Gilding the Lady

by Nicole Byrd

  He seemed to be telling the truth. Dominic swallowed a sigh of frustration. “Never mind.”

  To the little man’s obvious disappointment, Dominic left the shop as abruptly as he had entered it. Now what?

  He walked up and down the lane, but saw nothing on any building that denoted cats. Was “cattery” a reference to a brothel? If so, in this neighborhood there would be all too many to choose from, and how would he know which one might house a receiver? While he hesitated, not sure where to go next, a girl with a thin face and hard eyes came out of the mass of poorly dressed men and women who crowded the pavement and approached him.

  “Like a good time, gov? Only two shillings, and well worth the price! I got a room two streets over, or if ye in a hurry, we can just duck into the alley.”

  Trying not to show his flash of pity, he gazed at her. Her gown, as well as her person, had seen better days, and her breath reeked of gin. “No, but I’ll give you a shilling, anyhow, if you can point me to the Cattery.”

  Her eyes narrowed for a moment, and to his surprise, she laughed. “Easy nuff, gov, but what good will that do ye?”

  “Just tell me where it is,” he suggested, drawing out a coin.

  She eyed it eagerly. “Only one street over. I’ll show you.”

  Stepping around the refuse and dung that spotted the street, he followed the girl as she hurried up the lane and cut through an alley. Within minutes, she stopped suddenly and pointed to a slightly larger building than the ones that leaned against it.

  “That’s it, gov.”

  Hoping he was not being gulled, Dominic passed over the coin.

  “ ’Ope you enjoy it,” she said, her tone malicious, then she hurried away and disappeared into the crowd.

  Dominic continued to regard the shop. It had Lady’s Wares scrawled in uneven letters on the sign above the door. Was it a brothel?

  As he watched, a slightly built female dressed in what was, for this neighborhood, respectable dress, opened the door and entered. He tried to watch from the outside, but the glass at the window was dusty. Whatever happened inside the building, housekeeping was obviously not of high concern.

  In a few minutes, the girl came out again, glanced furtively up and down the lane, then hastened off.

  There seemed little to gain by standing in the street. Dominic went up the door and pulled it open. The girl had not knocked, and he did not, either.

  A bell tinkled as he entered. The interior looked more like a shabby tea shop than a den of crime. Several tables and chairs filled the small room, with a bureau or two against the wall, and a lady’s gown, its design a bit outmoded but its lace handsome, had been draped over a stand. Frowning, Dominic looked about him.

  A woman of middle age and undistinguished mien appeared in an inner doorway and stopped, her expression severe. “Who are you?”

  “I’m interested in—”

  “Get out,” she demanded.

  “Wait, I’m looking for a receiver who can—”

  “Don’t matter, I only deal with females,” she interrupted. “The whole street knows that, you lunk’ead. Bloody men can’t be trusted!”

  “I assure you—” he tried to say, but paused when she drew an ancient but apparently serviceable blunderbuss from a cupboard near the door.

  “Out!” she commanded, pointing the muzzle toward him.

  Dominic knew when to make a strategic retreat. But outside on the street, he paused and stared again up at the sign. He wasn’t sure—

  The faintest touch on his borrowed jacket alerted him, and he cuffed the hand that had tried to slip into his pocket.

  Someone exclaimed. “Let go o’ me!”

  Dominic turned to see a boy of middle years struggling to escape the firm grip that held him.

  “Your technique needs work,” Dominic advised. “Shall I turn you over to the watch?”

  “Try and find one round ’ere,” the boy taunted him.

  “Then perhaps I shall simply give you a good thrashing?”

  This time the lad held his tongue, but he directed a resentful look at his captor.

  “Tell me about that place and perhaps I will let you go unscathed,” Dominic suggested.

  “Eh?”

  “Without the hiding you so richly deserve,” he explained.

  “Oh, w’at you want to know?” The boy stared up at him.

  “What is that place?”

