"She was at it in the alley with several men when I left last night to come look for you. You’d already gone, so I took a lucky guess and headed right. I’m not surprised she forgot all about you. I’d chock up at least three dozen to her credit alone by the looks of things."
Miranda gasped but said as George led her to the chamber, "Come after me? Why?"
"I overheard, well-" He blushed again. Twice in one day? What on earth was the matter with him? And he would blush again if he recalled any more of his fantasies about her from his time in the tub.
"Overheard what?" she demanded, staring up at his reddening face.
"The men who were planning to grab you. Damned bad luck I never got to see his face but he egged the others on. Different accent from the bloke who accosted you. The speaker was far more refined. You were like a lamb to the bloody slaughter, and nearly bleated your last.
"Didn’t your chums warn you what happens when you tease and don’t deliver? Or did you think you were going to fetch an even higher price by making them wait to crush the fruit?"
"No, not at all. I was supposed to just be selling the oranges and wanted to watch the play!" she denied furiously.
"Aye, I noticed that. I also noticed Lady Carteret scared the hell out of you. Word of warning. Women can often be the very devil. Even worse than men at times. Especially if they’re bitter with it. And damned demanding mistresses. As so many licentious women can be. She’d wear you out in a fortnight. Her last girl lasted a week before we found her and carted her off to the clinic. She’ll never be the same again."
"But, but how-" She recalled with a blush of mortification what the woman had said to her. And his mention of toys now became all too clear as he mimed impatiently a couple of times.
"You really are a lost lamb in the woods, surrounded by wolves, aren’t you?" He shook his head. He knew he had been laying it on a bit thick to scare her, but now he felt ashamed.
"I, well, I had no idea—" she said in an appalled whisper.
"No reason you should," he said briskly, changing the subject lest her imagination run wild. "But come now," George said with a gentle tug, "have your bath and choose one of these gowns to put on. Bundle the rest to take with you. I’m going to wait for you here, and then I’m going to take you home in a cab. This isn’t the sort of life I would want anyone to lead, not if the girl has other choices. I’m going to take you home to your parents and—"
"No, no, please," she gasped, wondering at the genuine horror in her voice as she did so. For one thing her parents were dead. For another, she could go back to her friend’s townhouse and no one would ever be the wiser. Lady Pemberton might have a kitten or two if she ever found out about this little adventure, but she was no prude and was hardly in a position to do anything about it.
Matthew would be cross, but he was not a hypocrite, and as a former rake he really had no right to moralise. He had rescued his wife Althea, their cousin, from a brothel, after all, and married her. They were undoubtedly very happy now, but the poor woman had been reduced to an opium addict and had been most cruelly treated by all accounts.
She had always wondered what Althea had suffered. She had even been tempted to fictionalise her story as one of her next novels, since the truth could often be stranger than fiction.
In fact, her tale would put one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s or even one of Mr. Lewis’ to shame. Not that she was ever supposed to have read anything so scandalous as The Monk, but…
"What is it?" George asked. "Is it a cruel father or guardian? Or has some male been plying you with unwanted attentions?" His brows drew downwards threateningly.
"Rather, an indifferent father," she said in all truth, "who could not care less if my sister Juliet and I went to the devil."
"And is Juliet—" he asked quietly.
She shook her head. "No, no, perfectly respectable, I assure you. My brother Matthew as well. But they are both married and have family and—"
"Still, it’s too bad of them not to be willing to make a place for you."
"I, er, well, they’re newlyweds and have had difficulties of their own to contend with. I didn’t want to be in the way."
"So you came to London and got led astray?" he guessed.
"Well, yes," she said once again sticking as close to the truth as she possibly could. "Honestly, I really just thought we were coming to see the play. Which I enjoyed very much, by the way. You have a fine theatre."
"So if I let you work at the theatre, you really have no intention of turning tricks?" he demanded, his dark gaze boring into her.
She blinked. "Er, turning-"
He gesticulated again.
The crimson tide flooded her features once more. "No, no, not at all."
"Because I have to warn you, my leading man and lady are known for being most demanding in the bedroom, and always looking for a new thrill. It’s one thing to do it willingly for free because you want to, but if they offer you money or favours you are to come to me at once. They’ve got their claws into poor young Bart, Hugo’s understudy. He doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going."
The movement of his hands gave her all too clear a picture and she shook her head.
"I assure you. If I have no intention of servicing one man, I most certainly have no intention of servicing your actor and actress!"
"Don’t forget to include Bart in that list. They have an awfully big bed," he could not resist adding.
She shook her head, and presented a stiff back to him. She was about to enter the bathing chamber when she turned. "I hope you’ve enjoyed having your fun, trying to shock and disgust me utterly this morning in an effort to get me to change my mind and have you take me home to my family. But it hasn’t worked. So you can stop toying with me like a child with a butterfly. Go shred someone else’s stardust-coated wings.
