by Regan Walker
“’Tis a right pretty sight, sir,” the slim Englishman said.
“Are you glad then you’ve joined me, John?”
“Oh, aye, sir. I am. Though it will be good to see my family and my sisters before ye have need of me.”
“Well, then,” said Martin, handing over a small purse. “Here’s some coin. Enjoy yourself, for soon you will have no time to frolic. Be at Ormond’s townhouse tomorrow at the hour agreed. Do you have its location in mind?”
“Aye, sir. I recall it well. Though I were only there a few days, I’d not easily forget such a grand place.”
The young man strode away, weaving through the dockworkers, his step light and his head of brown curls bobbing up and down. John was obviously glad to be included in what he thought would be a grand adventure. Martin remembered a time he might have felt the same. Now he just wanted his work for the Crown to be over.
As he started to turn away, Martin caught two seamen arguing as they left a dockside tavern. While he could only hear snippets of the conversation, a few harsh utterances were clear.
“I says His Majesty got what he deserved, livin’ high while some poor curs don’t even have bread!”
“Ye sound like one o’ those bloomin’ marchers, Davie, the ones they call the Blanketeers. Nothin’ will change by yer throwing rocks and ye know it.”
“Might not,” the other man allowed, scratching the stubble on his chin. “Then again, it might.”
The two had ambled too far away for Martin to hear the rest, but their exchange set his mind wandering. What exactly had happened to the Prince Regent? And who were the Blanketeers?
He supposed he would gain the answers soon enough. Ormond would know.
* * *
A short time later, Martin walked up the steps of his friend’s Mayfair townhouse. It was an elegant abode indeed, as John recollected.
Martin had not seen Ormond or Ormond’s wife since the year before, in France. Once a rake, attracting women in both Paris and London, the marquess had finally settled down with the mischievous bluestocking who captured his heart. Martin smiled as he thought of the adventure-loving Lady Mary. Had she changed from the hellion she’d once been now that she was Lady Ormond? Recalling what his friend told him, Martin rather doubted it. The pair was alike in that way. Heir to a dukedom, the marquess was also the Nighthawk, a legendary thief of Napoleon’s most guarded secrets. Not many knew the truth.
A butler opened the door, bowed and took Martin’s hat. He was expected.
“His lordship will receive you in the study, Sir Martin. Please follow me.”
The butler led him to an open door, beyond which Ormond rose from behind a large carved desk. “Martin. Come join me. I was just pouring myself a brandy.”
Martin examined his friend. The British peer looked happy. “A drink would be most appreciated. The crossing on my father’s ship was a bit rough.”
“You sailed into London on one of your father’s ships?”
“Yes, the Claire—one of the new schooners, named after my mother. The captain stopped in Calais to pick up some cargo.”
Pouring them each a glass of the rich brown liquor they’d often shared in Paris, Ormond cast him an assessing look. “You seem well, old man—though a bit tired around the eyes, I daresay.”
Martin ran his hand through his hair, a nervous habit picked up in France, a lingering vestige of the stress from his occupation. “I do not always sleep well, as you know.”
Ormond’s dark eyes were sympathetic. “Mary and I were glad to hear of you returning to England. The change will do you good. Is it to be permanent?”
“It is,” Martin said, accepting the proffered glass. “When the Prince Regent bestowed on me the Order of the Bath, I agreed to one last assignment. So, here I am.”
“Ah, yes, the assignment. But what then?”
“I am certain Prinny would have another task, should I want one. But my plan is to return to the family business. I’m retiring as a spy. It’s been a long time since I took a ship to sea, and I find myself curiously anxious to get back to a moving deck—at least for a while. My father was so delighted his rebel is coming home that he welcomed my order for a new schooner when I placed it some months ago. Then, after a few sailings, perhaps I shall take up the business side of Powell and Sons.”
“I’ve never seen you near a ship, though I knew your family owned them. Paris has only the river.”
“I’ll not be missing Paris.”
