Formby hesitated, then nodded. ‘You are right. It is getting late.’
Craddock shot Avery a hard look. ‘The night’s young yet, gents.’ His smile became oily as he turned it on Formby. ‘Surely you ain’t leaving yet, young sir? Not when lady luck is looking kindly upon ye.’
The young man glanced at Avery, who raised a brow. He didn’t want to alienate Craddock, but nor did he want to leave a wet-behind-the-ears boy to the cardsharp’s tender mercies. Avery won by skill, Craddock would use any means at his disposal to relieve the young man of the money he had won.
No one who did not pay for the privilege was supposed to win in this place. Including Avery, who paid a percentage of his winnings for a place at Craddock’s tables. Avery had contributed a considerable sum of money over the past couple of months. He hoped Craddock would let him get away with leading the mark out of trouble, at least this once.
He leaned close to the young fellow’s ear. ‘I know a place where the wine flows free and a man can find himself cosy between the sheets.’
Giles swallowed. ‘A brothel?’
Damn, but the boy was a fool. Had Avery ever been that innocent? ‘A very exclusive place I know. Want to go?’
Giles nodded eagerly.
Craddock frowned, but let them leave without another word. No doubt he assumed that Avery had another plan to get his fingers on the boy’s money, so he would be receiving his share later.
Outside in the brisk evening air, Avery pushed Giles into a hackney. ‘Where do you live.’
Giles looked puzzled. ‘I am lodging in Golden Square. Number three. Why?’
Avery gave the address to the driver.
‘I thought we were going to a brothel?’
‘You are going to a place where you don’t have to pay for wine and you have clean sheets waiting. You will thank me tomorrow. And so will your parents.’
The boy looked chagrined at the reminder of his parents and then grinned broadly. ‘Won’t Pater be proud when I tell him I won. After all his warnings about gambling hells, too.’
‘Only if you refrain from going to another,’ Avery said drily. ‘You were lucky tonight.’
‘I know. And besides, tonight was my last night here. I am due home tomorrow. I’m on my way down from Oxford. I can’t delay any longer or Papa will worry. He’s not a bad old chap, but he does fuss so.’
Very lucky indeed. Avery wished he had a papa who cared enough to fuss over him.
‘Buy a nice gift for your mama and buy a new waistcoat for yourself and go home.’
The boy sank back against the squabs, his expression thoughtful. ‘Thank you, sir. I will.’
The boy might be naive, but he wasn’t stupid. Avery wondered if he would have been so sensible at that age. He stepped back and the hackney coach clattered off into the night.
He strode down the street and turned into the alley that ran behind Mrs Greystoke’s shop. There was an odd feeling in his gut. A sense he might be making the worst mistake of his life. The gold plate on the door identified the residence of a Mr Arnold Thrumby. He hesitated. Did he really want to do this?
Her expression, the instant acceptance of his rejection, swam before his eyes once again. If nothing else, he could not allow her to continue to believe she was not worthy of his attentions. Damnation and how the hell was he to do that? He’d just have to play it by ear. The way he always did.
He knocked.
After a few long moments, the peephole opened. ‘Who be knocking at respectable folks’ door at this time of the night?’ a deep voice grumbled.
‘A visitor for Mrs Greystoke. Lord Avery. I am expected.’
Hopefully the lady would not give him the lie. Though he would not put it past her to deny him entry. She was not like any other woman he had ever known. Which accounted for some of his fascination.
Footsteps retreated and a little later returned. ‘She says you best come in.’
The elderly porter opened the door and stood back. ‘At the end of the hall there.’ He indicated with his thumb. He locked and bolted the door and sat back down at his post.
So much for her safety. The porter needed a swift kick somewhere it would hurt for letting a man visit the lady in the middle of the night.
The door to Mrs Greystoke’s apartment stood ajar, allowing a small bar of light to escape into the corridor. He pushed it open and stepped inside.
She was sitting at the kitchen table facing the door, wearing an old brown woollen dressing gown pulled tight around her form. A heavy rope of brown hair curled over her shoulder and rested on her generous right breast. At her throat, a fragment of lace peeped out from the enveloping gown and skimmed the hollow of her throat. The scrap of frill was a nod to her femininity. And it was the most erotic sight he had ever beheld.
Slowly he raised his gaze to her face. ‘Mrs Greystoke. Good of you to see me at this late hour.’
‘Lord Avery?’
Her voice held a question, though her face was perfectly calm. A calmness she wore like armour to hide her worry. But the tremble in the hand that clutched her robe close gave her away.
He shouldn’t have come. ‘I don’t suppose you would offer me a cup of tea?’
She stared at him for a long moment.
He really should not have come.
She rose from her chair, tall, magnificent, composed. ‘Very well.’
Chapter Four
He wanted a cup of tea at this late hour? What did he think this was? A tea house? To calm her thundering heart, she busied herself with stirring up the coals and filling the kettle of water. To her mortification, she realised he was still standing with his back against the door. Watching her. And taking up far too much space in her little kitchen.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘Sit down.’
