Too Wicked to Love

by Olivia Drake

  “Aye, m’lord.” Bowing, the footman headed down the corridor.

  Without looking up, Ethan disappeared into one of the ground-floor rooms. While the horses were harnessed and the carriage delivered from the stables, he would wait there, no doubt. She had ten minutes—perhaps a little more—before he would depart.

  Retreating down the passageway, Jane found a door cleverly hidden in the white paneling. She went into the dimly lit, utilitarian shaft designed for the servants and raced down the wooden staircase to the ground floor. She emerged into a spacious corridor and guessed the way toward the rear of the house. For a few frustrating minutes she feared she was lost; then she entered a music room with a pianoforte, the ivory keys glistening like teeth in the shadows. A pair of glass doors led out onto a loggia that spanned the length of a small, formal garden. Going outside, she paused beside a stone pillar and spied the stables beyond the darkened trees.

  Jane stepped quickly toward a wooden gate in the brick wall. A cold mist hung in the air, and she shivered, wishing she had taken the time to fetch her shawl. But certainly she was accustomed to long, brisk walks on the windswept downs, and a little London chill would do her no harm.

  She heard the voices before spying the men. A pair of grooms, one tall and bandy-legged, the other short and stocky, chatted by the carriage house as they hitched a pair of horses to the barouche. Jane’s foot struck a pebble and sent it skittering down the path. It sounded like a pistol shot, and she froze in the gloom beneath a spreading oak. Luckily, one of the gray horses snorted at that moment, shaking its silvery mane, the harness jingling.

  Jane slowly let out her breath. Knowing she had only a few moments to spare, she crept closer, keeping a hedge of clipped boxwoods in between herself and the men. She was thankful for her black garb as she worked her way around toward the rear of the carriage.

  Torchlight illuminated the brick stable and a stretch of open yard. Indecisive, she hid behind a bush. Although it was only a few steps, the fancy equipage might have been a hundred miles distant.

  Footsteps thudded on the packed earth and a burly coachman rounded the corner of the carriage house. “Damp night, eh?” he said in a rumbling voice that carried to Jane.

  “Aye,” said the bandy-legged man. “Better ’ope ’is lordship don’t tarry too long in ’is lady’s bed an’ leave ye sittin’ out in the cold.”

  “Wonder which one ’e’ll visit tonight?” said the short man. “The blonde ’e took to Wessex last week ’ad a prime set o’ udders.”

  The two grooms chuckled. Taking advantage of their tasteless humor and inattention, Jane dashed across the short distance to the rear of the carriage. She halted there, her heart pounding, her body plastered to the sleek cab. The air smelled of leather and horses.

  “Quit yammering about yer betters,” snapped the coachman. “Tend to yer duties lest ye find yerselfs back in the gutter.”

  Their mirth died amid a raspy clearing of throats and a sudden flurry of activity. Leather creaked and feet shuffled. Jane knew she didn’t have much time left. She eased to the edge of the carriage, her palm damp on the large iron wheel as she stole a look toward the front.

  The grooms were busy with the horses and the coachman had gone back into the carriage house. This was her chance!

  She tiptoed to the far side and quietly unlatched the door. Bless heaven, the hinges had been oiled. She dared not lower the step, but her long legs served her well as she clambered inside. With the utmost caution, she drew the door shut.

  Jane crouched in the dark interior, bracing herself for a hue and cry. None came. After a few moments, her heart ceased slamming against her ribs. Touching her mother’s locket for good luck, she felt her way to the long bench seat and sank against the velvet cushions.

  Just in time.

  The vehicle rocked—the coachman must have climbed aboard. She heard the slap of reins and the clopping of hooves, then felt the slight sway of movement. The shadowy gardens slid slowly past. As the front of the house came into view, the barouche stopped.

  Ethan emerged from the doorway. The torches cast stark light over him, giving his features a sinister, almost malevolent aspect. In his black cloak, he looked more demon than mortal.

  Jane deliberately unclenched her fingers by degrees. He was only a man, and a rather worthless one at that. She positioned herself in the darkest corner and sat very still as the footman opened the door. Ethan paused a moment to snap out an address to the coachman. Then he ducked his head into the cab.