Ormond raised a brow. “The war?” When Martin did not reply, he added, “Elise...?”
After all these years, hearing her name still brought a bitter pain, as did the memory of their last night together; Martin’s nightmares were testament to that. “You were wise to remain a bachelor then, Ormond. Ours was a dangerous business. A spy’s wife is never safe. She’d be alive today if I’d not married her.”
Before his friend could respond, the door to the study flew open. Mary, Marchioness of Ormond, burst upon them like a storm cloaked in sapphire silk, her skirts crackling like lightning. Martin had forgotten how beautiful she was, with golden hair and piercing green eyes. Her presence filled the room. She carried a bundle held tightly to her chest.
“Sir Martin! You’re here! Hugh told me you would be arriving sometime in the next few days. How wonderful it is to see you. I understand you’re here for a new assignment.”
“Just Martin, please. I’m not used to the added title and prefer not to use it in the company of friends. To answer your question, my lady, yes, I’ve returned for the last of Prinny’s tasks. What’s that in your arms—the young heir I’ve heard about?”
Lady Ormond smiled proudly and held out the sleeping baby for Martin’s inspection. He reached for the bundle, cradling it in his arms.
“Another like his father, I see. What a glorious head of dark hair. Are his eyes dark brown?”
“They are,” said Lady Ormond, beaming with pleasure. She gave her husband a knowing glance. “They were blue for a brief while and then turned the color of brandy. Henry will be the very image of his father.” The proud papa had come over to peer at the sleeping baby as if to verify her conclusion.
“He is a handsome boy, Ormond,” Martin said, handing the baby back to his mother. “The first of many, I assume.”
Lady Ormond blushed as she took him. “Well…at Christmas little Henry should have a new brother or sister.”
Ormond put his arm around his wife and drew her close, kissing her temple. “I am very pleased at Mary’s recent news.”
Lady Ormond returned her husband a warm look, and Martin was suddenly envious of the two, of they love they shared, and without thinking he let out a long sigh. He had lost not just Elise on that cold December night but the babe she carried.
“Darling, I was just coming to tell you it’s time I leave,” said Lady Ormond. “Henry’s nurse is waiting for me.” She gave her husband a quick kiss and turned to go, then glanced at Martin and added, “I’ll see you tomorrow. You are joining us for dinner, yes?”
“Dinner would be fine. Most gracious of you to ask.”
“Perhaps you will consider staying with us, too? Hugh and I would welcome your company. It would give us a chance to hear the news.”
Martin opened his mouth to protest, but Ormond answered for him. “I will see if I can talk him into it, love.”
“Wonderful!” came Lady Ormond’s reply. She then departed in a rush of silk, and Ormond refreshed their brandies and gestured to the two chairs in front of the fireplace.
“Stay with us, Martin, or my lady will be gravely disappointed. We have servants aplenty to tend your needs.”
“All right,” Martin agreed, taking a seat. It was an easy enough demand. “Some time with you and your lady before I face the task ahead would be welcome. My belongings are still on the ship. I’ll have them delivered here.”
“Good. And tomorrow we will all discuss the new assignment?”
“Of course. By the by, that
reminds me. I heard two old salts arguing on the dock about something involving Prinny. Did something happen to him?”
“Yes. It was a scare, but he’s fine now. I’ll spare you the details until tomorrow when we can all discuss it together. I imagine you need a break.”
“All right. You can expect John and me about six o’clock, as I’ll have some other errands to run during the day. Tonight I just want to forget my work. As you say, I need some time away from Prinny’s problems.”
“What you need is a good woman, Martin. Mary has made all the difference in my life. Suddenly living is very enjoyable. Of course, she tries my patience at every turn”—he stared out the window as if remembering a particular event—“but I can’t imagine life without her. She and little Henry are very dear to me. You need a wife, if you don’t mind my saying so. It’s been too long.”
Martin grimaced. “It had not occurred to me to marry again. But a woman’s warm body just now would be pleasant.” He peered over his brandy at Ormond, and his lips quirked up in a grin. “Know any good bawdy houses?”
