“Take it for tonight. I’m sure Ramsay will come up with something. He never makes plans more than ten minutes in advance if he can help it,” she mumbled, returning to her book.
“I suppose I will take it tonight, if that is not too much trouble?”
“It will be done,” the Frenchwoman said. “Come, you must try on this ball gown. It was always too nice for that eloper,” she added, gesturing to the gauzy confection one of the shop girls was bringing forward.
“My goodness,” Sarah whispered. The beauty of the gown before her made the last dress look like a rag.
“Yes, my goodness, indeed,” Madam agreed, helping Sarah into yards and yards of chiffon the color of a summer sky.
As Sarah regarded her reflection in the mirror, she was ashamed to realize how desperately she wanted this gown. She knew she shouldn’t accept it from Lady Ramsay, but she could not help herself. It made her look beautiful. Or at least closer than anything else she had seen. She had to have it. The only thing she could think of as she stared at her reflection was the expression on Martín’s face when he saw her wearing it.
* * *
Martín was not surprised by the reception he received at the offices for the Secretary of War and the Colonies. As he listened to the extended obsequies Graaf and the haughty English lord exchanged, he imagined he could hear the sound of his purse strings being cut and his pockets being riffled.
There would be no compensation for the capture of the Blue Bird—that much was apparent. He hid his irritation and focused his attention on the endlessly maundering Graaf.
“And so, my lord, it is with the deepest gratitude that I thank Captain Bouchard. Without his assistance I would not be in England.” The Dutchman met Martín’s eyes. He knew better than anyone how annoying it must be for Martín to witness his feting.
“Ah, yes. Captain Bouchard.” Lord Bathurst looked at Martín as if he were a new type of beetle, one that he expected to classify in the dung category. “His Majesty is most grateful for your assistance as well as your discretion in the matter. The ship will be returned to his lordship’s father, who—I’m sure—will wish to make arrangements to compensate you for your efforts on his lordship’s behalf.”
Martín looked from Bathurst to the Dutch lordling. Graaf gave him an uncomfortable smile; the Dutchman already knew his father would not be forthcoming with compensation of any kind.
“Thank you, Lord Bathurst, for your generous offer. I believe my first officer is in the process of compiling a list of expenses that he can present to, er, his lordship.” Martín stood. He knew it was not his place to end the meeting, but he no longer cared.
“Er, yes, quite.” The older man rose slowly, his smile uncertain as he transferred Martín from the beetle category to that of unstable chemical requiring careful handling and disposal.
Good. Martín enjoyed the uncertainty of others. He turned to the Dutchman. “Tell me, will you be leaving directly for Amsterdam?” He’d hoped the meaning behind his question—when will you talk to your father about the money he owes me—was clear, but Graaf’s answer demonstrated Martín’s question was far too subtle.
“I believe I will stay for the duration of the Season. Perhaps I will see you at some of the entertainments?”
Martín merely raised his brows, the ludicrous suggestion not deserving of any response.
As he departed Whitehall, he couldn’t help being grateful Graaf was now off his hands and out of Ramsay’s house—and away from Sarah.
As to the matter of compensation? Martín snorted. He doubted he’d ever receive compensation for even the cost of Graaf’s journey back to England. Not that such a trifling amount was of any interest. And it would not cover even a fraction of his costs for this last journey, all of which would be on his shoulders.
He raised a hand, and a dilapidated hackney rattled to a stop in front of him.
“Tattersalls,” he ordered, climbing into the dark, filthy carriage.
He considered Graaf’s last words to him—about seeing him during the Season. The man had been speaking in jest. Even with Martín’s vast fortune, no hostess would entertain a man with his lineage. And if people did not know his true background now, they would certainly learn of it if he remained in London long enough.
The ancient vehicle rumbled along, and Martín considered the possibility of an ex-slave whore actually moving among the ton. He looked at the signet ring on his left hand. Its red stone winked at him in the dim light of the carriage, as if it were amused by his pretensions.
