She shifted in his arms until she could see his face. He then pulled her against his chest and began caressing her arm. Alison's mind whirled with everything she had learned in the last few hours. This house was in a less influential area of town. Isolated by high walls on three sides. It also had a secluded and covered walkway running from his private mews to the back of the house. The stableman and footmen she had seen seemed somehow out of place. Courser. More bodyguards than servants.
An uneasiness filtered through her as he stared anxiously down at her. "What aren’t you telling me about this new career of yours?" she asked.
He wet his lips and his Adam's apple bobbed spastically. "A number of my clients are now like the woman who came to me that day. People with little or no money. Servants, dock workers, pickpockets, and thieves. People who cannot afford representation and have no chance in our warped legal system."
His hands stilled and her heart thundered. "People accused of crimes they may or may not have committed. But, because of their station in life, cannot get a fair hearing."
His meaning crystallized in her mind, and Alison bolted upright beside him. The house and the army of brutish guards he employed. "You bring them here. That's what Margarette meant by you've brought others here. But not any ladies."
"Yes," he said. "Privately this house is known as Hades’s Cap. The other house in London is called Hermes’s Cloak. I use them to hide some of our clients, Ali. I've also sheltered witnesses and people being hunted by powerful criminals and crooked peers."
"Your new career includes more than just your firm representing them in court, doesn’t it?" she asked, even though she was beginning to suspect what it was.
"In my spare time I'm a private investigator, much like the Bow Street Runners. But instead of working for the magistrate as they do, I work for the people who hire me."
Alison collapsed back against the sofa. "Bloody hell," she muttered.
"I also don't ask the victims to fund my investigations like the theft-takers and the Bow Street Runners because, quite frankly, most of them can't afford to."
Some of her patients at the hospital had talked about being victims of crimes. Thefts, and burglaries, and other violent crimes were unfortunately quite common in certain parts of London. More so since the end of the war. But, unless you were from a wealthy family or had money of your own, there was nowhere to turn. Theft-takers charged an exorbitant fee to find criminals. So did the Bow Street Runners. Maybe not as much as the theft-takers, but if you were poor there was little you could do about catching a criminal.
"So..." she began hesitantly, "if you don't charge people a fee how do you..."
He smiled and caressed her cheek with one of his fingers. "How do I make my money?"
She smiled and nodded.
"Not everyone I represent is poor. Wealthy men also need a solicitor or barrister sometimes. And..." He grimaced causing his forehead to furrow a little, "much like I did with Reginald Stoughton, I instilled myself into the affairs of some of the men I have investigated. Usually as their man of business."
"You steal from them," she asked, her voice higher than she had intended.
He grimaced again and shrugged his shoulders. "No. I didn't steal from them. I didn't have to. I have a good deal of my own money. But I have used those connections to find profitable investments. Capital ventures that I would not normally be privy to."
It seemed wrong to her somehow. "And that's not stealing?"
"No. Not legally," he said, and then dropped his hand to idly toy with the buttons running down the front of her bodice. "But if it makes you feel any better, I use most of the money I earn from those investments to pay for this house and to fund my investigations."
He was a modern-day Robin Hood, of a kind. It did make her feel better. Not that she really cared as long as what he was doing wasn't illegal.
"I think Imogene would have approved," she said. Her friend had been a staunch advocate of helping those who were abused and misused by the peerage. She now understood why.
Alison felt his body shift beside her. "I hope so," he said, then added, "And you Ali? Do you approve?"
Alison hesitated. She did in fact approve. If possible, she even admired him more than she had before. "Yes," she said simply.
What did bother her, though, was that it sounded dangerous. Especially in light of how he had nearly died from his last apparent investigation, and she fully intended to tell him so. But the feel of his fingers as they lightly slid over her ribs and then went back to playing with the buttons on the front of her dress distracted her.
Then suddenly one of the buttons slipped free, and her mind emptied of everything but what he was doing and why they were here in his secret hideaway.
Chapter 11
Suddenly, Ali’s affair was all too real. Up until John slipped the first button free on her bodice, it all seemed a bit surreal. Not exactly a game, just something she was having fun with for the first time in years. The kind of fun she hadn't had since her first and only season.
John's constant kindness to her and her daughters had been flattering. Alison hadn't deluded herself into thinking his attention was anything but him trying to convince her to allow him to court her.
And the truth was, he had invaded her dreams and fantasies long before she had made her scandalous proposal to him. If she was being perfectly honest with herself—and this week she had forced herself to be brutally honest about her attraction to him—Alison had become fascinated with him since learning exactly who he was.
At first, she had difficulty reconciling the battered patient with the young man she had met years before. But as the days and weeks went by, she saw more and more of the handsome man her friend had fallen in love with. And John Netterman was a very handsome man, despite the permanent scars that now dotted his face. They made him handsome in a very earthy way, which was the polar opposite of the first man she had so foolishly fallen in love with.
