The Formidable Earl

by Sophie Barnes

  Leaning forward for a clearer look, Ida watched as Philipa played the hostess. She paired each man who arrived with one of the available courtesans, who then either escorted her companion into the parlor or upstairs to her bedchamber. None of the men ever spotted Ida. They were much too preoccupied by the courtesans to do so, and in any case, she was sitting away from the steps, on the landing just past the spot where the banister turned.

  Her face pressed against the balusters for a better view. She’d recognized the previous man who’d arrived. He was a regular client who came once a week and always asked to see the same girl. Ida watched as her aunt escorted him toward the red parlor, engaging him in conversation as they went. Their voices eventually faded, leaving nothing but silence behind in the now empty foyer.

  The front door opened again and a new gentleman entered. Seen from above, it was hard for Ida to gauge his height except by measuring him against the painting that hung immediately to his left. His shoulders appeared to reach the lower part of the frame, making him several inches taller than she. He removed his hat, allowing her to see the top of his head, which was covered by lustrous hair colored in shades of oak and chestnut brown. His build was both imposing yet somehow elegant at the same time. Perhaps because of the authoritative way in which he moved that suggested high social standing and power.

  He glanced around and, finding no one about, looked up.

  Ida froze. Even though she knew she ought to hide, she could not seem to move. Her gaze locked with his, her heart pounding harder with each passing second. Heavens, he was far more handsome than she had expected, perhaps the most handsome man she had ever seen.

  Eventually, it was he who spoke. “You there.” His voice was not unpleasant, but the arrogance of his tone made Ida tense with irritation. “Will you keep me waiting forever or do you plan on serving me? I haven’t all night.”

  Hawthorne hadn’t exaggerated his description of Amourette’s. Simon was impressed with how nice and respectable the building looked, considering its location and the business it housed. The tavern next door, slightly askew with timber-framed walls leaning into the street, seemed to fit the area better. By contrast, Amourette’s appeared to have been built with a love for precision.

  When he’d first stepped inside, he’d been both surprised and relieved to find the place empty. In spite of what his friends had said, he’d worried about potentially coming across someone who might know him.

  As it turned out, his concerns had been unfounded. Unsure of how to proceed, he’d remained where he was. Waiting. Wondering if he should call out for some assistance.

  Until he’d glanced up and spotted her.

  Even though the woman was partially hidden behind a railing, her eyes peered through the dimly lit interior to hold him captive. She shifted her gaze to the doors on either side of him before responding. “It will likely take an hour before one of the women is free and ready to accommodate you.” Her eyes met his once more. “They’re all fully occupied at the moment.”

  “You’re not,” he said with challenging boldness.

  Her eyes narrowed. “I’m not available,” she told him plainly.

  He tilted his head and continued to study her. It was impossible for him to see her entire face, but based on her eyes alone, he believed she had to be somewhat pretty. “A pity,” he finally murmured.

  There was a pause, and then she slowly stood, revealing a heart shaped face with a delicately positioned nose, a wide mouth with a plump lower lip, and hair spun from strands of gold.

  Simon's gaze followed the woman's every movement as she began descending the stairs. She was slim of build with curves in all the right places, and it occurred to him that pretty didn't suffice when it came to describing her. Stunning was a much better word.

  His heart kicked up a notch.

  “If you’re willing to wait, I can have some food brought up from the kitchen,” she said. “A plate of sandwiches perhaps? There are also newspapers available to help you pass the time.”

  Simon merely nodded while she stepped off the bottom step. She passed him and as she did, he caught a whiff of something wonderfully fragrant, a blend of citrus and honey. He was almost tempted to lean in and sniff the air, but managed to resist the urge at the very last second.

  Instead he turned, following her movements as she continued toward the front desk. “Name?” she inquired. When he didn’t answer immediately, she glanced up, her eyes wide and, he noticed for the first time, a bright shade of blue. “It doesn’t have to be your real name.”

