The Mysterious Mr. Heath

by Ariel Atwell

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Loose Id Titles by Ariel Atwell

  Ariel Atwell

  THE MYSTERIOUS MR. HEATH

  Ariel Atwell

  www.loose-id.com

  The Mysterious Mr. Heath

  Copyright © September 2015 by Ariel Atwell

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Image/art disclaimer: Licensed material is being used for illustrative purposes only. Any person depicted in the licensed material is a model.

  eISBN 9781623009724

  Editor: Mary Harris

  Cover Artist: April Martinez

  Published in the United States of America

  Loose Id LLC

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  San Francisco CA 941117-0549

  www.loose-id.com

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning

  This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id LLC’s e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

  * * * *

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  Dedication

  To M. For always believing.

  Chapter One

  London, 3 April 1823

  It was nearly nine o’clock in the evening by the time Laurence Heath reached the doorstep of his home on Russell Square—a late finish to a day that had begun at dawn with an urgent note from the Countess of Bewleton.

  Bewleton is dead, she had written. Please come immediately.

  And so he had, completely unsurprised when he learned that the Earl of Bewleton had met his end from a cuckold’s bullet. In Heath’s view, the newly deceased earl had been a rotter and his wife was well rid of him.

  Like his father and grandfather before him, Heath had served as solicitor to some of London’s most prominent families for nearly twenty years now. But he never grew accustomed to being the bearer of bad news to ladies who, in his opinion, deserved so much better from the men who were supposed to be protecting them. It was damnably difficult being the one to inform them that their husbands had squandered the family fortune or run off to France with an opera singer.

  The Earl of Bewleton had dipped his quill one too many times into another lord’s inkwell, Heath reckoned. Oh, but the terrible look on Lady Bewleton’s face when he’d told her all the money was gone.

  How he had wished he could save her, Heath thought as he pulled the key to the front door from his pocket. How he wished he could save all the ladies shackled to cruel, reckless men.

  Heath turned the key in the lock, and the front door swung open. He exhaled with relief. His house was neither large nor grand, particularly in comparison with the Mayfair mansions where many of the firm’s clients lived. But it was his refuge from the woes of the world.

  A fire would no doubt be burning merrily in the grate of the sitting room, his housekeeper, Mrs. Campbell, having left a tray of food for him before going home for the evening. That meal was likely cold by now, Heath thought as the butler helped him off with his coat. Not that he cared, for he had eaten nothing since breakfast and was famished.

  “Thank you, Martin,” Heath said absently, handing the servant his hat and walking stick. Pulling off his spectacles, he rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. The day’s events had left him feeling drained, and he thought a headache might be coming on.

  Caught up in his thoughts, he took a moment to realize that the butler was staring at him expectantly.

  “Did you say something, Martin?”

  “I did, sir,” Martin replied. “There’s a gentleman waiting for you in the library. A Mr. Matthew Hastings. Arrived a few hours ago from Manchester with a trunk and two bags. Says you are expecting him.”

  Blast and damnation, Heath thought. Why had the man come to London today of all days? “Ah yes, Mr. Hastings is the firm’s newest solicitor. I had forgotten he was arriving.”

  “I gave him what Mrs. Campbell had fixed for your meal, sir, as it was so late and the gentleman seemed quite hungry. I hope you aren’t bothered.”

  So much for dinner, Heath thought with some regret. “You did the right thing, Martin,” he said to the servant, who looked relieved. “Bring a bottle of port and two glasses into the library.” Heath stopped and considered for a moment. “The good port, Martin. We want the young man to feel welcome.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Heath found his guest seated in the large wing chair directly adjacent to the library fireplace. At Heath’s entrance, Mr. Hastings rose to his feet. He was a large man—quite tall, with broad shoulders and a thick shock of black hair. Heath knew him to be in his late thirties, but he looked younger, with piercing blue eyes and a nose that was almost feminine in its beauty. The ladies would be fighting over this one, no doubt.

  “Mr. Hastings, I presume,” said Heath, and the man nodded smartly.

  “At your service, sir.”

  “Welcome to London,” said Heath, thinking briefly about his purloined dinner and almost meaning it. “I apologize that I was not here to greet you upon your arrival, but I was dealing with a matter of some urgency for a client.”

  “No apologies are necessary,” Hastings said. “When the hour grew late, I would have gone on to my lodgings and not bothered you tonight. But there’s been a bit of a complication. The current tenant has changed his mind about leaving, and while the landlord was quite apologetic, I will need to find alternative accommodations. I am not familiar with London and don’t want to make the wrong move. I was hoping you might suggest where I might find a place to stay temporarily.”