Phillip had been an Adonis. The golden boy who was the center and light of every gathering. Alison had been just as blinded by his beauty as everyone else. His golden-blond hair and crystal-blue eyes had ensnared her. In a word, he was male perfection. He loved to surround himself with things and objects that were just as perfect.
Which brought her crashing back to earth with the thing that had effectively ended her idealistic marriage. The uncertainty and trepidation that had once plagued her returned with a vengeance.
Her hand rose and captured his just as he slipped a second button free. "John, wait," she said on a breathy whisper. Why had she decided to change into this dress? For this very reason, she chided herself. It buttoned down the front and would make getting in and out of it easier.
His face shuttered as his hand froze an inch above her breast. "Ali, if you are not sure..."
Alison raised her hands and cupped his face. "I'm sure. I'm just... it's just that..."
"What is it?" he asked. His voice so gentle and kind that her eyes began to water.
She could feel her breathing becoming labored. Her chest was rising and falling faster and faster, and she knew she was going to ruin everything if she didn't get control of her unruly emotions. Desperately, she focused on the tenderness in his voice. It was another way John was so very different than Phillip. And the reason she had fallen in love with John.
Startled, she stared into his concerned brown eyes. All her attempts to guard her heart from him had failed. She wasn't in danger of falling in love with him, she was already in love with John. But she still couldn't marry him, not until she was sure he wouldn't change, like Phillip had.
"I would like to go upstairs?" she said, trying to force her normal determination back into her voice. And trying to give herself a second to regain her composure.
It was a lame excuse, but a realistic one. Alison didn't want them to be discovered in the act and then forced into a hasty marriage. She also needed time to slow her racing heart and gather her riotous thoughts.
"No one will..." he started and then stopped abruptly. The wrinkles in his brow eased and his eyes cleared. "Yes, of course. Would you like to eat first? Or we could just take a tray up to the room if you prefer."
The pressure in her chest lightened, and Alison could breathe again. But her stomach still felt coiled in a tight knot, and she knew she would never be able to get a bite down without casting up her accounts. "Can we just take a bottle of wine up?" she asked.
He smiled, and her heart fluttered while the rest of her grew warm. "Yes, of course," he said, and held his hand out to her.
Relieved that he had agreed to her suggestion, she leaned over and bussed a quick kiss on his cheek. Alison then stood up, and held her hand out to him. He took it and quickly rose, then followed her toward the door. When he interlaced his fingers with hers, a warmth spread through her-his strength steading her as she led the way out of the drawing room.
Turning down the hallway, she guided them to the small dining room she had seen earlier. With their hands still clasped together, Alison surveyed the room. Margarette had indeed set a light repast for them. "Red or white?" He asked.
"Red, I think," she replied, even though she really didn't care one way or the other.
After grabbing a bottle and two glasses, he led them back out into the hall and over to the stairs. Alison's leg faltered when she took the first step up and stumbled into him.
"Are you all right?" he asked as he steadied her.
"I'm... yes," she said, and then stated the obvious. "I'm a little bit nervous about this. It's been a long time since I've... you know. Done something like this."
John had never felt more like a heel than he did at this precise moment. Of course she was nervous. Even without her telling him so, he knew Alison wasn't the kind of woman that indiscriminately had affairs. And that was before he had spent the last three months with her and her daughters.
But his brain had ceased to function properly when she had renewed her offer to have an affair with him. It had taken every ounce of his willpower to remind himself he was a gentleman. And a gentleman just didn't make love to the woman that wasn’t his wife in his parents' home.
Unfortunately, that had felt like one of his last coherent thoughts this week. He had remembered to have Margarette get the house ready for tonight. Or more accurately, his weekly visit to the house had reminded him that they would need a private place since they couldn't very well go to either one of their homes for this meeting.
In spite of her steady voice and calm demeanor, he knew she was still nervous and wanted to find a way to calm her. "I haven't done this in a rather long time myself," he said.
Her head cocked to the side in her adorable way and the ends of her mouth kicked up ever so slightly. "Really?" she asked.
He could see her disbelief and suddenly felt a little funny at his lack of experience. "Really," he said as he began to caress her hand.
He saw her swallow and could feel her beginning to relax. After several more caresses she turned her hand over and interlaced their fingers again.
"How is it that a man as handsome and virile as you haven’t had dozens of lovers?"
John knew she was teasing and allowed himself to relax as well. Turning, he headed them back up the stairs. "I wasn't interested in any kind of relationship right after Imogene's... death." His heart twitched. But somehow, he knew his wife would approve of his courting of her best friend. He took a breath and caught her anxious look.
So he quickly continued. "By the time I became interested again, I had met and gotten to know several of the women that became my clients. Some of those women, because of circumstances beyond their control, had been forced into prostitution or a life of crime. And the idea of going to bed with someone that might be doing so just to survive bothered me. Even though I have met a few courtesans who loved their work, I just never could bring myself to become involved with any of them."
John glanced over and saw her looking at him contemplatively. "I can appreciate that," she said. "But you are the younger son of a wealthy earl. A gentleman. A man with money and influence. It is hard to believe that some other woman or widow hasn't tried to entice you into her bed."
