He didn’t want that damned chest of Unity’s in the house. I’ll get rid of it, and it will put an end to this nonsense.
He made his way upstairs to the guest room at the end of the hall. Pulled open the wardrobe and let out his breath. The cupboard was overflowing with clothing and toys, all of which had belonged to Ernest. The racks were crammed full of tiny shirts and waistcoats, the shelves crammed with boots and hats. Had the Duchess kept everything the boy had ever owned? He had known his wife was something of a hoarder, but this was plain ridiculous.
He yanked an armful of clothes from the rack and tossed them on the bed so he might hunt down that cursed chest. Sitting on the floor of the wardrobe, he found battledore and shuttlecock rackets and a pair of old boxing gloves. An array of wooden toys he remembered Ernest playing with by the hearth as a child.
There was no wooden chest.
Look harder, he thought. It has to be there.
He removed the rest of the clothing from the rack and threw all the toys and boots into the middle of the room. The wardrobe was almost empty now. Still, there was no chest.
The Duke cursed under his breath. Had his son taken it? Damn the boy. He had made it clear Ernest was not to go digging into the past. Had he no regard for his mother’s feelings?
But the Duke knew he could not raise the matter with his son again. Such a thing would only serve to keep Unity fresh in the boy’s mind. And it would be best for everyone concerned if that poor girl remained forgotten.
* * *
Ernest brought a gloved hand to his mouth to stifle a yawn. Good lord, he was bored out of his mind. If he had to listen to another self-satisfied toff regale him with his hunting prowess, he was going to poke out his own eyes.
He’d come to the Earl of Landon’s ball begrudgingly, knowing his absence would earn him weeks of hounding from the duke. He envied his mother. She had not attended a social event for years, and no one asked any questions. It was simply the way it was. Ernest smiled wryly to himself.
I’m jealous of my mother.
“Oh, that is fascinating,” Lady Katherine, the Earl’s daughter twittered, as the latest hunting story finally drew to a close. Her eyes darted across the table to Ernest, then quickly back to her plate.
Beside him, Ernest’s oldest friend, Archie Worthington, the Marquess of Eastbury, stretched back in his chair. He grinned at Ernest.
“What do you say, Dalton? Time you stopped clinging to your bachelorhood and joined the rest of us in married bliss?”
Archie had married a marquess’ daughter two years ago and had welcomed their first son in the winter. Neither marriage or fatherhood had changed his lifelong friend much, and Ernest was glad of it. Archie was as outgoing, daring and funny as he’d ever been. His wife, Lady Penelope, was sitting demurely at his side, taking minuscule sips of wine and observing the festivities with shrewd eyes. Ernest found himself wondering that which he’d not yet found the courage to ask Archie.
Did he love her?
There he was thinking of that foolish notion of love again. He tossed back his brandy and poured himself another.
Archie roared with laughter. “Shall I take that as a no, then?”
Ernest took another hurried mouthful. “Can you blame me for my reluctance? Would you have the Earl of Landon as your father-in-law?” He was dimly aware that his voice was too loud.
Another laugh from Archie. “It’s Lady Katherine you’d be marrying. Not her father.”
Ernest mumbled noncommittally.
He dared to glance across the table at her, careful not to catch her eye. She was beautiful, yes, even though he felt as surly as an old sea captain, Ernest couldn’t deny it. Her blonde hair was piled neatly on her head, delicate curls framing a heart-shaped face. She wore a pale pink gown, the neckline low enough to show just a hint of the creamy white skin below her collarbone. Beautiful, yes, but Ernest felt nothing.
Nothing.
For a second, he saw it, life as Lady Katherine’s husband. A life of endless, mindless festivities and making small talk to a lady he had not a thing in common with. He’d sit in smoking rooms and share a chamber pot with the Earl of Landon, while Lady Katherine and her friends whispered behind their hands about the failings of their husbands.
Suddenly, the air seemed to grow hotter, and he felt the bucket load of brandy he’d quaffed swirling in his stomach.
He needed some air.
He stumbled out onto the terrace, turning up the collar of his coat against the cool spring air. Behind him, he could hear the tuneless mewling of the string orchestra as they tuned up for their next set. He inhaled deeply, trying to slow his thoughts, but there was far too much brandy in his system to be sobered by a little cold air.
He turned to look back at the earl’s house. Lamps glowed in every window. Suddenly Ernest wanted to be anywhere but here.
Before he knew what he was doing, he was halfway down St James’ street. Faster and faster he walked, weaving through carriages and crowds spilling out of the theaters. His blood pumped hard, spurred on by brandy and the thrill of escape. Before he could make sense of it, he was stumbling through the door of the White Lion.
Where was she?
Rachel. His head was suddenly full of her.
Rachel Bell.
He felt suddenly unable to think of anything else.