  Unsure of which pseudonym to provide, he stared back at her for a long drawn out moment while giving the matter some thought. “Mr. N will do,” he eventually said.

  “Excellent.” The woman made a quick note. “And do you have any particular tastes, Mr. N?”

  Was she serious? Simon flexed his fingers. He’d not expected her to ask such a personal question or for a visit to a brothel to be so complicated. With the tip of her quill hovering in mid-air, the young woman kept her eyes trained on the paper where she’d been writing, her bent posture offering him a delicious view of her décolletage.

  “Why do you need to know that?” Simon asked.

  She took a deep breath. Expelled it. Her bosom rose and fell in response. “Some of the women here specialize in more uncommon modes of…um…gratification.”

  Simon forced his gaze toward the more appropriate vicinity of her head. Was that discomfort he heard in her voice? A bit unusual for someone in her line of work.

  “I see.” He paused while trying to decide what to say. The first word that came to mind was no. He'd never been the daring sort and generally let other men behave like scoundrels while he did his best to look respectable. Except, maybe Hawthorne and Yates were right. Maybe he did need a healthy dose of excitement in his life. Truth be told, he was so damn tired of always being proper, and besides, he was here now, in a place where no one would judge him. Taking comfort in this he leaned forward and said, “Does asking her to pretend she’s my maid fall into that category?”

  There was no mistaking the pink hue that colored the woman's cheeks. “No.” The word seemed to catch in her throat. The quill scratched across the paper as she made a note of his comment.

  “How about if…” Accommodating himself to the role he'd chosen to play for a moment, he deliberately let his voice trail off and pretended to ponder all manner of vice. But just when he'd settled on the perfect suggestion, he noticed her bracelet.

  The air rushed from his lungs and before he could think, he reached out, grabbed her wrist, and jerked it toward him. “Where did you get this?”

  Naturally, the woman tried to pull her wrist back, but Simon was stronger and refused to release her.

  “Let me go,” she demanded while glancing around as if seeking assistance.

  “Not until you tell me why you’re wearing this.”

  She went utterly still and her eyes grew impossibly wide. “It was a gift,” she whispered. “I…I don’t know where it was purchased, if that’s what you want to know.”

  Simon narrowed his gaze, gave the bracelet one final look, and let her wrist go. “It isn’t. I already know that part.” She took a step back, dropping the quill in the process. “Matthew Strong ordered it from a jeweler on Bond Street when he returned from France. He said it would make a fine gift for his daughter.”

  Panic materialized on her face. When she spoke again, her voice was hoarse. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because I was there.” Her lips parted with pure shock and Simon studied her features more closely. It couldn't be. Not here in a brothel. And yet the resemblance was now unmistakable. Filled with disbelief, Simon stared back into her gorgeous blue eyes. “My God. You’re her, aren’t you? You’re Ida Strong.”

  She shook her head and stepped back further. “I should tell the girls you're waiting.”

  “One moment. I have questions pertaining to you and your father.” Simon rounded the desk but M
iss Strong was swifter.

  Before he was able to reach her, she darted toward the nearest door and thrust it open. “Vince. I need your help.”

  “Miss Strong. Wait!” Simon strode toward the room she’d disappeared into.

  “What’s going on?” a deep voice asked from within.

  “He grabbed my wrist,” Simon heard Miss Strong say as he reached the room. “You must make him leave.”

  “Miss Strong,” Simon shouted with every hope of calling her back, “I merely—”

  A massive man with a frosty glare stepped into Simon’s path. Behind him, Simon could see a few men, thankfully none he recognized, being entertained by Amourette’s women. Some were clearly indifferent to the disturbance, carrying on without pause, while others stopped their kissing and fondling to stare first in Miss Strong’s direction and then in his.

  Simon instinctively backed up a step. So much for keeping a low profile.

  He cursed himself, and then he cursed her. Why the devil did she have to run off?