  She knew the moment he caught sight of her. He stood with one foot on the step, his large form blocking the light. He stared at her.

  She stared back.

  “One moment,” he growled at the coachman, then stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. Flicking his scarlet-lined cape to the side, he seated himself opposite her. “So, Jane. I should not be surprised.”

  He slapped a pair of kidskin gloves against his palm. His male scent, dark and seductive, eddied to her. She was conscious of his powerful presence and her own precarious position. The closeness of the interior emphasized how much larger he was than she. Their knees almost touched, and she forced herself not to recoil lest he see it as a sign of weakness.

  “I am going with you,” she stated. “If you intend to call on Marianne’s mother, that is.”

  “Perhaps I’m off to a night of sin and depravity. Will you accompany me into the gaming hells and brothels, I wonder?”

  His mocking words shivered over her skin. “Tell me the truth about where we’re going.”

  “There is no we. You may get out of my carriage.”

  She swallowed her pride for Marianne’s sake. “Ethan, please. I want to question the woman who abandoned Marianne. Because you can’t just hand back a helpless child where she isn’t wanted. How do you know she’ll be loved and properly cared for?”

  “You might trust my judgment.”

  “Hah. You haven’t shown much judgment in regard to women. Look at what happened with your own wife.”

  Jane feared she’d gone too far. She couldn’t read his expression in the darkness of the carriage, but she could feel a strange force emanating from him, thickening the cool night air. Yet when he spoke, his voice was controlled.

  “May I point out,” he said, “that gently bred ladies do not pay calls on fallen women. So leave this matter to me.”

  She stubbornly shook her head. “If you want me out of here, you’ll have to toss me onto the pavement. But you shan’t do that. Making a scene in public would ruin your image as Lord Charming.”

  He regarded her for another long, uncomfortable moment. “You know me so well,” he said, his tone conveying that he’d lost interest in the quarrel. He rapped on the roof, and the barouche set off at a gently rocking pace.

  Jane released a breath, the tension sliding away and leaving her limp. Her ploy had worked! She had been correct about his purpose tonight.

  Or had she? What if he really did mean to visit a house of ill repute? Would he abandon her in the carriage while he engaged in revelry? Yes, she could believe that of him.

  He frowned out the window at the passing scenery. An occasional street lamp flashed in the darkness, briefly illuminating his strong features. His intense expression was unlike the debaucher who had nary a serious thought rattling in his empty skull. He looked introverted and secretive, as if he were plotting a nefarious deed.

  “Where are we heading?” she asked.

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  His ambiguous answer only increased her uneasiness. “You aren’t really taking me to a cesspool of sin, are you?”

  He gave a snort of laughter. “Cesspool of sin? Did you make that up yourself?”

  “It’s a phrase used by Reverend Gillespie in the pulpit,” she said stiffly. “You’d know so if ever you attended services at our parish church.”

  “That squinty old goat wouldn’t know a cesspool from the Sistine Chapel.”

  Jane fe
lt a perverse bubble of humor, but stifled it in time. “Just answer my question. Are we going to a brothel?”

  She forced out the question she’d been afraid to face. “Is Marianne’s mother … a whore?”

  Through the shadows, his features took on a hard edge. “Enough questions.”

  “At least give me her name. Tell me about her background, her character. Could she have been forced to give up her baby because she had no money to support her?”

  “You wanted to decide for yourself. And so you shall.”

  He fell silent, and she sat back in frustration, wondering at the wicked life he had led. Back when they were children, he had been a daredevil and a prankster, always landing himself in trouble with his stern father. And then once Ethan had gone away to school, she had seen him only in the summers and on holidays. As he grew older, he’d fallen in with bad company, and she remembered when he was nearly twenty, having one friend in particular who shared his wild proclivities.

  Once, she’d had to jump out of the way as they raced their phaetons along the dirt road to the village, a squealing lady clinging to them on the high perch, their horses thundering past, the wheels rattling, leaving a trail of dust and laughter. Captain Lord John Randall, Jane remembered, had died at Waterloo.