"I may not be a trollop, I may be naïve, but I refuse to be made a figure of fun by you or anyone, and I refuse to go home at your say so. I am mistress of my own fate."
"Aye, until you become a man’s mistress and he tries to buy and sell you," he said gruffly.
"Not much different from a wife, then," she retorted sharply, "who simply becomes her husband’s property, along with all of her worldly goods and even her children for good measure should the man prove unreasonable. Perhaps the mistress has the better bargain after all. At least she can exercise her own freedom and judgment, and walk away from an abusive or cruel lover. Wives have no such freedom, and little recourse in the law. Now if you don’t mind, I should like to wash and dress. I shall see you shortly."
Miranda shut the door in his face, leaving George staring at the wooden portal like a stunpoll. What on earth was it about the little miss that left him gaping like an idiot every time she opened her mouth?
Her intelligence, her spirit—he had never met anyone like her.
So what on earth was this rare exotic orchid doing here in such a squalid dung heap? And could she possibly be as decent and chaste and innocent as she seemed?
Had she been beguiled, duped by those two blonde trulls? Perhaps they had brought her along as fresh meat? More cannon fodder for the depraved lists of their clients? Foursomes were exciting enough for some of the men, but three women…
He shook his head. Only if you wanted to run the risk of the clap from the two blondes. Perhaps he had saved her from more than just assault and ravishment last night….
He shuddered at the very thought of a lovely woman like Miranda clapped up, insane…
There was one other rule in his house—no one ever betrayed each other, no matter what. No sneaking and skullduggery, no poaching customer out from behind each other’s backs and no tricking them into anything they didn’t want to do.
But with those two orange sellers, he couldn’t help but wonder if they had not put some of the men up to the violent scheme they had been hatching.
It would take some time, but he might be able to find out. The conversation had taken place in front of t
he stage, but his friend had been snuffing the candles and lanterns. The star, Maggie, got her own private chamber of course, and Hugo often shared it with her. They usually had admirers who flocked after every performance, but last evening, with the commotion over the three orange sellers, no one had come back stage. He had lurked behind the drawn curtain, and overheard almost everything.
Just as well he had. He personally tried to ensure that all was decently done, but if his troupe were tempted there was little he could do about it. Ditto the orange women. So long as they went willingly, who was he to stop them?
His friend Sebastian had been on the game for a long enough time, though he had never willingly gone with men unless he could avoid it. He had been under orders as a spy to glean information in whatever way he could. For the spectacularly handsome young man, it had been all too easy. Like flies around a honey pot, they had been, not paying a blind bit of notice to George himself, even though he knew he was exceptionally good looking too. But he was clearly not that sort of bloke. And he was far too old at nearly forty, for all he looked much younger.
George had moved heaven and earth to get Sebastian out of the trade and had prevented Sebastian’s sister Viola from going into it. He himself couldn’t fathom how anyone could be attracted to anything other than a member of the opposite sex, but he knew love came in all shapes sizes and forms.
Yes, he was still enough of a romantic to believe love truly existed. Hadn’t Viola found the man of her dreams? For a time George had thought Viola his perfect partner, though now that he thought about it, and had a basis for comparison, he could see that there had been none of the burning intensity he felt for Miranda every time she was near.
Suddenly the lovely brunette appeared in front of him once more, and for a moment George was convinced he was having another of his fantasies.
Except that she laid her hand on his forearm delicately and said, "You didn’t have to wait. I could have found my way. Are you ready for breakfast?"
She gathered the bundle of clothes more tightly to her side, and looped her arm loosely in his.
"Are you ready so soon?" he asked in surprise.
"Indeed. Why spend more time washing and dressing than one has to? Lovely tub, by the way, and marvelous soap. Beautiful décor. May I have a bath any time I like?"
"Yes, of course."
He was astonished at how well she looked. The gown was simply cut, a thick dark blue linen with black braided frogs for the front fastenings. It hung down almost straight, emphasising her slenderness. It was all too apparent she had nothing binding her underneath. The simple swish of her petticoat was enough to make his loins churn all over again.
He got back into the kitchen and handed her an apron, but somehow the innocent-looking garment spurred his lust even more, for she looked like a housewife tending to an adored husband and children.
The illusion was maintained as Tom came with tea and toast, eggs, bacon and sausage, and she took over the tea pot and served him first, then herself, though he insisted she was the guest.
"Never mind. Woman’s role and all that. Though I will let you do it for me some other time, since I can see how adept you are. Very domesticated. But for the moment I would like to thank you for your kind consideration. For being so thoughtful with the clothes and so on. And for trying to save me, take me back to my family. But really, Mr. Davenant, I don’t need saving. I have the feeling that this experience is going to be the making of me."