He was a fool.
He rapped on the carriage roof with his cane.
The vehicle slowed, and the small hatch slid open.
“Aye?” the grizzled coachman asked.
“I’ve changed my mind. Where is the best place to get a meal, a bed, and a wench?”
The old coachman smiled—a gruesome sight. “I’ve just the place for you, sir.” The hatch closed with a snap.
Martín sat back against the tattered leather seat. Ramsay would understand when Martín didn’t show up at Tatts. He would know where Martín had gone.
* * *
The cab stopped in front of a structure that looked very similar to the bank Martín had visited earlier in the day. In general, Martín did not hold with the notion of giving his valuables to strangers for safekeeping, but several years ago Ramsay had prevailed on him to deposit at least some of his money in such an institution.
Martín eyed the bland-looking building. Had the driver misunderstood his request? Or had he heard Martín’s accent and decided to play foul with a Frenchie?
The hatch slid open, and the man gave him a toothless grin. “Here ye are, sir. The Cherry Pit. The finest place in all London.” Martín gave him a skeptical look, but stepped out of the cab.
“The finest ladies in London, sir. Jes up that walk, knock on that black door, and they’ll take care of ye.”
Martín paid the man and mounted the steps. A bewigged and powdered lackey answered his knock.
“Good afternoon, sir. Please, come inside.” He took Martín’s hat and cane and led him up a flight of stairs before depositing him in a drawing room to wait.
Martín poured a drink from one of the decanters on a small table. He took a sip. It was quite fine brandy. A small shelf of books caught his attention, and he was reading the titles when the door opened. For a moment, he thought a young girl had entered the room. But as the woman came closer he saw that she wasn’t a girl at all. In fact, he would place her age close to his.
“I am Mrs. Hensleigh. Welcome to the White House.” Her voice was low for such a tiny thing.
“Bonjour, madam, I am Captain Bouchard.” He bowed over her hand. “I am worried that maybe I came to the wrong place?” He smiled down into her upturned face. She wasn’t merely the size of a doll; she also looked like one. Her guinea-colored curls framed a heart-shaped face with large blue eyes and small bow-shaped lips. She bore a remarkable resemblance to the porcelain doll he’d brought back for Ramsay’s daughter.
But then she smiled, and he realized the only thing innocent or doll-like about her eyes was the color. The expression in them was as old as sin. “I believe you have come to the perfect place,” she countered, taking a seat on the delicate settee and gesturing him to the wing chair across from it.
“This is the . . . Cherry Pit?”
“That is not my choice of name, but it seems to have stuck. Tell me—how did you hear of my establishment?”
“A hackney driver delivered me to your doorstep when I asked him to bring me to the finest establishment your city offered.”
She smiled slightly. “We are unique; there is no denying that. But we are unique in a way that is not to everyone’s taste. The women who work here do so of their own free will. We do not cater to men interested in virgins, nor are there any women here younger than eight and ten.” She cut him a direct look from eyes like blue glass.
“I am not interested in young girls, and I certai
nly do not want a virgin.” A sudden vision of Sarah intruded on his business negotiations. One virgin was enough to last him a lifetime.
“Excellent. Also, we do not allow any roughness. Any such behavior will be dealt with immediately.”
“Bien sûr, madam. I do not enjoy beating women.”
“I can see we shall deal exceedingly well, Captain. That is quite enough business for the present. Let us turn to pleasure. What is your preference?”
“Your best room, two girls—any but brown-haired—two bottles of your best red to start and one of this brandy, and a meal for three—unless you would like to join us?” He liked the knowing look in her eyes.
She gazed up from beneath blond lashes. “Thank you, Captain. I shall certainly keep your offer in mind.”
Martín laughed at her coquettish look. It was designed to tease and put him in his place at the same time. She would not be joining him for bed sport.
