Edward knew from talking to Smith that he agreed with Edward when it came to worker reforms, although neither of them knew quite what to do about it. Paying too high wages could start a war between the various manufacturers. It was a fucking mare’s nest.
Edward hopped over the sewage running down the street in front of the pub, shaking his head. Perhaps these people wouldn’t live in such squalor if people like him had a few thousand pounds less.
He shoved the reactionary thought out of his mind; he’d need his wits about him in a pit like this. He pushed open the door and released a gout of noise and smoke into the street. The bar was middling busy.
He glanced toward the right corner and, sure enough, there was the big blond bastard, chatting up a serving wench. Edward’s fists clenched as he stared at the man who’d beaten and raped Nora.
You want to hurt him badly, Edward. Not just thrash him.
No, he wanted to kill him, but he’d been sternly warned about that.
“What do you want?” the bartender asked, although—in his accent—it sounded nothing like those words.
“Send two drinks over to the corner,” Edward said, slipping into the old speech as easily as slipping into an old coat.
The bartender nodded and turned away, noticing nothing untoward.
Edward knew he had Smith to thank for that. Smith had found clothing that looked as if he’d crawled through mud—or worse—in them.
Derek Brown looked up as Edward neared his table, the line over the bridge of his nose giving his eyes a hard look. He could see why Nora would have chosen him—he was handsome enough and had a big, muscular body—but she’d missed that mean glint in his eyes.
Brown swatted the barmaid’s arse and set her on her way.
“Donovan?” he said as Edward dropped into the chair across from him.
“Aye,” Edward nodded, struggling to subdue the rage in his gut. This man was easily two times bigger than Nora. What a bloody pig. No, that was an insult to pigs.
“So, my mate says you’ve got a large amount of something you can’t shift.” He leered. “If it’s what I think it is, I’m in a place to help you. For the right sum of money.”
The barmaid returned with their pints and thumped them down on the table. Edward slid a coin across the sticky surface and her eyes widened, her attention suddenly shifting from the golden god to Edward’s shaggy gray carcass.
“Leave off, Bren,” Derek growled.
Edward waited until she’d flounced off and then pulled a small vial out of his pocket and set it on the table.
Derek snatched it up and squinted, his lips curling back in disgust. “This is it, eh? Mummy Brown?”
“Just a small part of what we have.”
Derek looked up. “How do I know this is real ground up Egyptian kings and not some gaffer you dug up yesterday?”
“I’ve got the box he came in—they call it a sarcophagus.”
“Yeah, yeah, I knew that,” Derek said, sneering. “So, where is this, then?”
“How do I know you can pay for it?”
Derek glanced around, did something in his coat, and then lifted his hands, palms together, opening them a crack to expose a fat roll of bills. Edward almost laughed—he might as well glue the bloody bills to his forehead for as guilty as he was acting.
Edward didn’t care if the man had any money or not, but it would look strange if he didn’t ask. Not that Derek would have noticed, he realized now. Derek was just kicking off his career as a criminal; Edward predicted it would be a short, brutish, and nasty.
Chapter Forty-One
Nora sat in Smith’s sitting room—a cavernous, cold, startlingly white room she’d never been in before. Her parents resembled a pair of startled turtledoves perched on the corner of a white silk settee, their eyes wide.
Nora felt ridiculous in her red evening gown, but supposed she resembled the whore they knew her to be.
She’d tried to convince Smith and Charles to go on with their evening as planned, but they were waiting for her in Smith’s study.
“Natalie?”
She looked up at the sound of her mother’s voice. “I’m sorry. I suppose you are here because it is all over Basingstoke. I have a—”
“What do you mean, Natalie?” Uncharacteristically, it was her mother doing the talking.
Her father looked shrunken and old. Nora suspected it was this disclosure that had given him that look.
“I mean the column in the newspaper, Mother.”
“Column?” Both her parents blinked with confusion.
Nora frowned. “How did you find out about me?”
Her mother reached into her reticule and pulled out a letter. “We received this.”
Nora recognized the almost childish, loopy handwriting, not needing the return direction to know who it was. She glanced up. “May I?”
They nodded, their eyes still wide.
Mr. and Mrs. Hartwicke,
I am writing to inform you that your daughter Natalie is has been living in London under the name of Nora Hudson.
You likely know me as Lady Catherine, the daughter of the Marquess of Blanford. I am also Catherine Fanshawe, former wife of Mr. Edward Fanshawe, and I daresay you’ve heard both our names this past year.
At the time of my marriage your daughter was living under my husband’s roof, posing as his niece, when in reality she was his mistress. It was around the time I learned of her relation to my husband that I also learned of her background.
Before I learned that fact, I grew to care for you daughter a great deal. It grieves me to admit we are no longer friends. That said, I write to you in the hope you might be able to offer her guidance as she is currently living a bohemian lifestyle in one of London’s seamier districts. I believe the path she has chosen is one that will end in regret.