He moved with cat-like grace across the small space and took the chair against the wall beside the kitchen table. It didn’t help. His watchful presence unnerved her. She should have told the porter to send him away. Of course she should. But then she never did anything she was supposed to do. Except for marry Greystoke. And look what a mistake that had turned out to be.
He said nothing. Why didn’t he say anything?
She was hopeless at small talk.
She kept her back firmly pointed in his direction, until finally there was no more excuse to avoid his gaze. She carried the tea tray to the table and set it down. She sat opposite and poured his tea. She recalled he liked lots of sugar and cream and put plenty in before handing him his cup.
‘Thank you.’ His deep voice resonated around the room.
‘I—I don’t have any biscuits, I’m afraid. I gave them all to Jeb. For his journey. To Kent. I haven’t had time to bake more.’
He stirred his tea, took a sip. ‘Excellent.’
She blushed like a schoolgirl at the compliment.
He leaned against the chairback. Relaxed. Confident. Elegant. Whereas she felt as if her hands were too large for her arms, like an ungainly colt.
‘Was there something you wanted?’ she blurted. So awkward. And her blush went from warm to scalding.
He put down his cup. ‘I have been considering your proposal.’
The blood drained from her head. ‘No. I mean I made a mistake. I wish you to forget it.’
A brow lifted. He tilted his head. ‘I wish you would hear me out.’
She turned her face away. Embarrassed. Mortified. Angry at her stupid impulse. ‘I beg you will say no more on the matter. You were clearly insulted by what I asked.’
‘Mrs Greystoke, I apologise if I was rude. I ought to be used to the gossips by now.’
She drew in a shuddery breath. ‘But I think ladies do not generally ask for your services so bluntly.’ She tried a smile. It felt weak. She straightened her shoulders. ‘Let us say I have changed my mind.’
Again the horrible blush. She’d done nothing but dream about the what ifs all day. What if she had flirted with him? What if she had enticed him? What if she had been someone other than Carrie Greystoke, daughter of a merchant and as blunt as a darning needle?
He reached across the table and took her hand, gently, lightly, his thumb brushing across the back of her fingers. Tingles shot all the way up her arm. She drew in a quick breath. Never had she felt anything so startlingly sensual. Her inner muscles clenched.
‘Please listen to my proposition before saying any more,’ he said gently. ‘I am simply suggesting we get to know each other a little better over the next two weeks and see where the attraction between us leads. That way neither of us will be uncomfortable.’
Attraction. Between them? Had he really said that?
And two weeks? She had imagined a single night in his arms and a whole host of delicious regrets the morning afterwards. Two weeks? Goodness. Her heart picked up speed at the idea of a minute in his company, let alone fourteen days. ‘How much would you charge?’ Oh, stupid, stupid thing to say. So lacking in refinement. So horribly crass.
His lips tightened.
She waited for him to storm out again. Good. It was what she wanted. Dread hollowed her stomach. Against every particle of common sense drummed into her since childhood, she opened her mouth to apologise.
‘Actually, that is not the way it works. My rewards are more indirect.’
She flushed as much at the innuendo as at the deepening of his voice and the intensity of his gaze on her face. If only he would come right out and say what he wanted. Instead of hinting vaguely and leaving her in the dark feeling awkward. ‘As I said, I changed—’
He held up a hand, the one that was not still holding hers. She snatched that hand back and closed her fingers around the residual warmth as if she could somehow save it.
‘Let me finish,’ he said and amusement danced in his eyes. Not mocking, simply amused.
‘Then please stop beating about the bush and tell me.’
His eyelashes lowered a fraction, hiding his thoughts. A small smile curved his lips. ‘That is what I like about you, Mrs Greystoke. Your unfailing honesty.’
He liked her honesty, whereas she was ready to melt into a puddle every time he looked at her. This was clearly not a good idea, but she would let him have his say before she asked him to leave.
‘Continue, then, but please recall the hour is late and I have an early start in the morning.’
His grin was cheeky. ‘Very well. In a nutshell. This is my proposition. Since being seen in my company will increase your business, I will escort you around town in your lovely bonnets and you will pay me fifteen percent of any additional profits. Think of it as a fee for bringing new business to your shop. This is similar to the arrangement I have with other shopkeepers around town.’
Her jaw dropped. This was how he made money from his special ladies? Not from... Oh, heavens, he must think her terrible for asking him to... Oh, dear. ‘So shopkeepers give you a commission on what the ladies in your company buy from them.’
‘Yes.’
She frowned. ‘But what you are proposing to me is different. You could make the same arrangement with me as you have with the other tradespeople.’
He inclined his head. ‘I could. But it would be nowhere near as enjoyable as what I am suggesting. It allows us to kill two birds with one stone, as it were. We will explore the very obvious attraction between us, while introducing your product to ladies of the ton in a way that will spark their curiosity.’ He shrugged. ‘And if we discover we do not wish to deepen our acquaintance, at the end of two weeks we will go our separate ways, each of us better off financially.’
