Was he adopting the right course? He’d never considered a mistress, and he’d never in a thousand years dreamt of making the incomparable Miss Hope Merriweather anything other than his wife.
But, he could not marry her. He simply could not.
Unfortunately, inconvenient though it was, he simply could not live without her.
He was about to finish his brandy after reclaiming his winnings when he caught sight of Annabelle’s brother following in Millament’s wake. Felix had little affection for the man he’d known since he was a puling youth. Annabelle’s fragility was to be expected in a female, but there was no excuse for Wilfred. The boy had never played fair, always finding someone else to blame if something didn’t go his way during the occasions they were thrown together as children, for their mothers had been friends from their own schoolroom days. It was one of the reasons Annabelle had been dangled before him since before he’d grown chest hair.
Fortunately, the boys’ education had taken them in different directions, and while Felix had suffered through a spartan education at Eton, Wilfred had been tutored at home, indulged and cosseted as ever.
Felix glanced at the clock. He’d spent all evening weighing up various approaches, and the wisdom of his choice.
Yes, he’d be laying his heart on the line, putting to Hope a prospect she might not find as enticing as one she might have received from a Prussian nobleman or an English marquess—Millament had elaborated on the rigorous training Madame Chambon’s girls were put through—but she had genuine feelings for him. She might not have said it in so many words, but their encounter had revealed enough of her susceptibility towards him that he was confident that when he turned up at Madame Chambon’s ready to negotiate, Hope would come away from that house with only Felix to call her protector.
The reasons as to why Miss Merriweather had fallen so far were not important for now. Rescuing her before she succumbed to another lure certainly was.
Felix was aware that the girl’s wildness had been the despair of her parents. Daring and careless of her neck, she’d ridden the jumps and hedges during the Hunt like the best of the men that fateful day.
Felix had admired her from afar for years before he’d spoken to her.
Why had he waited so long? She was penniless while he was the catch of the neighbourhood. Perhaps it had been due to her manner; the way she’d treated all young men. As if they were nothing to her. And Felix’s pride as an untested youth was too fragile to bear rejection.
“Haven’t seen you gracing a den of vice like this in a while.” Wilfred Hunt’s face was flushed, and he slurred his words slightly. He clapped a hand on Felix’s shoulder in a gesture that was too familiar. Felix stepped away but he didn’t seem to notice.
“I’ve had the devil’s own luck, I tell you.” Wilfred’s mouth turned down. “Still, although I could do with the blunt, it’d be dishonourable if I didn’t give this back to you.” He reached into an inner pocket of his coat and drew out a paper that looked familiar to Felix before it took on a whole other dimension.
“Your promissory note, I believe. From me.” Even as Wilfred said the words Felix was feeling for his own pocketbook, rifling through the notes inside while his gut churned in confusion. “I don’t understand. How did you get it?”
Hunt cleared his throat. “Sorry, old chap. Very embarrassing to admit, but I thought if I returned it to you in good time you’d not have had the matter investigated by the authorities.”
“The authorities? What are you talking about? Who took it?” He swung around as if he might see the guilty party in this very room.
“I’d rather not say.” Hunt looked sheepish. “Protective instincts and all that.”
“Annabelle?”
Hunt snorted. “Lord, do you think Annabelle would steal from you? Besides, when did you last see her? No, it wasn’t Annabelle, but as I’m a gentleman I’d rather not say. Suffice to admit it was a young lady who committed the bold felony out of a sense of misguided loyalty. Lord knows if it’s the full reason, but she said she was worried that my not being so plump in the pocket might mean I’d not favour her with a visit as I regularly do on a Thursday.”
He sniggered, and Felix drew himself up. No, Wilfred was lying. Miss Merriweather would never. He realised he was clenching his fists.