Now that I know her real identity, I felt compelled to notify you of her whereabouts and leave you to determine your role in what is—I think we can all agree –a tragedy.
Yours & etc.,
Lady Catherine
Nora stared at the page even after she’d read it twice, her heart thundering in her ears. So, this was Cat’s revenge—or perhaps just a part of it.
What else had she done? Had she sent Derek to her? Because Cat had mentioned encountering him at that party and speaking to him about her—about Natalie. Had she told Derek her real name? Had she stoked his anger with tales about Nora and who she was—who she’d once been?
“Natalie?”
She looked up at her father’s soft voice, so unlike the one that he’d employed in the pulpit.
“Is all Lady Catherine said true?”
Ah, Lady Catherine—and the not so subtle tone of respect in his voice. Well, it was only natural; the Marquess of Blandford was his patron, after all.
“Yes, Father, it is true.” All that and more.
“Dear God,” her mother whispered, clinging to the vicar’s arm. “Wh-when did you come back from America?”
“She never went, Dorothy.” The vicar’s tone surprised her—dry, ironic, and filled with self-disgust, no doubt at his credulity.
“Why?” her mother asked, tears trickling down her cheeks.
Nora stared at these people who had made her and tried to think of a way to describe what they’d made without killing them, making them look even older. There was no way that didn’t hurt and destroy. It reminded her of her recent struggle with Cat. She felt her lips pull up into a wry smile. Oh, clever Cat had devised a punishment that fit the crime. Nora had to admire her.
Nora couldn’t dislike her although she disliked what she’d done. Perhaps now that Cat had carved out her pound of flesh she could direct her cleverness toward something that might actually make her happy—fulfill her.
“I left because I knew I’d only bring you heartache by staying,” she said, her voice weary to her own ears.
“Was this because of what happened with Peter Miller?” her father asked.
&nbs
p; There was a name she’d not thought of in a long time. He’d been the boy she’d been caught with that night outside the assembly. Her parents had been horrified, as had Peter’s, who’d been successful farmers in the area. Peter, she had to admit, had tried to be a gentleman—at least about accepting the blame. It was true he’d kissed her, a chaste kiss that had been more of a peck, but she’d been the one who’d allowed her hands to roam his big, hard, young body, not shying away from his obvious desire for her. It had been Nora who’d opened his trousers and made him come in her hand that first time. The next time he had, rather clumsily, returned the favor. By the time they were caught outside the assembly hall, they’d moved on to their mouths. She couldn’t recall Peter’s face, but she remembered the feel of his cock in her mouth.
“He would have married you,” her mother said, interrupting Nora’s journey through her past.
“Yes, mother, I know. That’s why I left.”
“But—” Mrs. Hartwicke shook her head, unable to finish.
“I didn’t want to marry him or anyone else. I wanted to—” she stopped, looking from face to face. “I wanted to live a different life.”
“You mean your painting? You could have continued to paint after your marriage. Peter was a kind boy and would have been a kind husband.”
Nora smiled. “I don’t doubt that. I didn’t want a husband. I wanted to explore the world.”
“In a brothel, Natalie?” her father demanded, his expression one of revulsion.
She moved her jaw from side to side and then sighed. “That was what I found most conducive. And that is why I wrote telling you’d I’d gone to America so my behavior wouldn’t eventually shame you. I wanted to spare you. I’m terribly sorry you had to learn about me this way—or any way at all.” She paused and then plunged on. “If you suffer from this in any way—if others were to find out and you lost your position. I have a house in a lovely village and enough money to see to your needs.”
“Money from what you’ve done?”
Nora could tell by her father’s tone he’d not be accepting any assistance from her even if he was starving on a street corner.
“Yes, father. Money from what I’ve done.”
The vicar opened his mouth and Dorothy Hartwicke squeezed her husband’s arm, an action which, surprisingly, made him stop.
“But you don’t do that now. You are a successful painter.”
Her mother’s hopeful, almost pleading words made Nora realize something. “How did you find me here? How did you learn about the painting?”
“We went to see Mr. Fanshawe. It was he who suggested you might be here. He says Mr. Smith is not your—” the vicar could not go on.
The pulse at the base of Nora’s throat had begun beating wildly at the mention of Edward’s name. “You went to speak to him,” she repeated faintly.
“It was the only name we knew,” her mother said. “We thought he might know where you were. Mr. Fanshawe said you’d left some time ago and lived on your own. That you were a successful painter.”
Nora had to smile at the spark of pride she could hear in her mother’s words.
“He said you’d recently been ill and came here—this Mr. Smith is your friend, he said.” The deep lines in her father’s high forehead grew deeper. “This is an irregular arrangement, Natalie—the man is a bachelor. Surely you—” the vicar stopped as he realized the foolishness of what he was saying.
“Why did you come?” Nora asked.
Her mother’s face suffused with red, but it was her father who answered. “You are our daughter and no matter what you have done, we love you. You can have no idea the pain you have—”
“We want you to come home, Natalie,” her mother said.