  The new solicitor had no place to stay. Heath sighed inwardly. This was a very unwelcome complication indeed, for the last thing he wanted was a stranger in his house. It could make things…difficult. But the man had traveled a very long way. It would be churlish not to offer him a bed while he sorted himself out. Hopefully it wouldn’t be for too long.

  “You will stay here, of course… No, I insist. There is more than enough room,” Heath said when Hastings began to protest.

  “Thank you, sir. That is most kind of you.”

  “Not at all, Hastings. It is the least I can do,” Heath said, brushing aside the younger man’s expression of gratitude. “Lord Wemberley has sung
your praises to the heavens, and if half of what he says is true, you will be a fine addition to the firm. Now here comes Martin with the port. Will you join me for a glass?”

  Two hours and a bottle of port later, Heath had learned a fair bit about Heath & Heath’s newest employee. Hastings had studied at Oxford—Heath was a Cambridge man himself—and his wife had died several years previously, leaving him with two sons who were away at school.

  “Both boys are at Rugby,” Hastings said. “It’s been a difficult time for they’ve quite missed their mother.”

  “Sorry for your loss,” Heath said gruffly. “They’ll be glad to be back with their father at school holidays, no doubt.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Hastings said, smiling the smile of a fond parent. “I will confess I miss having the little buggers about. Although they really aren’t so small anymore. The eldest is nearly as tall as I am.”

  The clock had struck eleven by the time Mr. Hastings was finally escorted to his room, allowing Heath to claim his own chambers at long last. He employed no valet, preferring to look after himself. He was no dandy, and, unlike many man of his acquaintance, was well capable of dressing and undressing himself and attending to his own toilet.

  Heath entered his room and shut the door behind him, turning the key in the lock. Taking off his spectacles, he placed them on the dressing table and then pulled off the black ribbon that he used to tie back his hair each morning, combing his fingers through the silver locks. His hair had started to lose its color back when he was still quite young, and now at the ripe old age of forty-two he had gone completely silver. Many of his clients assumed he was much older than he really was, and he counted that as a good thing since people tended to take his advice more readily out of respect for what they perceived to be his years and wisdom.

  Heath removed his brocade waistcoat, then his wool trousers, hanging both neatly in the clothing cupboard. The shirt was next, the buttons on the white linen opening to reveal a man’s bulky corset and above it several strips of fabric stretched tightly across his chest.

  He untied the corset, allowing it to slip to the floor, and then pulled at the knots holding the fabric until it too fell away. Laurence exhaled in relief, touching a tender spot where the corset bone had rubbed against soft skin. It felt so good to be free at last.

  Glancing up at the mirror over the washstand, Laurence saw what no one else ever had. Or ever would. Locks of silver hair falling in a wild tumble. Two plump and unmistakably feminine breasts, the rosy-tipped nipples peeking through the folds of the unbuttoned shirt. A narrow waist, flaring hips, and long, slender legs clad only in a pair of men’s stockings.

  Staring back in the looking glass was Laurence Heath, managing partner of Heath & Heath. One of London’s most prominent solicitors. And as it turned out, not a man at all.

  Chapter Two

  London, 36 years earlier

  “Mummy?”

  “Yes, darling.”

  “Freddie says I’m not a boy.”

  “And how would Freddie come to have an opinion on such a thing, Laurence?” His mother’s tone was suddenly sharp.

  “We were taking a wee in the alley, and he has a tallywag and I don’t.”

  “That’s very naughty, Laurence, and you’re not to do that again. Do you hear me?” His mother had grabbed him by the arm, her nails stabbing into his skin.

  “Ouch, Mummy,” he howled in protest, tears welling in his eyes.

  “Do you hear me, Laurence Heath?” she said fiercely, ignoring his tears. “And you won’t be messing about opening your trousers in front of Freddie or anyone else anymore now, will you? Promise me, or I will take a switch to your bottom until you cannot sit down.”

  “Yes, Mummy, I promise.” At last she let go of his arm, and he rubbed the area to erase the pain of her grip.

  “Now be a good lad and wash up. Your father is coming for a visit as a special treat for your birthday. You’ll want to tell him all about how well your lessons are going,” his mother said, her voice calmer now. “You’re the only son he has, and you could be his heir one day. But that will only happen if you show him what a bright boy you are. You must always be the best boy, Laurence, or your father won’t love you and we’ll have no place to live and nothing to eat. You don’t want us to starve in the streets, do you?”

  “No, Mummy. I’ll be the best boy so Father will always love me. I promise…”

  * * * *

  Her father had indeed cared for her, Laurence reflected, snuffing out the candle on her bedside table and climbing beneath the covers. Although Edward Heath was married and had another family, he had paid for the comfortable house in Hans Town where she and her mother, Nell, had lived all those years, wanting for nothing. There had been servants and a carriage, good food and fine clothing.