  The giant took one step toward him and then another, forcing Simon back even further in the direction of the front door. “We don’t like trouble ’ere, and we sure as ’ell don’t tolerate anyone botherin’ the girls.”

  “But I just—”

  “Ye need to leave.”

  “I don’t suppose I could speak with the owner?” Simon tried.

  The giant crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. “She’s busy.”

  “Of course she is,” Simon grumbled as he turned away. The only response he received was the sound of the door swinging shut behind him as he left.

  Knowing he was unlikely to find a carriage nearby, he began making his way back toward Oxford Street. Miss Strong was supposed to be dead, yet here she was, clearly alive and well. He needed to know how that could be. He needed answers only she could provide. More than that, her father had been a good man – one of the finest Simon had ever known – and if there was some way in which he could right the wrong he’d once done Matthew Strong, Simon knew he would have to at least try.

  Chapter Two

  “I’m afraid it’s worse than we feared,” Philipa said when she brought a tray up to Ida the following day. It was past noon – the usual time for breakfast in a place where no one retired until the early hours of the morning.

  Accepting the tray, Ida set it on her bed and drew a shuddering breath. She’d hardly slept a wink. After Mr. N’s departure, she’d fled upstairs to her bedchamber, locked the door, and prayed no one had taken notice of her or him or the name he’d bandied about without a care in the world. Apparently, that was not the case.

  “How bad is it?” she asked her aunt, perching beside the tray and pouring a cup of tea. Her fingers shook with trepidation.

  Philipa sat in the only chair the room had to offer. “One of the men who were here last night must have been a reporter, because you made the headlines. Traitor’s daughter resurfaces in a local brothel. Or something to that effect.”

  “Oh God.”

  “The article itself went on to describe the events that led to your father’s death. Of greatest concern of course is that your name was mentioned along with your location and the fact that you’re very much alive.” Philipa shook her head. “What on earth were you thinking?”

  “It never crossed my mind that I would be found out by a man I’ve never even met.” Ida tried to sip her hot beverage, but it was hard forcing the liquid down. Frustrated, she set her cup aside and glanced at the toast her aunt had prepared. She wasn’t the least bit hungry. “I’m sorry. It was stupid of me to show myself, but he was clearly the sort of man who would have given Amourette’s a bad name if he was dissatisfied with the service.”

  “That would have been a risk I was willing to take.”

  Meeting her gaze Ida told her, “In the end it was the bracelet that gave me away. He recognized it.”

  “Well, there’s no use worrying over how it happened now. What’s done is done,” Philipa said. “What matters is that you are no longer safe here. You’ve got to leave, Ida. As soon as possible.”

  “I know. I’ll go to Guthrie. He always said I should come to him if I was in trouble.”

  “Yes. He told me the same thing and I think—”

  “Philipa?” Scarlet, a long-time employee of Philipa’s, gave Ida’s door a gentle rap before popping her head into the room. “There’s a man downstairs inquiring after Ida. He says he was here last night and that he would like to speak with her.”

  “No,” Ida said. “Tell him I’m not here.”

  “Vince already tried that, but as it turns out, the man is an earl and refuses to be turned away.”

  “Nevertheless,” Ida said, “I wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for him. He’s the one who outed me. My name and location are in the paper. I simply don’t trust him. Earl or not.”

  “All right.” Philipa stood. “I’ll speak with him myself. In the meantime, you will grab whatever you need and head out the back. Go to Number Two Soho Square. That’s where Guthrie lives. And, Ida?”

  “Yes?”

  “Let me know when you’re safe.”

  “Of course.” Ida gave her aunt a swift hug and then proceeded to do as instructed. She grabbed a satchel from under her bed, shoved some clothes and other personal items into it, and exited her room.

  “It is imperative that I speak with her,” a man’s voice insisted. “Just… Oh, for heaven’s sake!”

  “My lord,” Philipa could be heard saying, “you cannot go up there. My goodness, Vince. Do something.”