  The lad looked scornful. “The Cattery? It’s a shop, so she says, course she’s also one of the biggest receivers on the street. But she won’t deal with you, gov.”

  “Why not?”

  “ ’Cause you’re a man, o’course. She hates ’em, men, I mean,” the boy said, as if the whole world knew of the woman’s aversion to the male half of the species.

  “I see,” Dominic said. A receiver and slightly demented, as well. But she might know of the late Mrs. Craigmore, who had certainly been female.

  “So let go me ’and, already!”

  He released the boy, who ran rapidly into the nearest alley and out of sight. Too late, Dominic realized he should have asked the woman’s name, but then, she could well have several. At least he knew the location, and he would have to come back. But as to how to get the woman to listen to him . . . He thought for only an instant of donning female clothing, then shuddered. No, not likely, this clumsy-fitting coat was bad enough. . . .

  Putting one hand over the pocket with his remaining store of coins to avoid the efforts of more skillful pickpockets than the last, Dominic pushed his way into the mass of ill-clad people on the edges of the street, stepping over a man sprawled in drunken oblivion, and made his way toward the better parts of town, where he could hail another hackney.

  When he reached the Fallon house, he told the driver to wait, then went up to the door. The butler opened the door and gawked at him.

  With intense relief, Dominic could at last shed the borrowed coat. “Here, return this to your footman with my thanks,” he said, and added a coin as more tangible gratitude. “And give him this, as well.”

  The butler swallowed hard and accepted the coat. “Yes, my lord. Shall I inform Miss Fallon—”

  “No need,” Dominic pointed out as he looked up to see Clarissa Fallon rushing down the staircase with most unladylike haste.

  “What happened? Did you have any success?” she demanded.

  He looked around. “Can we speak in private, for just a moment?”

  She dismissed the butler with a nod and opened a door. “Come into my brother’s study, if you would.”

  He followed her and, even though it was improper, shut the door gently behind them. It would also be disastrous if the servants overheard any of their plotting. “I have found a promising lead. I hoped it might turn out to be the receiver that Mrs. Livermore used, but the female inside would not speak to me.”

  He told her quickly what had transpired, and was not surprised to see her face light up. “Then I must go back with you,” she exclaimed. “It is obvious.”

  “It is too dangerous,” he corrected. He had feared she would jump to just such a conclusion. “Perhaps your maid could go with me—”

  “Matty is an excellent girl and very loyal,” Miss Fallon argued. “But you may need me, my lord. We must go back, you know we must!”

  He could find no logical argument. Shaking his head, he muttered, “Your brother will call me out if he discovers I have allowed this. Very well, but I shall take precautions. And bring your maid with you.”

  Her expression eager, she nodded, “I shall meet you at ten o’clock tomorrow at the bookseller’s on Bond Street.”

  “In drab clothing? Will not Lady Gemma notice?”

  “I will try to slip out without her seeing,” Clarissa explained patiently, as if he were slow of wit.

  “Very well. And please excuse me to your sister-in-law for this evening; I cannot stay for dinner without proper attire.”

  She glanced at his shirt as if she’d forgotten all about his mi
ssing coat. “She’s not home yet, so I don’t have to, but I will send word to the cook. And, thank you, my lord.”

  She looked up at him, her clear hazel eyes filled with emotion, and for a moment, he saw beneath the facade of bravado with which she habitually faced the world—a world which, for too much of her life, had been hostile and malicious.

  He could not stop himself from taking one small hand and pressing it against his shirtfront. “I will not leave you alone and unprotected,” he told her gently. “We will see this through until you are safe, once again.”

  Her eyes glistened. For a moment, they stood very close, and he could smell the sweet fragrance of her clothing, even the clean scent of her body beneath the thin muslin gown, and despite his best intentions his own body responded. God, she was so sweet, so enticing . . . and courageous to the bone. He could not let her down.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice husky.

  He wanted to pull her into his arms and bend to possess those slightly pursed lips, but he could not abuse her trust.