‘Won’t you being seen in the company of a mere shopkeeper be detrimental to your reputation?’ Not to mention what Westram would say, were he to hear about it. Marguerite had decided it would be best not to tell him about them opening the shop. Or at least not until they knew it was successful. Once they were financially independent, there would be nothing he could do. They hoped. She also knew from his letters that Westram was currently out of town, busy on his Gloucestershire estate, so there was little danger of meeting him unexpectedly whilst out and about with Avery.
A cynical smile curved his lips. ‘One thing I have learned with regard to being the spare to a dukedom is that one can do anything one wishes, except perhaps murder, and no one will say a word. Besides, there is no doubt in anyone’s mind that you are a lady, despite your occupation.’
It was almost as if he really wanted her to accept his offer. A little flutter of anticipation stirred low in her belly. She was so very tempted to agree. And if it led nowhere, she would be no worse off than she was right now.
The lonely woman inside her longed to say yes. The shopkeeper immediately saw the flaw in his proposal. Honesty required her to speak. ‘I would not know which sales resulted from such an arrangement and which did not.’ At the moment, she wasn’t making much profit at all. Just enough to cover Tansy’s wages and the cost of further supplies. This could be the opportunity they needed to really catch the notice of ladies of the ton. What would her sisters-in-law want her to do?
She recalled Petra’s words of faith in her abilities to make the shop a success. This would be a way of proving her right.
She forced herself to meet his gaze.
The corners of his eyes crinkled with silent laughter, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. ‘I trust you completely to do what is fair.’ He smiled. A warm genuine smile that sparkled gold in his eyes.
She swallowed. It felt too intimate. She in her dressing gown, he with the shadow of a day’s growth of beard on his chin. She had the urge to touch the stubble. To discover how it felt against her skin. And if she agreed to this, then she might just have the chance to do so.
He leaned forward, gazing into her eyes. ‘Nothing else will happen unless you want it to.’
Her heart tumbled over. She was lost and did not care if she was never found. ‘All right.’ Her voice came out in a hoarse sort of croak.
He held out his hand. ‘Then we have a bargain.’
To her immense surprise, she shook it. ‘We do.’
Inside her stomach butterflies took wing. What on earth had she agree to?
He rose. ‘I will pick you up tomorrow afternoon and we will go for a drive. Wear one of your bonnets.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘It is your half-day closing, is it not?’
Breathless at how quickly things had moved, she nodded.
He picked up his hat and gloves. He gazed down at her. ‘Do not look so worried, Mrs Greystoke. It will be fun.’ He leaned forward and brushed his lips against her cheek and strode out of her kitchen.
Longing filled her. She wanted this. She touched her cheek where his silky lips had left a warm glow. It was the first time a man, other than her father, had kissed her. Small thrills chased along her veins, making her tremble.
She must have gone mad.
She wanted to run away and hide. She wanted to go with him, have him kiss her again.
Standing on the edge of a precipice must feel like this. Longing to leap, to fly into the void, but knowing that in the end all you would do was fall and get hurt.
Calm down, Carrie. This was first and foremost a business arrangement. An exchange of one thing for another, with additional possibilities. Surely she understood commerce well enough not to falter having shaken hands upon their bargain.
And besides, after getting to know her better, he might decide he no longer found her attractive.
Her heart sank. Her husband had certainly discovered her to be so unbearable as to prefer risking his life to marriage to her.
And if she did not take this chance, she would nev
er forgive herself if another opportunity never materialised.
Every morsel of sense she had said she was treading on dangerous ground. Taking unknown risks, the way her father had. But she had opted for safety when she married Jonathan, only to discover she’d stepped into a quagmire of worry. How could this be any worse?
For heaven’s sake, she was the one who had made the proposal in the first place—was she now going to back away from the challenge?
She got up and began to clear away the tea tray. If she was going to go out and about with a nobleman in order to show off her bonnets, she would need something very different to wear. Fortunately, she had a whole trousseau of clothes bought before her wedding and never taken out of their wrappings, packed away in a trunk at her aunt’s house. She would send for it first thing in the morning.
While it would likely all come to nothing, since it was unlikely such a handsome engaging man would truly find her attractive, she would endeavour to look her best for him and for the shop.
* * *
Avery wended his way through the traffic towards Mrs Greystoke’s emporium the next day. Greystoke. He had heard that name before. It niggled at him. Surely if recalling the name was important, he would remember where he had heard it. And besides, it was a fairly common name, his memory might have nothing to do with her at all. He shrugged off his doubts as he pulled up at the end of the lane leading to the back door of her shop.
He tossed a coin to a lad loitering nearby. ‘You know Thrumby?’
The lad nodded.
‘Knock on his door and have the porter escort Mrs Greystoke out to me. Understand?’
The boy nodded and dashed up the alley.
A few minutes later, Thrumby’s porter marched out with Mrs Greystoke. She looked more magnificent than usual. She had discarded her drab workaday gown in favour of an emerald-green carriage dress trimmed in black velvet and cut low over her generous bosom. Her hat, a spectacular confection trimmed with a pheasant feather tilted jauntily to one side. He could not have chosen anything better to show off her looks. He grinned and jumped down as she approached.
A Lord for the Wallflower Widow Page 6