He laughed and smiled down at her as they reached the bedroom. He swung the door open then said, "I haven't been a monk, Ali." Some of the women had just wanted a quick tumble with a solicitor or the son of an earl. Some had sought a connection with a powerful peer through a younger son. "But I had no interest in another marriage at the time. I had my work."
Which, until Alison had come into his life, had been the main reason he hadn’t even thought about finding another wife. He had always believed his hidden career made it too dangerous to ever marry again. But he didn’t want to tell her that. Not when she was still so skittish about the whole marriage thing.
So, he continued, "Both as a solicitor and a private investigator. I was never tempted by any of them."
No, he hadn't been a monk. But his interactions with the widows had been few and far between. The last one more than two years ago.
She continued gazing at him in an anxious way and he knew she still had questions. "No mistress hiding in one of your other houses?" she asked in a breathy, playful voice.
He smiled down at her. "No mistresses. No lovers. No one waiting for me. Just you, Ali. You are the only woman I am interested in."
Alison knew he was just trying to distract her. It wasn't working, however she liked that he was trying. Helping her relax was something Phillip had never done. Of course, in the first years of their marriage she had never needed him to distract her. During that idyllic time, she had been so in love with Phillip she had wanted him as much as he had wanted her.
When they entered the bedroom, the warmth of the room washed over her, and Alison glanced past John in to the dimly lit room. It was a very masculine. The single candle revealed dark blue wallpaper on the walls and a high ceiling.
The bed was a huge mahogany four-poster, with dark blue curtains tied back against the corners. Two high-back leather chairs sat catty-corner to the fireplace. The white mantle over the fireplace held an ormolu clock and a single candle. In a word, it looked very male and rarely used, evidenced by the total lack of any personal items in the room.
Nevertheless, it was a seductive and romantic room, illuminated only by the rosy fire burning in the hearth and the candle on the mantle. The top coverlet on the bed had been turned down, which told Alison quite plainly that Margarette had known they were going to be coming up here for this very reason.
Embarrassment crept over her. "Does your housekeeper know about..."
His face softened and his free hand rose to cup her face. "She knows you are the first and only woman I have ever brought here as my guest." His fingers caressed her cheek. "And I'm sure she knows I care very much for you." Alison's heart stuttered and she grew a little cold. "And knowing Margarette as I do, I also suspect she knows just how special you are to me."
The instinct to run away nearly overwhelmed her. She had been wrong. She wasn't ready for this yet. Before she could bolt, he leaned down and brushed his lips against the tip of her nose. The sweetness of it arrested her and she held still, not daring to breathe or move. Then his lips moved lower, a breath away from her skin, causing her face to quiver. Then he bussed her lips in another gentle kiss. Once. Then again. And then he settled his lips over hers and urged her to kiss him back.
She hesitated, and then the longing she had held in check for so long broke free. Opening her mouth, she invited him in. His tongue thrust in to mate with hers. Old memories flooded back. Alison had loved kissing. She had loved the intimacy of being desired.
Just then her mind skidded to a halt as her past collided with her present. She didn't want to think about her late husband anymore. It felt wrong to keep comparing everything that was unfolding between her and John to what she had done with Phillip. Alison wanted new memories, ones that would replace the sad ones she had carried for so long
.
Pushing her memories away, she rejoiced in the pleasure of being kissed by John. His lips were firm, and his sandalwood scent filled her head. She looped her arms around his neck and held on tightly.
With him being more than a foot taller, she had to hold on tight and stretch up on her tiptoes to reach his lips. It was just another difference between Phillip and John. She felt him bending over to better reach her lips. Then suddenly he locked his arms around her waist and lifted her off her feet.
A heady feeling of floating assailed her. Alison marveled at it, even as she locked her arms more tightly around his neck and held on for dear life. She felt the back of her legs strike something soft, and then he was lowering her to the bed. He settled her in a seated position on the edge and she scooted backward, trying to draw him down.
But rather than follow her down, he pulled slightly away and kissed the tip of her nose again. "Give me a minute," he said.
She heard herself moan in protest but quickly swallowed it, realizing he was just closing and locking the door. But rather than return to her, he walked over to the fireplace and began fumbling with something on the mantle. Then a spark lit his face and a second later he began lighting more candles and placing them on the mantle.
Alison's heart constricted painfully in her chest. He was lighting candles. Something Phillip had quit doing after Becky's birth.
"What are you doing?" she asked stupidly. This was something she had not considered when she had asked him to have an affair.
"I want to see you," he said as he lit yet another cursed candle. More light flooded the room, ripping away the veil of security she had thought she would have.
"But why?" she asked. Her heart was now slamming against her ribs and she was having a hard time drawing air into her lungs.
He laughed and moved to the candle by the side of the bed. "Why? Because, my dear sweet Ali, I have dreamed of seeing you like this when I didn't know if I would ever see again."
Alison's Scandalous Affair (The Fallen Angels NOVELLA series Book 1) Page 9