  So he had to content himself with lifting the hand he held to his lips and kissing it—only one brief moment of contact, and so much less than he hungered for. Then he released his hold and was about to turn away before his self-control failed him, when to his surprise, she suddenly stood on her toes and flung her arms about his neck, offering him an unpracticed but enthusiastic kiss, slightly off center.

  He was too startled to respond properly, but the brief taste of her only teased him further.

  Cheeks pink, she stepped back almost as quickly as she had embraced him.

  Dominic found he had to clear his throat before he could speak, and his voice sounded hoarse. “You mustn’t do that, my dear—I mean, Miss Fallon.”

  “Why not? There’s no one here to see. And you called me Clarissa in the carriage. May I call you Dominic?”

  Oh, God, she didn’t understand. She was such an unpredictable mix of worldly knowledge and naive innocence, and he never knew which part would surface—

  “If I called you Clarissa in public, people would think we had become too—too intimate. A lady must protect her reputation, most especially a single lady, or tongues will wag, and you could be hurt. And you must not encourage a man because—well, because he may accept the invitation. Like this.” He bent and lifted her chin, leaning forward with deliberate slowness and placing a hand on each side of her face. Her eyes widened. She had time to back away, but she stood her ground, pursed her lips and lifted her face to accept his kiss.

  This time, he kissed her properly. He touched her lips lightly at first, then more firmly, relishing the sweetness of her, the fullness, the softness. The kiss grew, and he pressed harder as his own passion surged, almost forgetting that his intention had been to frighten her just a little, for her own good. Now he only wanted to possess her, every inch of her. When her lips parted and his tongue slipped into the sweet darkness there, the taste of her was as heady as ambrosia and yet only a faint semblance of more enticing invasions to come.

  He felt rather than heard her gasp at the touch of his tongue, and then she responded in kind, and the kiss seemed to consume them both.

  And never did she draw away or feign any maidenly coyness or confusion. Instead, she gave herself to the kiss, pressing her body against his until they seemed almost melded into one, and only the thin layers of clothing separated them from a true union. That thought brought a small breath of sanity to blow away the fog that had filled his mind.

  Drawing back, he ended the kiss at last. Looking down at her, he tried to control his breathing. “That,” he said, “is why you must not encourage strange men . . .” Somehow, the rest of his morally uplifting speech had slipped away.

  Her eyes seemed to shine. Her tongue licked her bottom lip, as if she wanted to relish the last taste of him, and at the sight of it, he felt his groin ache. It took great effort not to step forward and pull her close once again.

  “But you’re not at all strange,” she said, her voice low, and she smiled up at him. Her lips were still slightly pink from the pressure of his own.

  Oh, God, he wanted her.

  He had to get out of the house before he did something even more reprehensible! Striding toward the door, Dominic opened it and waited for her to join him. But as she did, he couldn’t help reaching to straighten a strand of fair hair. When she gazed up at him, her eyes full of trust, his heart seemed to lurch.

  He couldn’t do this, not again.

  The footman hailed a hackney to take him home. As it bounced over the pavement, Dominic sat alone in the corner, but the shadows of the carriage seemed filled by ghosts with mournful eyes.

  The next day, she met him at the appointed time, having successfully evaded both Gemma and Miss Pomshack. She waited in front of the bookseller’s until a dark chaise pulled up.

  It was not a hackney, but neither was it the earl’s usual elegant chaise with his crest on the door, so she looked at it in surprise. Two burly men hung on to the rear of the vehicle, but the coachman was the same man who usually drove the earl.

  And it was Lord Whitby who opened the door and nodded to her. When one of the grooms belatedly jumped down and unfolded the steps, the earl allowed the servant—somewhat to her disappointment—to help her inside. But she realized in a moment that he was deliberately keeping out of sight.

  “What—” she began.

  “I thought it best to use a somewhat less conspicuous vehicle,” he explained. “But I also wanted something more dependable than a nervous hackney driver, so I hired this lumbering but functional carriage.”

