Rachel hesitated. Though a part of her desperately wanted to tell Betsey everything, there was something about her relationship with Mr. Jackson she felt she ought to keep secret.
Relationship? When had that happened?
A flicker of excitement began to bubble inside her.
Stop that, she told herself. You’re being a fool. There’s nothing between us. He’s no longer looking for his sister. You’ll most likely never see the man again.
Betsey fixed her with motherly eyes. Though she was barely a decade older than Rachel, she had taken the younger woman under her wing, often giving her the same gentle guidance she did her children. Usually, Rachel was glad of it. Today it felt like her friend was prying.
“Just be careful,” said Betsey. “I don’t want to see you get hurt. Women like us shouldn’t go around involving ourselves with noblemen. It ain’t where we belong.”
Rachel snorted. “You sound like your mother.”
“Well, sometimes my mother has her wise moments.”
Rachel took the last of her bread from Betsey’s hand and popped it into her mouth. “You have any more?” she asked, swallowing. “I’m starved.”
Betsey handed her two more rolls. “You listening to a word I’m saying? Or you just here for the free food as usual?”
Rachel flashed her a grin. “A little of both.” She touched Betsey’s arm. “I’ll be careful,” she said. “I promise. I’m always careful.”
She left the bakery, eating as she walked, and began to make her way toward the tavern.
As she turned the corner, she felt the back of her neck prickle. Something didn’t feel right.
Am I being watched?
She stopped and looked about her in the street. Two men were hurrying past her with their hands in coat pockets, a scrappy dog trotting behind them. On the corner sat two little girls dressed in rags, staring up at Rachel with wide, expectant eyes.
She dropped a penny into the cup at their feet, hoping the good deed might still the restlessness inside her. She kept walking.
There was that feeling again. That feeling of eyes on her.
It’s naught but my imagination.
These streets at dusk were full of shadows. It was easy to conjure up things that weren’t there. She dug her hands into the pockets of her cloak and, head down, hurried into the tavern.
In the early evening, the place was quiet. A few regulars sat on the crooked chairs at the bar, some calling to Rachel as she entered, flashing her lecherous eyes and toothless grins.
She greeted them with a smile that felt more forced than usual.
“Evening, Miss Bell,” smiled the barkeep, as she pressed herself against the counter.
Rachel gave him a short smile. “I need a drink. The usual.”
He filled a glass with brandy and handed it to her. “You all right there, lass?”
Rachel glanced over her shoulder to peer out the windows. She could see nothing untoward, though the glass was so filthy she couldn’t see much of anything at all. “Just a little on edge,” she admitted. “Mind’s playing tricks on me.” She took a quick gulp of brandy. It slid hot down her throat and took away a fraction of the tension in her shoulders.
The barkeep frowned, following her gaze. “There someone after you?”
She shook her head. “No. No, I’m just being foolish.”
She carried her glass out into the tavern, her eyes panning across the men gathered inside. She drew in her breath.
I can’t do this. Not tonight.
She couldn’t bear the thought of those gnarled hands on her skin. Couldn’t bear the thought of hot, liquored-up breath panting in her ear. Not now. Not tonight.
She made her way upstairs and unlocked the door to her room. She lit the lamp and sat on the edge of the bed, the brandy glass in her hand.
This reluctance. Where is it coming from?
There was rent to pay. Food to buy. She had even hoped to save a few shillings to buy herself new clothes for the mop fair.
It was an idea that had been playing about in her mind for the last few months.
Six months ago, she had thought to attend a mop fair in Clerkenwell. She had put on her best blue dress and her lacy bonnet and embroidered woolen gloves, pinned her hair neatly at the base of her neck. Had looked at herself in the cracked mirror before she had left. Yes, she’d thought, she looked almost respectable. Looked like a lady a man might hire to scrub dishes in his kitchen.
But when she had arrived at the church hall, she had taken one look at the other job seekers and felt her stomach sink. The other ladies were not dressed in embroidered gloves and bonnets with lace. They wore demure dresses of black and grey, their hair tucked beneath mop caps—clothes that showed potential employers they could vanish into the halls of a manor house and go about their business without causing any trouble.
Rachel looked down at her colorful skirts. She didn’t look like a respectable lady, she realized. She looked like an escort.
She ran from the mop fair, without setting foot inside, a ball of embarrassment growing in her stomach.
Since then, she had been saving her pennies, hiding them in a jar beneath a loose floorboard beside her sleeping pallet.
One day soon she would have money to buy those grey skirts and mop caps. Those drab, inoffensive clothes that would have no woman worrying that her husband might be eying the dish maid.
One day soon. And then this cursed life will be a memory.