He merely nodded, not willing to spoil the pleasant breakfast with a quarrel. He and Tom chatted about the boy’s reading whilst she served up. Miranda was impressed. He was actually teaching his staff how to read and lending them his books? Remarkable. And most Radical, just like her brother Matthew and his Rakehell friends.
As she sat listening, drinking in all she could about George, though he said little enough and let others do most of the talking, some of the other women came down to join them, including the infamous Emma. She expected a hard-faced woman with a mountain of make-up and yards of exposed flesh. She also eagerly wanted to see what sort of relationship George had with her, and indeed the other women. But they were all distantly polite. If anyone tried to get too cozy with him at the breakfast table he seemed to just withdraw into his quietude even further.
One thing George Davenant was not was chatty. One thing he was was observant. He seemed to watch her every move, from the way she handled her knife and fork to the way she had taken her tea. But as he had learned, little tell-tale things like that often gave away a great deal about a person’s character. She realised that her own table manners proclaimed her someone who was used to a better class of living compared to some of the men and women who now joined them at table.
Emma was fresh-faced, calm, quiet, but Miranda could tell that she had been through the wringer at some point in her life. She could only guess what had brought her to such a pass. She soon had her first impression confirmed when the woman stood and suggested she come see her room for a minute so she would know where to find her in case she ever needed her or her second in charge Abigail.
George nodded encouragingly. She gave him a small smile which made his heart miss a beat.
The two woman went upstairs together. Miranda looked around curiously, but without her mouth hanging open, she hoped. The two adjoining rooms gave an impression of intimacy. When the other woman came out, as large as Emma was small and dainty, it was quite clear that she was in love. Emma was not, it was plain, but they had a companionable relationship and that was all Miranda need to know.
She felt more sorry for Emma than she could say when Abigail to her to one side and said quietly, "Emma is a bit delicate, but has a good head on her shoulders. We all look out for her, and she looks out for us. A widow, you know. During the war. Lost her son to the husband’s family, who said she couldn’t look after him properly. But we’re the two of us working to get him back one day. If ever you want to know about stocks, shares and investments, just ask Emma. It may be the wages of sin, but no one cares about that on the stock market or in the gambling dens."
"One and the same thing, is it not?" Miranda quipped.
Abigail guffawed heartily. "Aye, it is indeed. I can see you’re going to fit right in here. Can you cook and sew?"
"Yes I can."
"Good. Mr George’s last friend could and all. I mean, I’m guessing a fine lady like you is not going to be working here, like with the men and so on."
Miranda managed not to blush. "No, Mr. Davenant has offered me a job as a dresser in the theatre. I’ll get to watch the plays of an evening. I’m sure can get some sewing done then. Just let me know when you want me to lend a hand."
"Oh, if you’re at the theatre I doubt you’ll have time. Miss Viola was here all the time on her own except when her brother or Mr. George needed her for something. Married a toff, so she did. Lovely woman. In a different sort of way from you," she said, an unfathomable glint in her eyes which made Miranda feel a bit nervous, as if she were being inspected. "If you’re in the theatre, they’ll have plenty for you to do. But thanks for the offer of help all the same."
"It’s still open," Miranda said sincerely.
The woman gave her a kind smile. "You’d best run along, dearie. Mr. George is waitin’ on ye."
CHAPTER FOUR
George had come up behind Miranda so silently she hadn’t even noticed. How long had he been standing there?
He had followed Miranda almost from the first, curious to see what her reaction would be to the menage, but she was the soul of kindness and had evinced neither horror nor disgust at the pair of tribades. Her offer of help had been sincere.
The woman was a rare jewel if she did but know it. The remarkable thing was that Miranda seemed not to think herself anyone special or worthy of particular consideration in any way.
She acted surprised when he helped her on with her cloak and handed her a reticule with a handkerchief and a few other baubles in it, and then a pair of gloves.<
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"No lady would go out on the streets without these accoutrements," he said when she stared at him in shock.
"Thank you so much. But I’m no lady," she lied, "just an ordinary woman."
"All women deserve to be treated like ladies," George said with a mild hint of pomposity which betrayed his aristocratic background.
She blinked and stared, but before she could absorb this startling new impression of him, he had reverted back to his brisk businessman persona. "So come, put them on and let’s go."
When they got outside, a fine drizzle was washing the grimy streets clean. Her cloak did not have a hood and he immediately swept his own cloak off and put it up over her head.
"It’s only a little rain. My hair is already still a bit wet from the bath," she protested mildly.
"All the more reason to not take a risk with a chill. Silly me, going on about ladies. I remembered everything else, but forgot all about a bonnet. Shall we go back and see what we can find?"
The Rakehell Regency Romance Series Boxed Set 6 Page 42