  After the incident with Freddie, Laurence’s mother had made sure to keep her away from other children. She had been tutored at home until it was time to go off to boarding school, which was also paid for by her father. By then Laurence had known the truth and understood the urgency of keeping her sex a secret from her father and the world. For Edward Heath already had seven daughters with his wife, and another girl would have held no interest for him, particularly a bastard. By seeming to have produced the much-longed-for son, Nell Cooper had secured a future for herself and her child.

  “Be a good boy, Laurence, and your father will always love you…”

  Laurence excelled at school, earning a place at Cambridge, where she studied history and law, graduating with top honors to her father’s great delight.

  After leaving university, she went to work at Heath & Heath as an apprentice, introduced to the other members of the firm as Edward’s nephew. She started out with contracts and wills before moving into more complex work under the tutelage of the more experienced solicitors. Laurence possessed both an even temperament and a superior instinct for getting to the heart of any legal matter, and as her reputation for successfully managing even the toughest cases grew, her services were increasingly in demand from some of the City’s most powerful men.

  “You’ve done the family proud, my boy,” Edward said with satisfaction after Lord Mersey had written a letter praising her work on a business transaction that had been especially difficult. “You have a brilliant future ahead of you. Your grandfather’s firm will be yours one day. Of that I have no doubt.”

  “I am honored, sir,” she said, her genuine sense of pride at pleasing him clouded by her regret for the deceit that made it possible.

  “I do worry that you’re working too hard, Laurence,” her father said. “It’s about time you thought about settling down and finding a wife. Having a family of your own.”

  “One day, sir,” Laurence said. “When the time is right.”

  Of course, that time had never come. If she had sometimes felt pangs of longing for a different life, Laurence put them out of her mind—in the early days, out of loyalty to her mother, and later because she loved her work and knew she would be forced to give it up if the truth were to emerge.

  * * * *

  “There is a lady here to see you, sir,” her secretary had announced one blustery day soon after Laurence was named a partner in the firm.

  Laurence was puzzled. “I don’t recall having an appointment with anyone this afternoon.”

  “Quite correct, sir,” the secretary agreed. “But the woman in question is exceedingly agitated and begging for an audience with you. She says the matter is highly confidential. Judging from her attire, she appears to be someone important. Most definitely wealthy.”

  Laurence frowned. “Hmm. Quite irregular. Still, one never knows. I suppose you should show her in, then.”

  A well-dressed woman, her faced obscured by a large hat and dark veil, was soon seated in Laurence’s office.

  “What can I do for you, madam?” Laurence inquired politely.

  “I desperately need your help, sir,” came the muffled reply.

  The myst
ery woman slipped off the veil, and Laurence gasped, knowing her identity immediately, yet barely able to recognize her for the horrifying morass of cuts and bruises covering every inch of her face, for it was Lady Arundel, wife to the rich and powerful Earl Arundel and one of London’s most celebrated beauties. At least she had been. Both her eyes were now black and nearly swollen shut, and her lip looked as if it had been cut open by a blow of some sort. Laurence couldn’t be sure, but it appeared that her nose might be broken as well.

  “Dear God,” Laurence exclaimed, unable to hide her horror. She immediately regretted not doing a better job of controlling her reaction, as tears began welling from Lady Arundel’s once beautiful eyes, which were now bloodshot. “I apologize, my lady, but I will confess you have caught me off guard.” Laurence handed the lady a white handkerchief.

  “There is no need to apologize, sir, for I know I look a terrible fright,” Lady Arundel said, wincing in pain as she sought to dab at her tears.

  “May I ask who has done such violence to you?”

  “This is Arundel’s handiwork,” Lady Arundel said bitterly. “Quite impressive, don’t you agree?”

  Laurence could hardly believe what she was hearing. “I do not understand,” she responded, flabbergasted by Lady Arundel’s words. “Surely you cannot mean to say that your husband is responsible for this atrocity?”

  “It is not the first time he has done so, but it must be the last, for I cannot survive another,” Lady Arundel sobbed.

  Alarmed, Laurence did something she had never done before with a client, grasping the lady’s hand in her own, hoping to provide even some small measure of physical comfort. “If it will not overly distress you, please tell me what happened.”

  And Lady Arundel did, explaining that two days previously, Lord Arundel had returned home quite early in the morning after a night of gambling and drinking.

  “He was furious over losing money to Lord McGuffin in a game of loo,” the lady said. He had taken his rage out on his wife, first hitting her with his fists, and when she tried to escape, beating her with his walking stick until she was nearly unconscious.