  She nodded, pleased to see that he had dressed down again, if not to the standards of the borrowed jacket she had procured for him yesterday, at least he looked a bit less perfect than usual. And the spark of joy she had felt at seeing him—that had nothing to do with his clothing.

  “You had no problem getting away?” he asked, then looked past her. “Where is your lady’s maid?”

  “She is spending the day at the market; she has a friend who works in one of the stalls. We will pick her up when we are done, before we go back to the house.”

  He stared at her. “Miss Fallon—”

  To her disappointment, he had resumed his autocratic tone, and his expression was once again as haughty as when they’d first met. She swallowed. What had happened to the man who had kissed her so passionately yesterday? Because I hoped you might kiss me again, you fool, she wanted to tell him, but, of course, she couldn’t. She might not know the finer points of etiquette, but she knew enough not to beg for a man’s attention. That could only inspire disdain. She turned her head to stare through the window.

  “I thought I explained—” he started.

  “Matty is a loyal servant, but she doesn’t know my history. I would rather she didn’t hear it all,” she told him quietly. “I wasn’t sure what trickery we would have to concoct today. She might think it odd that I know so much about the working classes.”

  At least that stopped his bloody lecture. The silence between them was heavy, and the noise outside the carriage, the clatter of wheels on the paving stones, the hollow echo of horses’ hooves, the vendors’ shouts, all the city’s sounds swirled around them. As they left behind the fashionable part of London, the streets became narrower and even more crowded.

  Did he think she was trying to entrap him into marriage? Bloody hell, she knew she hadn’t money or status enough to marry an earl, Clarissa thought, resting her chin in her hands as she stared out at a passing team of oxen pulling a cart full of coal. When they resolved the murder charge, she had no doubt the earl would bow gracefully and move on to more beautiful, more highly connected ladies. Sharing a few more kisses in the meantime didn’t seem too much to ask. Nor did she intend to let their love-making go too far, damn his arrogance. Did he think she knew nothing about men and women?

  It wasn’t as if she’d been brought up sheltered like a proper lady. Belowstairs, serving girls weren’t as p
rotected. She knew what made women’s bellies swell with growing babies, and she knew that female servants who were unlucky enough to be caught in such a condition were turned out, to starve on the street or end up in the local brothel. No, she’d never even been tempted, and she’d boxed many a groom’s or footman’s ear. And as for that slimy employer of hers—he’d been harder to handle, but she was stubborn, and she had a strong voice, and she could pretend to be almost witless when need be, screaming for the whole household to hear. After one or two tries, the man had given up.

  But no one had ever made her feel like Dominic had, yesterday. That kiss—it had sparked a flame between them. And now he was back to being the pompous earl. Damn his arrogance, she thought again.

  He had been staring at the seat beside her as if his dark-eyed gaze might drill a hole through the cushion. But he looked up now and glanced outside. “We’re almost there. If anything happens, I will blame myself for allowing you to come.”

  “But you need me,” she reminded him, keeping her tone even. “You said yourself, this woman will not talk to anyone except females. And I may struggle to be a lady, but I am certainly female.”

  “Oh, yes,” he murmured. “Certainly, you are.”

  Wondering if he was jesting at her expense, Clarissa shot him a sharp look.

  And indeed, his answering glance seemed brooding, holding some emotion that she could not identify.

  She found that she was the one who looked away, staring down at her plain skirt and slightly worn gloves as she clasped her hands together in her lap.

  Despite her calm tone, Clarissa found that her shoulders were tense with nervousness. But this had to be done, they must unravel the secrets that the matron—confound her!—had left behind. It was intolerable that she could threaten Clarissa’s well-being even after she was dead. Clarissa drew a deep breath and tried to prepare herself for the coming interview.

  His voice impersonal, the earl broke the silence, and they discussed what ruse she should use. So Clarissa had her story ready when the carriage drew up a few houses away from the Cattery.