He looked dizzily around the tavern. Men were hollering, thumping on tables. A crowd was pushing up against the bar. Ernest was distantly aware of the fact that men were staring at him. He glanced down and remembered that this time, he was not dressed in Phillips’ tatty greatcoat. Instead, he was decked out in a dark silk tailcoat and gold-threaded waistcoat. The first gold-threaded waistcoat, he felt sure, ever to pass through the door of the White Lion.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ernest caught sight of a woman’s skirts sweeping across the inn. He whirled around. His heart sank. It was not Rachel. He made his way toward her anyway.
The woman looked up and down at his fine clothes. She smiled broadly. “You got an itch that needs scratching, my lord?”
“Rachel,” he said, slightly breathless. “Rachel Bell. Is she here?”
The woman’s face fell. “She’s upstairs,” she huffed, “with a client.”
Ernest felt a strange coldness in his chest.
Upstairs, with a client.
He had known from the beginning, of course, how Rachel made her money. It had bothered him only because he knew she longed to escape it. But knowing she was upstairs with some other man’s sweaty hands all over her made his stomach turn.
He nodded his thanks to the woman and shoved his way to the bar.
“Brandy,” he said shortly, sliding onto a stool and ignoring the curious looks dished out by the men around him.
A glass appeared in front of him, and he downed it in a mouthful.
“Another.”
“Of course, my lord.”
Ernest scowled at the barkeep. He was not my lord. Not in this place. This place was his escape from the ton and all their feathered finery. In this place, he was a lowly miner. Except that tonight, of course, he wasn’t.
He took off his coat and waistcoat. At least he might be a little less conspicuous in his shirt sleeves.
He found himself wondering exactly what was going on in that little room upstairs. Who was lying in that creaking iron bed, watching Rachel’s lithe body move above him? Was he watching her narrow fingers dart in and out of the lacing of her bodice? Was he feeling the tautness of her breasts through the thin fabric of her shift? Or were his hands roaming the expanse of her white skin, as her blonde hair tumbled over bare shoulders?
Ernest gulped his liquor and hurriedly shifted the coat across his lap to hide the evidence of his arousal.
Good lord, I am lost. Lost.
No doubt his absence from the ball had been noticed by now. He’d not yet had his dance with Lady Katherine. Both his father and the Earl of Landon would thrash him into next week when he f
inally dared show his face.
He found himself laughing at the ridiculous of the situation. He had literally run away from a fine marriage to hunt down an escort in one of the filthiest taverns in London.
“Mr. Jackson?”
At the sound of her voice, Ernest felt something leap in his chest. He whirled around on his stool, almost losing his balance. Rachel’s hand shot out and grabbed his arm to steady him.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
This was hardly the place for propriety, Ernest knew, so he blurted: “I had to see you.”
Rachel’s lips parted, but she said nothing. Her cheeks were flushed, and the skin on her neck was red in places, as though some wild animal had been gnawing on her.
She glanced at his empty glasses, which were now lined up along the bar. “Are you drunk?”
“Yes,” said Ernest. “Yes, I believe I am.”
Rachel managed a small smile. She tugged gently on his arm. “Come on. We’d best get you home. You pass out on the bar, and the thieves in this place will think it’s Christmas. You’ll probably wake up to find even your unmentionables gone.”
Ernest lurched off his stool and stumbled toward the door, Rachel’s hand around the top of his arm. Outside, the cold was bracing, and he heard himself inhale sharply.
Rachel began to walk brusquely, tugging Ernest along behind her. “We’ll not find you a cab in this part of the city,” she said. “I’ll take you to Spitalfields.”
Ernest’s thoughts knocked together.
A cab. No. No cab.
No way in hell was he going back to Graceton Manor. He stumbled, thudding heavily into the wall of a house.
Rachel stopped walking, her eyes studying him. After a moment, she let out an enormous breath.
“Come on then,” she said finally. “Come with me.”
She began to walk in a different direction, her hand firmly around Ernest’s elbow. She stopped when they reached a crooked tenement at the corner of the street.
“Where are we?” he asked.
Rachel slid a key out from inside her bodice and unlocked the door. “My home,” she said. Her fingers slid from his arm and into his back, prodding him gently up the narrow, lightless staircase.
“Careful now,” said Rachel. “Hold the railing. You’ll crush us both if you fall.”
Ernest felt suddenly, strangely focused.
I’m in Rachel’s home.
The thought of it made something swell in his chest. Never mind the dark, or the cold, or that faint smell of piss.
I’m in Rachel’s home.
When they reached the second landing, she unlocked a door to one of the rooms and gestured for him to enter. She made her way through the darkness and lit a candle, setting it on the rickety table in the center of the room.
Ernest glanced about him. A narrow sleeping pallet was crammed against one wall, a blackened cooking pot hanging on a hook over the hearth. A loaf of bread wrapped in a cloth sat in the middle of the table.