“Not I. Even before Mary entered my life I did not frequent them. I had mistresses in those days, and the last one brought me much trouble.” Ormond seemed to think for a moment. “I did hear Eustace remark one evening at the Club about a place called Willow House. Something about them catering only to gentlemen and their guests. As Eustace told it, the women are supposed to be quite fine. Some have even become mistresses of his friends. I can ask him to recommend you.”
“The thought occurs that times have changed in London. A recommendation is needed for a brothel?”
“Apparently one does for Willow House.”
Raking his fingers through his hair, Martin chuckled. “Well, I agree it has been awfully long. Too long, in fact. Yes, I think I will take that recommendation.”
Chapter 3
Abigail Darkin took a last look out the tall window at the green lawn, pleased with the recent additions to her property. The new pond surrounded by rosebushes gave a feeling of serenity to the sheltered environment of Willow House. Named for the weeping willow trees that wrapped around two sides of the elegant white manor like the arms of a welcoming lover, this had become more than her home. It was a refuge.
She remembered fondly the distant uncle who bequeathed her the house upon his death. It had been a great boon—and a surprise. She hadn’t known the uncle very well, and she’d just left her position as nanny to two young ladies now grown. Of course, she’d had only a little money and no idea how she would keep up such a wondrous residence; still, she had been happy to have it. Who could have foreseen that her soft heart and reputation for kindness would draw girls of the night to her, young beauties who wanted a safe place away from the bawdy houses of Covent Garden or worse? Willow House soon became known as the most elegant brothel in London, members of the ton and their wealthy friends its only clientele. Abby had standards after all.
“Miss Abby! There be a young woman to see ye. The lass seems very upset.”
Abby raised her head from the ledgers on her desk to find a young maid at the door, cheeks flushed and a distraught look upon her round face. It was only late afternoon, so the house was quiet. Clients did not arrive until late evening, and those few who stayed the night were gone after breakfast.
Tucking a dark brown curl into the coil of hair at her nape, she set aside her business. “Relax, Emma. The house is not burning. Did she give her name?” Sometimes the young maid failed to remember her manners and was quick to overreact, though Abby had been schooling her to become a proper servant.
The maid shook her head, causing errant blonde curls to fall around her face. “No, ma’am. I did not think to ask her.” Sucking air through her teeth and wrinkling her forehead she added, “I suppose I should’ve, shouldn’t I? But she looked so pathetic, even frightened, and she seemed ta know ye.”
Used to seeing desperate girls on her doorstep who’d heard of her kindness, Abby was unsurprised. She tried to help all find legitimate work. Of course, the most beautiful, well-spoken and gracious were allowed to join those who lived and worked at Willow House, if such was their desire and there was an opening.
Casting a last glance at her unfinished ledgers, she sighed. “All right, Emma. Show her in.”
The girl arrived quite disheveled, with strands of dark flame-colored hair falling about her shoulders and cloak, but Abby recognized her immediately. It had been years since she’d seen the young women whom she’d served as nanny, the girls she had raised as her own, but she would know Kit, Lady Katherine Endicott—no, now she was Lady Egerton—anywhere.
“My God, Katherine, what has happened to you?”
Katherine fell into her arms, sobbing. “Oh, Abby! Anne has died, and her husband, Lord Rutledge, he…he tried to rape me! It happened so suddenly I didn’t have time to plan where I’d go and then I thought of you.” Pleading blue eyes stared up at her. “May I stay the night, Abby? I’ve nowhere else to go given the…the circumstances.”
Abby stroked her hair and held the overwrought girl close, sad to find that she had lost one of the dear Endicott children and now the other was in dire need of help. “You were right to come to me, child. Of course you may stay the night, and longer if it will help. Did the man know you were coming here?” She was prepared should any unwanted guest seek entrance to her establishment, but she preferred to be warned.
Katherine’s face turned ashen, and her head jerked toward the door.