  “Ethan, I’ve never expressed my condolences.”

  His gaze pierced her through the darkness. “Condolences?”

  “On the death of Captain Randall. I heard the news, and I’m very sorry. I know you were particular friends.”

  For a moment there was only the hollow clopping of the horses’ hooves. On his thigh, Ethan’s fingers tightened into a fist, though his expression remained bland. “Ah, well. One less shallow rake to tempt the ladies onto a path of sin.”

  His callousness shocked Jane. “Captain Randall died a hero. Surely you don’t think I would denigrate him.”

  “Frankly, I don’t care who you malign so long as you keep your opinions to yourself.”

  Unable to wrest another word from him, she turned her attention out the window and saw the city veiled by mist. Now and then, the carriage lights illuminated a lone person trudging along the curbstone. They had left the wealthy neighborhood with its stately squares and broad avenues, and these row houses huddled close like old maiden aunts cozying up for a gossip.

  At the end of the block, the barouche slowed as if the coachman were searching for a number. Ethan peered out, then signaled him to a stop. A footman let down the step, glancing in startlement at Jane as she emerged onto the cracked pavement. When a flurry of cold droplets sprinkled her face, she crossed her arms and fought back a shiver.

  Ethan removed one of the brass lamps from the front of the barouche and used it to light their path to a red brick dwelling. The white paint on the door was peeling and the ram’s-head knocker appeared dull and unpolished. He rapped hard, the sound shattering the stillness of the night.

  Jane huddled beneath the shelter of the porch. Misgivings prodded her again, anticipation jumping in her stomach. Ethan had come here to meet one of his paramours. He had swept her into his arms and kissed her.…

  She tried to imagine the kissing. Would it be a firm pressure or a tender brush of lips? How long did a kiss last? Did the woman pull away first or let her partner determine the duration? And where did one put one’s hands?

  She stole a glance at Ethan, at his hard masculine mouth, and felt a curious warm ache within herself. He wore that distracted, inner-focused look again. She was glad he seemed unaware of her presence. How embarrassing if he guessed her wanton speculation.

  How ridiculous of her to care about his opinion. They had led entirely different lives, she with her quiet pursuits in the country and he pursuing loose women who lived in seedy houses like this one.

  With a rattling of the knob, the door opened and a mob-capped head peeped out. The servant girl could not have been more than twelve, and she hid behind the door as if fearing they were robbers. She turned her saucer eyes from Jane to Ethan. “Guv’nor?”

  “I should like to see your mistress,” he said. “Tell her that Chasebourne has come to call.”

  The girl hesitated, then allowed them into a small, dark entry hall. She scuttled off to a room down a corridor, from which a faint glow emanated.

  By the light of the lantern which Ethan set down on a table, Jane could see the dingy striped wallpaper and the lack of furnishings. Straight ahead, a narrow staircase with steep wooden steps led to the upper floors. Strange, she had expected a decadent scene decorated with plush velvet draperies and statues of naked women, an atmosphere reeking of erotic perfume, not this sad, musty odor of neglect.

  Was this where Marianne had been born? Did her mother lack the means to keep her? Jane resisted a flash of sympathy. The woman might have gone to Ethan for funds rather than abandon a helpless baby.

  The maidservant returned, her shoes making no sound on the bare floor, her little shoulders hunched as if she feared a scolding. She bobbed a curtsy. “This way, m’lord. M’lady awaits ye.”

  Ethan motioned to Jane to precede him. Girding herself to confront another of his painted whores, Jane marched after the girl, who upon leading them to the lighted doorway faded like a wraith into the gloom of the passage.

  Jane found herself in a drawing room furnished in shabby gentility with a single chaise and a few scattered chairs. A coal fire hissed on the grate. At a table nearby, a woman sat playing a solitary card game, a crystal glass of wine at her elbow. She had blond, upswept hair that emphasized her swanlike throat and creamy bosom. Her fine, patrician features and violet eyes were as beautiful as they were familiar.