Rachel lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “This place must seem the greatest of slums, compared to what you’re used to. But I thought it safer to bring you back here, rather than put you in a cab in your state. Lord knows where you would have ended up.”
The greatest of slums? Ernest exhaled sharply. No. He thought to tell her of the way he had felt nothing but curiosity and fascination, the moment she had led him through the door. Not for a second had he thought to judge or criticize.
I’m in Rachel’s home.
“May I sit?” he asked, nodding to the stools at the table. “I feel as though I might fall down.”
Rachel smiled slightly. “Of course.” She broke an end from the loaf of bread on the table and handed it to him. “Here. It’s good. From my friend Betsey’s bakery.” She grinned at him. “It’s probably a little stale by now, but it ought to soak up a little of that brandy.”
Ernest devoured it. “It’s good,” he managed.
Rachel nudged the loaf toward him, and Ernest broke off another enormous piece.
Her friend Betsey’s bakery, he reminded himself. Next time he saw her, he would bring her a loaf of bread to replace this one he was scarfing through like a man who’d been lost in the desert for weeks. Hell, he’d bring her five loaves of bread. And whatever else she wanted.
His eyes met hers across the table. She was watching him intently, her blue eyes shining in the candlelight.
Good lord, I want to touch her.
He longed to tug away the lacing at her chest, longed to feel every curve of her, feel her hot skin against his own.
Rachel pulled her eyes away quickly. She nodded toward her sleeping pallet. “You ought to sleep a little.” Her voice was husky, trapped in her throat. She stood, taking his arm and leading him toward the bed. She eased him downwards onto the thin straw pallet. Ernest lay on his back, looking up at her. While lying down, the room had begun to spin slightly.
“I’ve taken your bed,” he said. “What will you do?”
She flashed him a quick smile. “It’s still early. I couldn’t sleep this time of night even if I tried.”
“What will you do?” he asked again.
“Read, perhaps.” She nodded toward the small pile of books sitting in the corner beside the sleeping pallet.
“You like to read?”
She nodded.
Ernest looked again at the pile. On the top sat Robinson Crusoe. He tapped the cover with a light finger. “This was my favorite as a child.”
Rachel’s eyes lit up. “And mine. I used to read it with my papa every night before I’d go to sleep.” She picked up the book, running a finger over its worn surface. “It’s falling apart, I’ve read it so many times. But it reminds me of him. I couldn’t bear to part with it.”
Impulsively, Ernest reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, holding his thumb against her warm cheek. Her eyes were close to his. He felt her breath tickle his nose.
“Thank you,” he said huskily, “for all this. It seems I’m something of a disgrace.”
Rachel’s eyes flickered. “We’re all allowed our moments of weakness.”
Ernest swallowed heavily. Felt his gaze lingering on her lips. Were they as soft as they looked, he found himself wondering? Would they taste as sweet as he imagined?
Rachel held his gaze. With a gentle hand, Ernest eased her downwards, feeling the heat of her as she drew nearer. He realized he was holding his breath.
Suddenly, Rachel pulled away as her lips grazed his. “You’re drunk,” she said, her voice caught in her throat. “You ought to sleep.”
Gently, she kissed his temple. Ernest felt his skin burn.
“Good night Mr. Jackson,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. Then she stood soundlessly and carried her book toward the table.
Chapter 14
Graceton Manor was silent. Sarah Jackson, Duchess of Armson, liked it best that way. Silent and dark. Silence and darkness helped her thoughts to still.
The men would be back from the Earl of Landon’s ball soon. They’d come crashing through the front door in a cloud of pipe smoke and wake the entire household.
How long had it been since the Duchess had attended a ball on her husband’s arm? Years, perhaps a decade. Both she and the duke liked it best that way. He’d not have to bother himself with his miserable wife, and she could enjoy the manor in all its dark and silent glory.
The Duchess slid into her bed, pulling the curtains closed around her. Then she opened the chest. Almost thirty years since she had first tucked the trunk into the wardrobe, and still it brought an ache to her chest each time she looked inside.
She’d thought she was the only one who had known of the chest; this little shrine to her daughter. But Ernest had been asking about it—and questioning his father too; the duchess felt sure. She had decided the trunk would no longer be safe in the guest room.
No, from now on, Unity’s chest would stay right here with
her.
She reached into the trunk and took out the tiny gown sitting on top of the pile. She ran her fingers over the delicate stitching along the neckline. She had done the embroidery herself—an elaborate pattern of pink and purple tulips and intertwined leaves. She had drawn out the pattern the day she had discovered herself with child. She had known from the very beginning that Unity would be born a girl.
Sarah could still remember so clearly the day she had received the little gown from the dressmaker. Her daughter had been just weeks old, and the thought of her fitting into the garment had seemed such a distant thing.
A Fiery Escort For The Roguish Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 7