“What is wrong, child? Do you fear he followed you? My doorman will protect you. He’s a big fellow and can be quite fierce if need be.”
The young woman took a deep breath and let it out as if trying to calm herself, then turned and looked into Abby’s eyes. “No, Abby. I fear the man is dead. Rutledge lies bleeding and still. I…I think I’ve killed him.”
“Oh my,” Abby said, helping her frightened ward into a chair. “Come sit. There is nothing for it now. If you killed the man in defense of your honor, surely you will not be held responsible. Do not think of that.” She had her doubts about how the House of Lords would respond to the slaying of one of its own, but she would not share them. “I have a special room never used by our clients that you may have.”
Yes, she would help this child who sat sobbing before her, whose scrapes she had once tended, whose nightmares she had soothed. Anne and Kit had been the children of her heart. She began to pace in front of the fireplace, followed by the eyes of the young woman as Katherine surveyed her surroundings for the first time. Abby wondered if the girl was noting the richness of the room, the polished cherry wood furniture and shelves full of classic books. Behind Abby, a fire crackled in the stone fireplace.
Abby’s gaze fell on the decanter of French brandy gracing a small table next to the brocade-covered chair where Kit sat in front of the desk. “Perhaps a drink might be appropriate just now, my child. Something to warm you?” She walked to the table and poured a generous helping.
“Is it true what I have heard, Abby?” Kit asked with faltering speech as her eyes drifted around the room. “Is Willow House a…a brothel?”
“Well, yes,” Abby conceded. The label, while accurate, still offended her. She handed the glass to Kit and admitted, “I didn’t start out to make it one. It just happened as the girls came to me. Though I helped some leave that life, others wanted to stay and pursue their former occupation. They are all quite lovely, and they will all be kind to you, Kit. Many have had hard beginnings and would well understand your tale of a man trying to force himself upon you. That is one reason they feel at home at Willow House. We entertain only gentlemen.”
Kit sat looking at her hands, cradling the glass of brandy in her lap, tears falling from her eyes. “I love you, you know that, Abby. If you have found peace in this place, I’ll not judge you or the girls.”
“You always did have a kind heart, Katherine. I see that has not changed.”
Kit looked up with reddened eyes. “Once I had such won
derful dreams, Abby. You remember. Dreams of a life with a husband to love me—and children. I’ve no dreams now.”
“Do not despair, child.” She patted the young woman’s back in sincere comfort as Kit sipped her drink. “Things will seem better in the morning. Emma will show you to your room, and while you are having a nice hot bath I will find something for you to wear. The girls here are all most elegantly attired and willing to share. Some hot food and a good night’s rest will put you to rights.”
“Oh, Abby, I don’t think I shall ever be right again. What can I do? Where am I to go?”
Abby thought for a moment. “I have a friend who places young women in the homes of the gentry…to act as servants, mostly, but in special cases, such as yours, as governesses and the like. She may be able to help you. As an earl’s daughter and a baron’s widow you should have a better future, but perhaps for now this will give you something to do. A place to find solace while we sort this out. I’ll give you her information when I bring you the gown.”
* * *
Martin raised the brass knocker, but before he let it drop the black door opened and a well-attired butler with gray hair inclined his head and accepted Martin’s hat.
“Good evening, sir. Please follow me. Miss Abby will see you in the parlour.”
Martin followed the servant through a black and white marble-floored entry hall, passing a wide staircase leading to the next floor, at the base of which stood a large man with blond hair looking straight ahead ignoring them. Down another corridor they went, to the right, and Martin noted the impressive furnishings of the rooms he passed. They would compete well with those he’d seen in Mayfair. Finally the butler stopped and bade him enter a small, well-appointed room. The first thing Martin noticed was the crystal chandelier hanging above two brocade sofas flanking a marble fireplace. A gilded mirror set over the mantel made the room appear much larger than it was.
The butler departed, closing the double doors. A well-attired woman in her late forties, dark brown hair pulled back into a knot, faced Martin with appraising hazel eyes.