  Ida didn’t hesitate one more second. With her satchel flung over her shoulder, she ran.

  The same giant Simon had come across last night – Vince, he supposed – grabbed Simon by the front of his jacket, and hoisted him up until he was teetering on his toes.

  “I just want to speak with Miss Strong,” Simon gasped. “Why the bloody hell can’t you grasp that?”

  “My lord,” the woman who’d introduced herself as Philipa Harding, Amourette’s proprietress, said with an impatient roll of her eyes, “might I suggest you calm down?”

  “It would help if this person would let me go.”

  Ms. Harding sighed and tilted her head in a manner that instantly got Vince to loosen his hold. Simon rocked back on his heels for a moment before regaining his balance. He gave Vince a glare, then addressed Ms. Harding. “I was perfectly calm until I was told no one here knows of anyone named Miss Strong. It has even been suggested that I imagined her while in a drunken stupor.”

  “Such things have been known to happen,” Ms. Harding murmured.

  “Right.” Simon raked his fingers through his hair and glanced around. “I just wanted to ask her about her father. And to find out why she’s here of all places when I’ve thought her dead for the last four years.”

  Ms. Harding gave him a serious stare. “Then I shall wish you better luck elsewhere, my lord, for I do not know the woman you’re seeking.”

  “But—”

  “Good day, Lord Fielding.”

  Simon clamped his mouth shut and clenched his fists. He was being dismissed – turned away – lied to.

  Furious, he stormed from the building and searched the street for the hackney he’d hired. He hadn’t relished having his own – the one with the Fielding crest on each side – sitting outside a St. Giles brothel in broad daylight. With a quick glance in both directions, he promptly cursed. Of course the damn thing had driven off. Why wouldn’t it have? Considering the luck he was having it would probably start raining too at any moment.

  Christ!

  There was nothing for it but to start walking. Lingering in this unsavory neighborhood certainly wouldn’t help. Turning, he avoided making eye contact with a scruffy man who’d just dragged his weight onto the opposite street corner using his crutches. Two other men with snarly expressions started in Simon’s direction. Eyes trained straight ahead, Simon skirted Amourette’s and began hurrying back toward
Oxford Street in the hope of escaping what could potentially turn into a nasty fight if they tried to rob him.

  He rounded a corner, darted down an empty alley, and arrived in a wider street where he found two women sitting outside on a doorstep, each with an infant in her arms. Bleakness was etched upon their faces, the rags they wore so filthy he felt his insides twist in response. Without thinking, he retrieved a couple of coins, one for each, and handed them over.

  “Thank ye, sir,” one of the women muttered.

  Simon nodded and started walking away when he glimpsed a female figure up ahead, hurrying along in the same direction he’d been heading. His pulse leapt in recognition. The edge of his mouth drew upward. He quickened his pace, determined to catch Miss Strong, when he realized he wasn’t the only one following her. A man wearing an oversized coat and with a brown cap pulled down over his brow appeared to be dogging her movements.

  Unease pricked the back of Simon’s neck, increasing tenfold when she disappeared down a side street and the man pulled a knife from his pocket while hurrying after her. Simon started to run while terror ripped through him. He’d failed her father once. He would not fail her as well.

  A scream pierced the air, turning the blood in his veins to ice.

  No.

  He reached the street and darted down it, spotting Miss Strong and her attacker almost at once. “You there! Let go of that woman right now.”

  Even though Ida had known the article in the morning paper would put her in danger, she hadn’t imagined an attempt on her life so soon. She’d been completely unprepared for it, and since the area wasn’t exactly the sort where one could rely on anyone rushing to help, she’d realized she would have to fight off her assailant alone.

  So she’d screamed and kicked while using her hands to push against him, only vaguely aware of the shout that distracted him from his purpose. Her assailant froze and spat out a curse. Breathing heavily, he glanced toward the approaching figure, then promptly shoved her aside and took off.