Mrs. Hensleigh led Martín up two more flights of stairs to a suite that was capacious and decorated in shades of brown and gold. Fine carpets covered the polished wood floor, and the furniture was built for comfort as well as style. All and all, it was every bit as elegant as the rooms in Davenport House.
“This will serve me admirably. I will engage it for the foreseeable future. I would ask you to send word to my man and have him bring my things.” He gave her the address of Davenport House. “Make sure whoever delivers the message is discreet.”
“Naturally.”
“I would have my bath and more brandy before my meal.”
She inclined her head and left.
Martín went to the window and gazed out onto the quiet, empty street below.
It was better this way. He would mix with his own kind and leave Sarah to find hers. From what Ramsay had said, the woman was a member of one of the wealthiest banking families in England. No doubt they would see to it she met suitable men.
The last thing she would want was to bring to her rich relations an association with an ex-slave, not to mention the rest.
The door opened, and he turned away from the street and his thoughts. Two women stood in the entryway, a buxom redhead and a petite blonde. He breathed a sigh of relief. Both women were lovely and very elegantly dressed, and neither of them bore even a passing resemblance to Sarah.
The women stood aside as a parade of strapping servants arrived with buckets of steaming water for his bath.
Martín smiled. “Please, come in, mesdemoiselles, and let us become better acquainted.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Martín had moved his belongings out of Davenport House.
“Bouchard has taken rooms at Mivart’s, I believe,” Ramsay said at breakfast the following morning. “He does not like to be beholden to anyone.”
For the first time since she’d met him, the baron was not his usual, smiling self. She hoped the two men had not quarreled. Martín often rubbed people—men, in particular—the wrong way, but she would have thought that wouldn’t apply to the baron, who seemed to enjoy the younger man’s abrasive company. In fact, Sarah believed he actively encouraged and taunted Martín into behaving badly.
For her part, Sarah was too choked with emotion to speak. She nodded and smiled, lifting a forkful of kipper to her mouth.
“I had hoped to learn what happened at Lord Bathurst’s office.” Sarah’s face heated at Ramsay’s inquiring look, and she hastened to explain. “Admiral Keeton promised Bouchard he would receive compensation for taking me back to England.”
Ramsay added a shocking amount of sugar to his coffee. “I haven’t spoken to him on the matter. Neither did I find out from Graaf what happened before he left.”
Mies, too, was gone—a guest at the king’s London residence, of all places.
“I shall send word to Martín today and invite him to the theater tonight, if I am able to secure seats at this late date.”
Sarah squirmed under the baron’s kind, knowing look.
Daphne, who’d been absorbed in the book that lay open beside her plate, fixed her husband with a long, bespectacled look before turning to Sarah.
“I daresay we shall see Bouchard in the coming days. In any case, we shall be busy. Tomorrow you meet your uncles.”
Sarah had received an immediate response from her uncle Sir Septimus, informing her of their intention to call on Lady Ramsay. Because his brother was out of town, he begged to delay their first meeting until he returned to London. Sarah had been relieved. She needed a little more time to accustom herself to the sudden appearance of two wealthy uncles. And to decide what she would, and wouldn’t, tell them.
* * *
True to his word, Lord Ramsay secured a box at the theater that night.
Even Martín’s absence could not ruin Sarah’s enjoyment in her first play. Not only was the play itself diverting, but the cream of London society stopped by their box. Lord Ramsay attracted people, mainly women, like moths to a flame.
Daphne, too, had her share of admirers, mainly scholars who’d been dragged to the opera by spouses or friends. Sarah watched with amusement as the beautiful blond woman engaged in a heated exchange with three elderly men and a boy who must certainly still be at university. Mysterious words like “Hegelian,” “dialectic,” and “hegemony,” were enough to keep Sarah at a safe distance.
She was speaking with Lord Ramsay and one of his cousins when she felt a light tap on her shoulder and turned to find Mies.
“Good evening, Sarah.” The Dutchman must have visited Bond Street as he was now dressed in well-tailored black-and-white evening clothes.