“Apparently, this last week she’s been lining her pretty little palms with ill-gotten gains from clients who for the most part wouldn’t notice the theft of a few guineas here or there.” A look of sorrow marred Wilfred’s soft features even more. “She visited me this afternoon at about six o’clock and handed it over. When I saw that the promissory note was the very one I’d made out to you last week, I knew here was at least one fleeced recipient to whom I could make amends.” He glanced at his shoes then up at Felix’s face. “Very embarrassing and all that, but now you’ve got back what you lost, I hope you’ll let the matter rest and say no more about it.”
Felix thrust out his hand and drew Hunt back roughly. “You are, of course, referring to Miss Merriweather. You know her as well as I. How can you pretend this is nothing?”
Hunt looked surprised. “Miss Merriweather? Surely not! I thought no one knew the sorry history of what she’s become.” He sent a furtive look over his shoulder. “Her sister is to wed Lord Hartley. You won’t say anything that would imperil Miss Charlotte’s future, would you?” He put his hand on Felix’s coat sleeve. “The girl is an innocent. She knows nothing of the vice into which her sister has fallen. Though couldn’t we all see—even before she was ten years old—that wild Miss Hope was destined for a fall.”
Wilfred looked deeply concerned now. “Miss Charlotte could not be more different from her sister. I beg of you, do not enlighten her. Miss Hope sent her father to an early grave by running off with one of the footmen, of all things, the night of the Hunt Ball. I happened upon her a year ago.” He dropped his voice which held a salacious edge as he murmured, “Her circumstances were…rather unexpected circumstances, I must say, and she appreciated the comfort of an old friend. But pray, have some concern for her mother and sister who know nothing of what she’s become.”
Felix stared with disgust at the hand still gripping the cloth of his coat.
The other young man, noticing, uncurled his fingers and rolled his shoulders. He smiled almost in sympathy. “And have some concern for Hope, I beg you. Despite her wild nature, she was deeply upset, her loyalties divided, she told me, when she realised that it was you for whom her services had been procured.”
“She told you this, did she?” Felix sounded sceptical but the truth was, he didn’t know what to think.
“Indeed. She told me she was in despair as to what to do, in view of the childhood friendship between you, but when she saw that the promissory note was from me and would leave me five hundred pounds further out of pocket, her loyalties came out on the side of the man who’s been a constant for the past year.” He looked smug. “You might say we’ve formed an intimacy that goes beyond the pleasures of the flesh.” Wilfred put out his hand and said as if suddenly wishing to reassure Felix, “Please don’t imagine I’m jealous. I don’t have exclusive rights. Miss Merriweather has hundreds of admirers, though, like all of her kind, she’d like to be set up with some exclusivity. Apparently, she’s hoping Lord Westfall will make such an offer.”
Felix found he was breathing very heavily through his nose. Around him, the room was a blur of excited activity, some fellows playing billiards, others cards, others smoking and drinking in small groups.
He’d never felt more alone as he became conscious of Wilfred’s promissory note in his palm while he watched the other man melt into the throng.
Chapter 10
Hope ran a trembling hand across her forehead as she made her way along the passage towards her room. Her gown of pink satin, trimmed with lace and ribbons, ordered by Madame Chambon but chosen by Hope, reminded her of the gown she’d worn at the Hunt Ball. The virginal debutante she’d been then h
ad turned many heads wearing the pretty dress Mama had reluctantly sanctioned.
Everything good about her life was concentrated upon that evening when she’d been a girl full of hope. Wearing pink.
Nevertheless, there were other details about that day and evening that were confusing and unsettling. Annabelle’s obvious dismay at seeing Felix go to Hope when she’d fallen from her horse was understandable. But why was it that Hope’s mama had not seemed happy that Hope was garnering so much attention? When Hope had danced with Mr Felix Durham for the second time, Mama had been waiting for her on the edge of the dance floor and had led Hope away before Felix could say even two words in parting. At the end of the evening, she’d bundled Hope into the family carriage so Hope couldn’t say a proper goodbye to Mr Durham or even tell him in so many words she longed to meet him at the church the following day. That, indeed, she would. He must have known her true feelings, surely?
