady Pa—for the lady,” Charles said.
“Beer,” Aston scoffed. “Surely not. Gin, for you, too, my dear?”
She wavered for a moment. Gin was not something she had tried, usually needing all her wits when she was in such a place but she wished the full experience and many of these people, at least the sort she was going to write about, drank gin.
Beaming at the barmaid, she nodded. “Gin.”
“I knew it,” boomed Aston as he banged his broad hand on the table. “Gin all around. And if you see her pimp about, do give us the whisper, eh lass? There’ll be a good head knocking tonight.”
The barmaid’s eyes bulged as she looked at Patience.
Patience widened her eyes, silently begging the barmaid to play along.
The girl gave a half-shrug as if to say whatever suits your fancy, dearie before sauntering to the bar to collect their drinks.
Charles sat in the chair beside her and relaxed back.
It was fascinating watching him. His dark beauty was perfectly suited to the shadows and in this place he looked like some sort of dangerous thief lord. A man who commanded the rabble and yet she knew he lived in isolation. She could see it in his eyes.
He was a man who did not allow people to be too close.
Aston, on the other hand, looked as if the world was his family and he was happy to simply be alive.
Was that an act?
Was he an actor just like she?
It was hard to be certain, but she felt it could be.
He did seem to be genuinely happy though and she had a strong suspicion his wife had something to do with that. Love. It seemed such an unlikely thing but The Duchesses had seemed to be genuinely fond of their husbands.
She eyed Charles. Would he ever make a husband?
She doubted it.
He was too wild. Too suspicious of the world. And she wondered what the world looked like through his eyes. What did she look like through his eyes? Now that was something she inexplicably and dangerously wished to know.
Chapter 12
Lady Patience was being taken around the park.
Charles knew he should probably tell her but it was interesting to see her lie so passionately to Aston. This was her journey and he wasn’t going to interfere if she didn’t wish it.
Society seemed to believe that deception was a woman’s war. This was utter bollocks in his opinion. While women might have more necessity, after all men were always trying to curtail their freedom and good times, men were as equally skilled liars. Point in fact; the Duke of Aston was leading Patience in a merry dance.
Aston had not believed Patience was a whore for one moment. How did Charles know? If Aston truly thought they were there to beat a pimp to a pulp, he’d have said nothing to the barmaid. He’d have said little to Lady Patience. He’d simply have found out the man’s name, slipped into some dimly lit alley, waited for the scoundrel, and then beat the man to within an inch of his life before sending him off with a jolly warning to leave Lady P alone because she was under his protection now.
That was how Aston did things.
It was how Charles did things, too.
But for whatever reason, Aston was having a right good time watching Lady Patience dig herself deeper into her deception.
Charles was rather amused, too, though wary.
She was throwing herself into the role with gusto. Which told him that the subject of her next book would almost certainly be a fallen woman.
It was the only reason she’d wished to come to a place like this where fallen women sat at tables taking their break from walking the streets.
Gin flowed like winter rain.
And speaking of gin, Lady P was in for it.
The barmaid strolled back to their table, placed three dubiously clean glasses down and a bottle.
“Fresh is it?” Aston asked.
She winked at him and started to make as though she’d sit in his lap. “Made just three yards over, Your Grace.”
Aston shook his head. “None of that, m’dear. None of that. I’m a married man.”<
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“So are half the blokes in here,” the barmaid purred.
“Ah, but my wife could make the angels weep with envy.”
“Angel is she?” The barmaid pouted, thrusting out her lower, rouged lip. “Sounds a right bore. Now, I’m a proper sinner.”
“Sinner that we do not doubt you are. Rest assured, his wife is most certainly not a bore,” Charles drawled.
The barmaid gave a small sigh, emphasizing her plush breasts. “What about you then? Married are you?”
“He’s mine, love,” Lady Patience declared. “So, push off.”
Charles’ brows shot up as did Aston’s. They exchanged a look of shock.
Hers was he?