  Jane froze. She recalled the exact moment, five years earlier, when she had first seen this woman in an open landau on a summer day, her laughter coasting on the warm breeze. Jane had lurked behind the hedgerow all morning, feeling foolish and heartsore, yet unable to force herself to go home and spare herself the ordeal. So she had waited by a gap in the shrubbery, her legs cramped, until at last the coach rattled past, carrying Ethan and his bride to their country home.

  How fiercely she had envied Lady Portia that day.

  A few days later, there had been a small party for the neighbors when Jane had been introduced to his new wife. But Portia had had eyes only for Ethan, clinging to his arm and whispering in his ear.…

  Now, Jane felt staggered by the shock of seeing Portia again. Why had Ethan come to visit the wife he had cast aside? Surely he couldn’t believe her to be Marianne’s mother.

  Jane flashed a bewildered glance at him. He stood behind her, his arms at his sides, his gaze on his former wife.

  “Portia,” he said, with a crisp nod.

  “Why, Ethan. What a lovely surprise.” Holding the deck of cards, Lady Portia smiled tentatively, as if she were unsure of him. “Forgive me for not rising, but I’ve been out shopping all day and my feet ache dreadfully.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself on my account.”

  “Oh, but I do wish to welcome you properly—both of you.” She cast a curious glance at Jane, and Jane felt like a bedraggled crow facing a sleek white dove. “Perhaps you would like refreshment. Shall I ring for tea?”

  “Never mind that.” He took Jane by the upper arm and propelled her forward, close enough to detect Portia’s light, flowery fragrance. “You remember Miss Jane Mayhew.”

  A slight frown marred Portia’s smooth features as she looked Jane up and down. “Mayhew? The name isn’t familiar to me.”

  “We met only briefly,” Jane offered. “Shortly after your wedding, there was a party … in Wessex.”

  “Ah, you’re one of the neighbors.” Portia leaned forward, holding the cards to her bosom, the firelight glowing on her generous breasts. “You must forgive me my feeble memory. I confess that at the time, my mind must have been on the honeymoon … and my dearest husband.” She gazed wistfully at Ethan, but his features remained cool and reserved.

  “Don’t pretend to have forgotten Miss Mayhew,” he st
ated. “In truth, you went to her house only a few days ago.”

  Tilting her head to the side, Portia blinked her long lashes. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Leave off the pretense. It should be simple enough to ascertain if you left London for a few days. And that you traveled to Wessex and left your little gift on Miss Mayhew’s doorstep.”

  “Gift? Honestly, Ethan, I don’t know what you are rattling on about.”

  “Does Smollett know what you’ve done? Or have you tired of him and moved on to someone else?”

  Portia’s eyes rounded to deep, soulful pools. Then she looked down at her card game, selected a card from the deck, and placed it onto the ones spread out on the table. “George has gone out for the evening,” she said in a small, subdued voice. “He didn’t wish to leave me alone, but I insisted.”

  “And where has he gone? To gamble away your money?”

  “How dare you cast stones. He may be of common birth, but he is far more the gentleman than you ever were.”

  In a sudden movement, Ethan swept the cards aside. A few fluttered to the floor as he flattened his palms on the table and stared into her face. “I don’t give a bloody damn if he worships at your feet. I only want the truth from you—for once in your wretched life.”

  His rude behavior astonished Jane. “For pity’s sake. You haven’t even explained what you’re accusing her of.” Without giving him the chance to do so, she whirled toward Portia. “My lady, a few mornings ago, a baby was left on my doorstep, an infant perhaps two months of age. I found Lord Chasebourne’s ring tucked into the swaddling blanket. That led me to determine the girl is his natural daughter.”

  “Bloody nonsense,” he said. “Someone wanted to cause trouble for me. Someone who knew Miss Mayhew would raise a ruckus. And that someone was you, Portia.”

  Lady Portia’s lips parted as if she couldn’t find the words to deny his charge. Then suddenly she arched her neck and laughed, her merriment ringing like a bright bell in the shabby room. “Oh, what a priceless tale. To think I must declare myself utterly innocent in the matter.”