She had no references, of course, but perhaps if she were dressed in clean new clothes she might find a man willing to take her on as a washerwoman or scullery maid. How gladly she would scrub clean another woman’s underclothes if it meant she might never be forced to take another stranger to her bed.
Rachel tossed back her brandy, trying to find the will to go back down to the tavern. Scrubbing another woman’s underclothes was a dream for another day.
Is it Mr. Jackson that is causing this reluctance in me? Could he be the reason I can’t bear the thought of being touched by another man?
He had kissed her hand as he had left her room.
A tiny, chaste kiss. Nothing more than a gesture of thanks, but it had left a blaze inside her.
She tried to wrestle him from her mind. After all, he was not just Mr. Jackson. He was the Marquess of Dalton. His reluctance to admit the fact did not change a thing. And what was she but a working girl who couldn’t afford a cloth cap to wear to the mop fair?
Betsey was right. Betsey’s mother was right. Allowing herself to develop feelings for the man would only see her hurt.
Rachel smiled wryly to herself.
It’s a little late for that.
Her head was full of him.
She sucked in her breath and stood abruptly.
This foolishness needs to stop.
Mr. Jackson had told her he was no longer searching for his sister. Most likely, she would never see him again.
Rachel went to the window, as orange light began to filter into the room. She pulled back the threadbare gray curtain and peered down into the street. Someone had lit a fire in a steel vat on the corner. Men and women stood huddled around it, warming themselves against the cold spring evening.
And again came that uncomfortable prickling at the back of her neck. That feeling that she was being watched. She squinted, trying to look into the street. As she peered down, a man from below looked up, their eyes meeting. Seized with fear, Rachel yanked closed the curtains.
She pressed a hand to her chest to slow her racing heart.
It’s nothing. Just a man catching my eye.
She drew in a long, deep breath.
It’s nothing. It’s nothing. It’s nothing.
The room around her felt suddenly, eerily silent. She grabbed her empty glass and hurried back down to the tavern.
Chapter 17
Ernest managed to avoid his father until supper time.
The Duke strode to the table with hard eyes and sat opposite h
is son without speaking.
At the sight of him, Ernest was a child again, cowering in his chair while the Duke ranted and raved. He pushed the thought away.
Good Lord, I’m a grown man. Why does my father have the power to make me feel this way?
And why did his father’s opinion matter so much? The last thing Ernest wanted was to live the life of the Duke of Armson, that mindless circus of hunting, smoking, and drinking. That endless drudgery of a loveless marriage. And yet the thought of losing his father’ respect was unbearable.
“How is your head?” his father asked finally.
“Fine.” In truth, he felt he was being clubbed over the temple with a blunt object, but there was no way he was going to admit to it.
The Duke picked up his knife and fork and began to slice his pork into minuscule pieces. “I trust you’ll make your apologies to the Earl,” he said stiffly, “and to Lady Katherine.”
When Ernest said nothing, the Duke’s eyes darted up from his plate and fixed on his son. “Did you hear me, boy?” he demanded.
Ernest sighed heavily. Mary had filled his wine glass, he noticed. Despite the pounding in his skull, he took a long drink. “Yes, sir. I heard. I’ll make my apologies.”
The Duke made a noise from the back of his throat. “It seemed Lady Katherine rather enjoyed the company of Lord Harrow in your absence.”
Ernest hid a smile. He could think of no better match for Lady Katherine than the puffed-up and pompous Lord Harrow.
“You might well have missed your chance with her,” the Duke spat.
Ernest tried to look suitably chastened. He took a bite of his pork. It wasn’t sitting well in his stomach.
For a long time, neither of them spoke. The metallic clatter of cutlery was loud in the silence.
In the wordlessness, Ernest could hear the haunting strains of his mother’s lullaby swirling through his head. The song had stayed with him all day. As had the feeling of unease.
He had spoken to his mother’s lady’s maid and asked that she keep a close eye on her mistress. The embroidered pieces of fabric he had left the duchess’ room. He was regretting it.
I ought to have taken them away. Taken them and that chest away where they’ll not haunt her any longer.
“Forgive me, Unity,” she had said. “I had no choice.”
What had she meant by that? What had she done?
There was a sick feeling in the pit of Ernest’s stomach that had nothing to do with his hangover.
* * *
Two days later, Ernest escaped to the bar at the Montague Hotel. He sat playing cards with Archie Worthington, drinking a brandy only a slight step up from the White Lion’s throat-searing brew.
“I’m surprised you’ve had the nerve to show your face in high society,” Archie teased, thumbing through his hand of cards.
Ernest smile was crooked. “I don’t consider this high society.”
Archie gave a snort of laughter. He tossed down two queens and took a mouthful of brandy. “Anyway, your disappearance was all anyone could talk about. I’d suggest you lay low for a while.”