The barmaid sniffed then pushed off as instructed.
The feeling inside felt suspiciously like a lovely glow. Glow. What the blazes? A glow was not how he expected to feel when a relatively strange female laid claim to him.
But she was a goddess. His goddess. And since he’d longed to kneel and worship before her, having her declare that he belonged to her suddenly made him feel like an acolyte being praised by his deity. . . In short, it was rare and absolutely glorious.
Aston started a low, slow laugh which ended in a bellow. “Oh, Charles. I do believe you’ve caught the plague.”
“I have not,” he denied quickly.
“The plague?” Lady Patience blinked. “It’s not in London is it?”
Aston grabbed the bottle and sloshed gin into the glasses. “No, love. No. Have a drink.”
Lady P took her glass lifted it in salute and raised it to her lips.
Charles and Aston, both unable to contain their anticipation, leaned forward ever so slightly.
The liquid passed her lips. Her eyes widened. Her face paled and she immediately coughed.
Aston clapped her on the back. “Better in than out.”
“Don’t waste good liquor,” Charles added.
“My God,” she wheezed as her face turned red and she gasped. “What’s in that?”
“Sulfuric acid, no doubt,” said Charles.
“That’s. . . That’s. . .” she eyed her glass.
“Poison, I believe is the word you’re looking for,” Charles said before downing his glass in a single go.
Aston emulated then poured out two more glasses.
She gaped. “How do you manage it?”
Charles gave her a grin. “Practice, of course.”
“Which you clearly don’t have,” teased Aston.
“Yes, well, I usually do drink beer,” she said quickly.
Aston nodded then doffed his big hat. “Of course.”
“Still, you’d best start practicing,” said Charles with a wink. She wished to research? He was happy to assist.
She frowned then gave a smile through teary eyes. “Too true.”
She stared at them, then with the courage of a man facing a firing squad at dawn, she downed her own glass in one drink.
For a moment, Charles was certain she’d have it all back out again in a moment.
But, tough thing that she was, she grinned and slammed her glass down. “Another, if you. . . Please.”
“A woman after my heart,” Aston declared and poured again. “Now, why don’t you tell me how you lost your wings, my angel?”
Charles felt a growl forming in the back of his throat. Aston was marvelous with women. Women adored him. Much the same as they adored Charles but Patience had her suspicions of him. . . Which he supposed was in his favor.
If she disliked his reputation as a rake, she couldn’t like Aston any further, except he was a duke. A married duke, but a duke who knew how to distribute compliments with sincerity. Something that was difficult for women to resist.
Except. . . Lady P raised her glass and gave a canny smile. “Oh, Your Grace, ’tis a boring tale.”
“Nothing about you could be boring, my dear.”
“Not true!” she cried passionately. “It is the same as any tale. A girl comes to London, is picked up by a bawd, and descends from the glory of a mistress to a girl of the streets.”
Charles coughed to cover his laugh. Had she truly just used Hogarth’s engravings of A Harlot’s Progress as her tale of woe?
Aston gave a pitying shake of his head. “Cruel, cruel world. What a country mouse you must have been.”
“Oh, I was. I was.” Then she downed her glass again. “Another.”
Aston and Charles both gave her a wary glance.
Where was her gasp? Her choke? Her cough? Her look of dismay?
“But you know, Your Grace, and you, too, Lord Charles, I should rather hear your tales. Tales which cannot be boring at all. How is it that you come to be here when both of you come from such wealth? Why do you like ladies of the street when you could have Cyprians?”
She knew what a Cyprian was?
Charles narrowed his eyes. . . Who was having who on?
As she swallowed her glass of gin with shocking ease, he began to wonder who was in charge of this particular exchange. Or who was deceiving who exactly?
Aston gave her a wolfish look. “My dear girl, I’m retired from such pursuits. You’ll have to ask Charles.”
“But you were a rake, Your Grace.”