“Mies! What are you doing here?” she asked rather rudely.
He grinned. “I am likely to pop up anywhere now that I am no longer under house arrest.”
“Yes, of course. But tell me, how was your meeting with Lord Bathurst?”
Mies glanced around the box. “Did Bouchard not tell you?”
“He moved out of Lord Ramsay’s house yesterday.”
Mies shrugged and held his hands out, palm up. “Well, you are now looking at a free man.”
“I am glad for you, Mies.” While Sarah could never approve of what he’d done, she did not approve of incarceration either. “Will you be going home soon?”
“I thought I should stay and experience the London Season while I am here. Also, I am scheduled to meet the regent and Princess Charlotte. Apparently they are determined to show me every kindness even though Her Royal Highness gave my cousin William the boot.”
“What a horrible thing to say,” she said, laughing.
“It is the truth. It seems they do not realize my father has long been estranged from his royal relations. In any case, I am the beneficiary of that ignorance, so I will stay for the introduction. Perhaps our paths will cross and we will be able to dance?”
“You wouldn’t enjoy it, I can promise you that. I’m afraid I don’t know a single dance.”
He seemed to find that a welcome piece of news. “Perhaps Lady Ramsay will allow me to offer lessons—with the correct supervision, of course.”
“I’m sure you have much more important things to do.”
“I can’t think of anything more important to me.” His expression was dangerously earnest, and Sarah was glad the baron picked that moment to introduce her to one of his acquaintances.
Sarah found Mies’s interest in her embarrassing. She’d understood his infatuation while they’d been aboard the Golden Scythe. After all, she’d been the only woman onboard. But she’d hoped his feelings for her would dissipate when they left the ship.
She supposed she could not be so lucky. After all, her interest in Martín had not diminished with her increased exposure to new and interesting people. On the contrary, every handsome man she met just served to make Martín more attractive to her.
* * *
Pounding, agonizing pain. At first Martín thought the pounding was only inside his skull, just as it had been every morning for the past two weeks, but then he
realized somebody was knocking on his door. He looked at the clock on the nightstand; it was almost noon. He felt the bed next to him and realized it was empty.
“What?” he croaked, the sound of his voice causing his head to ache even worse.
“Captain Bouchard, you have a visitor downstairs.”
It sounded like Mrs. Hensleigh, or Venetia as he now called her. The door opened, and the diminutive madam entered. Her blurry form advanced on the bed. “You have a visitor,” she repeated. “A rather impressive visitor. Six and a half feet, one eye?”
“Merde.” Martín gripped his forehead with one hand, squeezing like a vise.
She chuckled. “I should not like to have him come and fetch me. He looks pleasant enough right now, but he has given you an hour to join him in the drawing room. I will try to keep him entertained, although he has already made it plain he is not interested in conducting any business.”
Martín couldn’t resist laughing even though it was agony. “He is besotted with his wife and only gets worse every day.”
“Mmm, how wonderful for them both,” she said wistfully. “I’ve ordered a bath, and Nicole and Francie will be along to help you. You will do as I ask, won’t you, darling? I’d hate for the giant downstairs to come looking for you.”
Martín grunted.
Taking that for an assent, she left him alone.
Martín lay back on the bed; he would get up when the two women arrived to help him. God knew he was paying them enough for little other than bathing, dressing, and undressing him every day. And for keeping mum about what did not go on in his suite every night. He suppressed the urge to weep like a little girl as he considered his predicament.
Just as in Freetown and Tenerife, he was unable to enjoy sexual relations with the two whores who were getting a fortune to attend to his needs around the clock. Just as before, he had only been able to get an erection when by himself.
When thinking of Sarah.
He turned on his side, burying his face in the rumpled bedclothes. After three days of it, Venetia had come to his room. She’d been polite, but firm. Was there something wrong? Did he need someone other than Francie or Nicole?
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