“Good lord,” said Ernest, rubbing his eyes. “was it dire?”
“It was amusing. Lady Katherine was watching your seat like a hawk, her face getting redder and redder. I thought she might explode at one point. Penelope told her you’d taken ill, but I don’t think she believed her.”
Ernest sighed heavily. He placed a jack on the table.
Archie scooped up the cards and began to deal again. “Why did you leave?” he asked finally.
Ernest took a mouthful of brandy.
Why exactly did I leave?
He’d been to countless balls. Why had this one felt so unbearable? Was it the fervor with which the Earl of Landon was pushing his daughter toward him? Or was the restlessness inside him reaching the point of no return? “I just had to,” he told Archie, realizing it was a lame attempt at an answer. “The whole…mess of it…I…” He stumbled, trying to put his tangled feelings into words. “It’s just all so forced, so damn contrived. Everyone is hiding behind these formalities that have been drummed into us since birth.” His voice began to rise. “It’s just so bloody exhausting. No one is being their true selves. They’re all too afraid to show anyone who that is.”
Archie raised his eyebrows. “The trifle was good.”
Ernest looked away, embarrassed by his outburst. “Do you truly enjoy it?” he asked finally.
“Trifle?”
Ernest flashed his friend a wry smile. “Being in such places.”
Archie shrugged. “What’s not to like? Plenty to eat and drink. Women to admire…”
“That’s not enough though, is it.”
Archie eyed him curiously, running a finger over his shorn chin. “What are you not telling me, Dalton?” He arched an eyebrow. “Where exactly did you run off to the other night?”
Ernest shook his head. “Nowhere.”
Archie snorted. “Nowhere.” He jabbed a finger under Ernest’s nose. “There’s a woman involved. I know it.”
Ernest said nothing.
Archie let out a booming laugh. “You sly devil! Who is she? Is this why went bolting away from the Lady Katherine the other night? Because you had somewhere better to be?”
“It’s not like that,” said Ernest.
Isn’t it? Exactly what is it like?
All he knew was that Rachel Bell had made the restlessness inside him thousand times worse. Rachel Bell had turned his faint dislike of the ton into a raging abhorrence.
Archie slammed his glass on the table emphatically. He flung down his cards. “Tell me everything.”
And Ernest found himself blurting out the story of the night he had gone looking for his sister in Bethnal Green. Found himself telling Archie of how Rachel had taught him to fit in, and about her search for George Owen. And then he found himself telling Archie about the way he had stumbled drunkenly onto her sleeping pallet. Told him of the way he had fallen asleep to the sound of her breathing.
“Bloody hell, Dalton,” Archie said then took a big gulped his whiskey. He took another mouthful for dramatic effect. “You’re a right fool.”
Ernest nodded slowly.
Indeed I am.
“She’s an escort,” he said, deciding there was little point keeping anything from Archie now.
His friend said nothing. Ernest had been expecting another snort of laughter or a tirade of insults at his stupidity. He was grateful for the silence.
Finally, Archie said: “What are you going to do?”
“What can I do? I’m expected to marry a lady of the nobility. Doing otherwise would dishonor my family. My father would never forgive me.”
“So you’ll marry the likes of Lady Katherine to keep your father happy? Spend your life miserable for the sake of honor?”
Ernest hesitated, taken aback. He had not expected Archie to take this angle. Archie had done what any young nobleman was expected to do, marry the woman with the highest-placed connections and produce an heir. As far as Ernest could tell, his friend was happy with his choices.
“Are you miserable?” he found himself blurting.
Archie sipped his drink. “Miserable, no. But when I speak about Penelope, I know my eyes don’t light up in the same way yours did when you told me about this Rachel.”
Ernest inhaled sharply.
Is it that obvious?
And yet, what was he to do? His eyes had lit up when he had spoken of Rachel, yes, but it didn’t change the fact that they were more than a few rungs apart on the social ladder. If he were to turn his back on the fine marriage his father had engineered for him, he would be cast from the family. He would lose his father’s respect. Perhaps even his love.
Not even Rachel Bell was worth that.
Chapter 18
Ernest arrived home to find the house quiet. The smell of roast meat was lingering in the dining room, and the remains of a fire were smoking in the grate. The downstairs rooms
were dark. No doubt his father had retired, mercifully, to his study.
Ernest felt a need to check on his mother. He made his way upstairs and knocked gently on the door of her bedroom.
Her lady’s maid poked her head out from the Duchess’ dressing room. “She’s sleeping, My Lord,” she said. “She’s not been at all well today, I’m afraid.”
A Fiery Escort For The Roguish Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 9