“What an insipid word,” Aston said with distaste. “I suppose one could have called me a rake. I prefer a lover of women. I did no harm and none was done to me and times were merry for all.”
“So,” she began lightly, “you’d agree with the rather ludicrous statement that reformed rakes make the best husbands.”
Aston leaned back. “Given your profession, my dear, I’m not sure why it interests you.”
She fiddled with her glass but didn’t back down. “Grant me your humor.”
“Then yes,” Aston confessed. “But only, and this is very significant only, if he is truly in love. Otherwise, he shall be wandering within weeks of the wedding.”
“I appreciate your honesty.”
Aston gave an exaggerated twirl of his wrist and a mock bow. “But I’ve no reason to lie. . . Do you?”
“You’ve said why I must tell lies.”
Charles leaned on his elbow and poured more gin. “Because you’re a doxie?”
She gave a pained smile then raised her glass.
“Oh, my dear angel,” Aston said, his voice deep with mischief. “I think you a better masker than my friend and I combined.”
“Do you?” she asked.
Charles shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t sure he cared for the familiarity with which Aston and she were speaking. “I think we should go soon.”
“Pfffft,” she said, her smile slightly lopsided. “I am nowhere near ready to leave, Charles. . . And besides, my pimp has yet to show his face.”
“And when he does, we shall bloody him, my angel,” Aston boasted.
Charles leaned back in his chair wondering where this research trip was heading. Certainly not where he had hoped. He certainly wouldn’t be taking a gin-soaked woman to bed.
That wasn’t his style. He loathed men who did.
Bliss should only be attempted when both parties were still capable of reason.
He lifted his own glass in salute. “To liars.”
She stared at him for a long moment then lifted her glass. “To storytellers.”
“To women!” added Aston. “God bless them, every one.”
And as they all drank, Charles had a sinking feeling that for all she’d claimed he belonged to her, Lady P had very little interest in anything but the stories inside her head.
Chapter 13
The banging on the front door shook the house and Patience’s head. She let out a low wail, clutched her hair and buried her face in her pillow.
“Go away,” she groaned.
The door knocker slammed passionately.
Whoever it was, clearly wished to be seen.
She heard the door open followed by the soft mumblings of her butler then the strong tones of a woman.
She bl
inked. Who the devil could be calling so early?
She sat up then winced.
Last night had been marvelous.
In a few hours, she’d learned more about men than she had in years by Mrs. Barton’s side.
Lord Charles had certainly been correct. He had skills that no one else could share with her. They weren’t just bedroom skills, either.
Lord Charles and the Duke of Aston were the type of male she’d never truly encountered before.
All the rakes she’d met in gambling halls were simpering poodles compared to them.
And Charles. . . Charles, by far, was the most exciting and mysterious of the two.
Oh, Aston was wonderful fodder for her stories but it was the elusive Charles that she wanted to study. To know.
The knock on her bedroom door shook her reverie. “My lady, you have a visitor.”
She winced anew. “Tell them it’s too early.”
“They’re most insistent.”
“Insist it’s too early.”
There was a long silence then the butler said, “I would but. . . But. . .”
“Yes?”
“I didn’t think you’d wish to offend a duchess.”
Her heart slammed. “A what?”
“The Duchess of Hunt is in the morning room.”
She hesitated for a moment then vaulted out of bed. It was far too early for a spontaneous call. Something was amiss.
Something terrible. It had to be. Duchesses didn’t pay calls in such haphazard fashion.
Without awaiting her maid, she pulled on a simple black gown and pinned up her hair. She glanced in the mirror.
Oh dear. What a fright.
She glanced at her clock. It was not yet nine and she had not gotten in until almost five.
There was nothing for it.
Quickly, she cleaned her teeth then headed down the stairs.
Remembering she was meant to be Lady Patience, she slowed her step and entered the morning room with as much dignity as possible.
The Duchess of Hunt whirled around, her beautiful sapphire silk skirt shining in the early light, a news sheet clutched in her hand.