Hope had always known Charlotte was the favourite, but Charlotte was only fourteen—far too young to look for a husband—so surely Mama should have been delighted to get Hope off her hands?
But that was all in the past. For a short while today, hope and happiness had lodged in Hope’s heart. Lying with Felix, the love in his eyes and the words he’d used to build up a shared future, had allowed her to believe there might be something more for her than the shell of existence offered by Madame Chambon.
But Wilfred was determined to destroy what little there was left of her dignity.
And what recourse was there? Alone in a world where a woman’s chastity counted for everything, Hope was irredeemable.
“Hope? Are you…well?” The timid question came from Madame Chambon’s most recent recruit, Faith. There’d been a time when Hope had felt for every newcomer, understanding how events beyond a girl’s control could so quickly force them into such an avenue of no return. Who would choose to be a prostitute if there were even the faintest possibility of a life of moral rectitude?
In the last few months, she’d changed her tune. She’d seen how the girls became hardened, she no less than any of them. Some were role models in the cunning they displayed when reeling a man in, fleecing him in some instances cleverly, though. Madame Chambon didn’t mind provided no crime was ever laid at her door. Some had indeed made fine alliances and set themselves up with a generous, even doting benefactor. Some had invested wisely. A king’s ransom for the ripe years of a young woman’s life enabled her to retire and live as she chose. Few, though, emerged from their life of sin unscathed and most, to tell the truth, died young and in penury.
Hope wondered what the future held for her. A young marquess, a year her junior, was besotted but not yet in possession of his fortune. Otherwise, he’d set her up in a palace, he’d told her.
A more likely bet was Lord Westfall. He was personable enough. Early-forties with an ailing wife. Madam Chambon was encouraging it as it meant a fat severance bonus for her, even though Hope was one of her most popular girls. A bird in the hand was worth two in the bush though, for who knew if Hope might suddenly lose her lustre, or her health, or even her looks.
“Am I well?” She repeated the question Faith had asked her, closing her eyes as she leant against a Corinthian pillar in the dim passageway between the receiving room and the stairs to the upstairs bedrooms. She almost dismissed Faith’s concern with a trite or flippant response that helped keep her distance. It did not do to form confidences. No girl here was entirely trustworthy for survival often depended upon sacrificing someone else. Madame Chambon had spies everywhere, and every potential escapee or undeclared guinea resulted in serious consequences.
In the gloom, Faith’s eyes were luminous. Hope wondered suddenly how she’d come to be here. It was not something she generally asked. The answer was usually a lie anyway.
“I have been better.” She drew out the sentence as if it cost her a great deal; which it did, for her heart was so heavy she wanted to sink to the ground and put her head on the wooden floor and simply dream herself somewhere else.
“You’re not…hurt?”
Very occasionally a girl was physically abused, though not often. In this respect, at least, Madame Chambon was a good protector, though of course she was protecting her assets. An abuser might find himself suffering a range of humiliations the reason for which he’d be left in no doubt. After that, he’d be blackballed.
Hope smiled wanly and put her hand to her heart and the other girl nodded, her expression one of surprising empathy.
“I hoped one’s heart might have hardened so this didn’t happen,” she admitted in little more than a whisper. She couldn’t risk being overheard.
Faith ran her hands the length of her long-line princess dress. She looked very beautiful, her pale skin a striking contrast with her thick auburn hair that was arranged in a complicated series of braids coiled around her head. “I’m told you’ve been here a year.”
“A little longer.”
“You count the days?”
“I do.” Hope made an effort to breathe properly as she drew herself up. “No point in dwelling on what can’t be changed though. If we can’t choose our destiny, we must make the best of it.”
“But is this the best?” Faith clasped her hands in front of her. “Surely…?”