Nora could only stare.
“There is a young man—a curate—living in Sarah’s room—”
Nora flinched at her sister’s name.
“But your room is still empty. Not much different from how you left it.”
“Sarah?” Nora said, her heart pounding.
“She married an architect who builds fine houses. They have two children, a boy and a girl.”
Nora had a niece, a nephew, and a brother-in-law.
“Does Sarah—”
“We haven’t told her. Yet.”
They would have to—if her sister hadn’t already found out—just in case somebody in her social circle were to put the names and Sarah’s family together.
Nora knew they were waiting for her to say . . . something, as if there were some combination of words that would make all this go away.
“I think you know I can’t go back,” she said.
Nora told herself she was pleased, rather than insulted, when she saw relief behind their regret.
Chapter Forty-Two
Nora had appreciated Smith’s luxury and care, but it had been a dream that she’d known she’d have to awaken from, eventually. And her parents’ visit had awakened her most rudely. So it was that two days after their visit she was back in her small artist’s garret.
It felt good to be back in her own house, even though she’d been home only a few hours. The first few of those she’d spent assuring Smith and Charles.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Better than fine.” She cut Smith a coy look. “I know I said you weren’t supposed to, but I appreciate whatever you did to make that journalist write a new column.” She meant the column that had retracted the prior one and admitted it was based on information acquired from a known criminal. The paper itself had printed a public apology for slandering her and Nora suspected they were expecting to be sued at any moment.
Smith shrugged. “I merely contacted their editor and explained the situation.” Nora could well imagine. “He was quick to understand—and it is certainly understanding of you not to pursue the matter.”
Nora didn’t remind him that everything was true. Wasn’t truth a defense to defamatory statements?
“Perhaps the next time he won’t accept the word of just anyone—especially not a violent, lying criminal,” Charles added.
Ah, yes—that.
Smith cut his lover a quick look of displeasure.
“I’m sorry, Smith,” Charles whispered loud enough to be heard a block away, his eyes darting dramatically between Nora and Smith, making it easier—but still not easy—for her to smile about such a subject.
“It’s quite all right, Charles. I am not so fragile that you can’t mention Derek’s name in front of me.” Although it did make her gut clench, and not in a pleasurable way. “I don’t like thinking of him, but I also don’t need to be swaddled in cotton wool.”
“Of course we won’t swaddle you,” Smith assured her, his tone soothing.
After she’d ushered them out the door, she began unpacking her valise, putting her clothing away in the drawers rather than strewing them about as she normally would.
Smith, given his obsession with order and control, had sent servants over to tidy and clean her house and it was positively sparkling and inviting.
Other women might have been offended, but Nora was pleased to see everything in its place. It had taken only a glance to assure herself that all her items had not been moved far enough to cause her problems finding them. And, naturally, they’d not entered her studio.
Her housekeeper had also been here, waiting to greet her—yet another example of Smith’s attention to detail—and her small larder was stocked with food she could simply take out and put on a plate.
Everything was perfect.
So why, then, did her spine feel as if somebody had inserted a key and wound it tightly, like a clock?
Was it the surprise of learning what happened to Derek? She’d directly confronted Smith about whether he’d done something to land him in jail, and he’d sworn he’d had no part in it. Nora had held his gaze, which had been steady, and suddenly decided she didn’t care. She was glad Derek was locked away where he could not hurt her—or anyone else. While she found the knowledge that
he’d been involved in smuggling stolen artifacts from the British Museum startling, she couldn’t deny that he would know—as well as any painter—that the market for certain pigments, like those made from the ground-up bones of mummies, for example—could be both lucrative and illegal.
Smith believed she was traumatized by the rape—although likely Charles knew better. While Derek’s brutality had surely shaken and hurt her, it was no worse than she’d experienced at the hands of several bad clients—like Ceddy, for example.
No, what had really upset her was that she’d not seen beneath his attractive veneer. Was she really so blind? So oblivious? She knew that, in general, she was very lazy. If Derek had not made an ass of himself about Clive that day, she’d likely still be engaging in bed sport with him on a weekly basis, even knowing he was a thief.
Nora startled at the sound of the brass post flap; the mail was here.
Edward’s last letter sat unopened in her valise. She’d not forgotten about it, of course, but after her parents’ visit she’d been too distracted to enjoy it. Edward’s letters—with or without the erotic additions—were a highlight in her weeks.
In the entry hall two letters lay in the post tray. One an invoice from the supply company where she purchased her framing materials and one a letter from Edward; it was a day early.
As ever, the pulse at the base of her throat began to drum. Nora knew it was her giveaway because Lord Anthony had once pointed it out.
“You’re so cool, so unreachable and beautiful in your pain, Nora. But your pulse always reveals what’s inside you.”
Nora knew that was true and had seen evidence often enough during her many times with Edward. He liked to take her in front of mirrors, so he could watch them. Nora had liked it, too.
His Harlot (Victorian Decadence Series Book 1) Page 31