“No fallen woman is ever granted a second chance.” Hope spoke the truth harshly. “I’d take a job as a servant if I could get a character, but my past will always catch up with me, and I wouldn’t know the first thing about blacking a grate. I’d be found out because word travels.” She never poured out what was in her heart, but something in Faith’s sympathetic look of enquiry invited confidences. Now that she’d started, she seemed unable to stop. Bitterly, she went on, “No, there’s nowhere to go and nothing I can do. My name will always be as black as my heart supposedly is. But I had hoped today to be granted a little dignity.”
“Dignity?”
Hope laughed harshly. “Dignity in not being forced to thieve, if only to protect someone I love dearly. There! I’ve just confessed to being a thief. Do you think regret ameliorates the crime? It never did in any court so I don’t expect lenient treatment. Oh God!” She clutched her side and closed her eyes as she sagged against the pillar. Speaking the words made it worse, not better.
“Oh, Hope, you are not in love?” Faith said it as if it were the most dire of circumstances, which of course it was. “You’ve not done this because someone you love asked you to?”
“I don’t love this man!” Hope spoke scornfully. “He’s made me do something against my will in order to protect someone close to me. A family member but…” She thought about it truthfully and then admitted as if only acknowledging it for the first time, “Yes, I am in love with the man I visited this afternoon, and he’s the one I was forced to steal from. If he doesn’t already know, he soon will, and then he’ll feel none of the love he professed for me today.” She stopped suddenly and gave a wan smile. “Too much information, Faith. You should not have asked.”
The other girl gripped Hope’s hand in a quick squeeze and said in a rush, “You don’t know how much it means to me that you make a confidante of me. I have no friends. No one here I trust. I trust you, though. You do not speak behind one’s back; you keep to yourself. I know you didn’t choose to be here. I won’t ask why you are. But you’re the only one who’s been kind to me. Even just a little. If I can ever do anything to help you, I would.”
She said it with such fervour Hope was touched.
But what help could Faith offer her? Hope was doomed. She forced herself to open her eyes if only to offer the other girl a little of what she clearly craved: understanding, if not gratitude.
“You are kind,” she said, her heart so heavy it physically weighed her down. “But now I must rest. And for once…I think I might take something. Madame wanted me to engage with the gentlemen in the drawing room before Lord Westfall visits, but I really think I cannot.”
“It must be hard to see…a gentle
man when you’ve just come from the man you love.” Faith spoke urgently, following Hope a little way along the passage. “Please, Hope…”
Hope turned, staying her words with a gentle finger upon her lips. “Ah, Faith, I hope you get out of this line of work before it’s too late.”
She didn’t want to hear any more. Shaking her head to deter the girl from continuing after her, Hope picked up her skirts and made for the sanctuary of her room.
Lord Westfall would visit her in two hours after he’d been to his club and before he hit the gaming tables. She suspected it was likely he would make her some kind of offer. If she’d not seen Felix again, she’d have accepted. One man was better than many, and it would give her a measure of security she’d never enjoyed.
But Felix was imprinted on her mind, just as the essence of him permeated her body. Even though she knew he’d not repeat the offer he’d made when under the influence of love and lust and fired up by their lovemaking, Hope didn’t think she had the heart to even contemplate accepting a similar offer from another man.
When she reached her room she sank onto the bed and put her head in her hands. Felix had been animated when he’d last gazed at her. What did he think of her now? If he’d not yet discovered evidence of her betrayal, it wouldn’t be long before Wilfred made sure he was under no illusions as to the truth of Hope’s blackened soul.
With a whimper, she curled herself into a ball and huddled on the bed, though it was difficult to breathe due to the restraints of her clothing.
Again, her mind drifted back to the day of the Hunt. She remembered the freedom she’d enjoyed when she’d donned her riding habit and joined the other riders. Secretly. Oh, but her mother had been furious, though her father had applauded her when he’d heard of it. What an ally he’d been, she thought with a pang. The only positive side to the fact he was no longer alive was that there’d be no risk of him learning of her sinful life.
Forsaking Hope Page 8