How has she managed to do such a thing? How has she persuaded these noblemen to spill their secrets to a lowly kitchen maid?
He couldn’t pull his eyes from her. He watched her hand work its way up the gentleman’s arm. Felt the back of his neck prickle with heat. He tugged edgily at his collar.
Lady Katherine followed his gaze, then, seeing no one of interest, turned back to him. “My father had all manner of dreadful things to say about you,” she told him. “But I stood up for you. I told him you didn’t seem well on Saturday.” She gave him a coy smile. “The thing is, My Lord, if I’m not to marry you, my father has the Duke of Harrington in mind for me. I’d be his third wife. I can’t imagine anything worse. I’m barely a year older than his daughter.”
“Third wife,” Ernest said distantly. “How dreadful.” His eyes followed Rachel across the garden.
“Have you found another match?” Lady Katherine asked suddenly, her words rising in pitch.
Ernest turned to look at her. “Another match? No, I—”
“I know by taking me as your wife you’d be marrying below your station.” He heard a slight tremor in her voice. “I’m sure I could not blame you if you sought to make a better match.”
Ernest watched as the man pressed a firm hand into the small of Rachel’s back. He shifted uncomfortably.
“That’s it, isn’t it,” sniffed Lady Katherine, producing a lacy handkerchief and dabbing her eyes. “Your silence tells me everything. Who is she?” She tried to cover a sob. “Just tell me, Lord Dalton. Who is she?”
“It’s no one,” Ernest said hurriedly. “It’s nothing like that.”
“Then what?” she asked tearfully. “What is so dreadful about me that you felt you had to go tearing out into the night?”
Ernest’s stomach tightened. Tearing out into the night had been about his own restlessness, his own discontent. He had never imagined it might upset Lady Katherine so much. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he had assumed she would just move on to the next man at the table.
“It’s just…I have no plans to marry.” As soon as the words left his lips, he could not believe he had said them.
“I beg your pardon?” said Katherine, blinking away her tears in surprise. “No plans to marry? Whatever do you mean?”
Rachel darted out of the tent, flashing a cheeky glance at the man she had been speaking with. After a moment, he followed her. Ernest’s heart began to quicken.
What in hell is she doing?
He stood abruptly. “I’m sorry, My Lady,” he garbled. “We must continue this conversation another time. There’s something I must do urgently.”
He hurried out of the tent and peered around the garden.
Where was she?
He caught sight of a flash of black skirts between the trees at the edge of the property. There was Rachel with her back pressed against a tree trunk, the man from the party leaning over her.
Heart thudding, Ernest edged closer. For a moment, he thought to intercept but caught sight of a smile on Rachel’s face. It was a forced smile, he realized. An act, a persona. She trailed a narrow finger down the line of gold buttons on the man’s front. The man leaned toward her, eyes hot with desire.
Ernest felt a blaze inside him.
Anger? Or something more.
He swallowed heavily.
Am I jealous?
Rachel darted suddenly out from beneath the man’s arm and called out a bubbly farewell. The man cursed at her, his cheeks flushing scarlet.
Rachel raced through the trees, catching hold of Ernest’s arm as she ran.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, as they both hid breathlessly against the side of the house. “I told you to stay away from me!”
“I thought you were going to be discreet!” Ernest whispered. “I hardly think taking a gentleman behind the garden tent for a little tending to is discreet!” He felt color rise in his cheeks, as his words fell out of his mouth without censure.
Rachel gave a slight laugh. She stepped closer, her eyes meeting his. “Honestly, Mr. Jackson, anyone would think you were jealous.”
Ernest swallowed. He was being jealous, he realized. And foolish. After all, he was the one who had asked for Rachel’s help. “I’m sorry,” he managed. “I just don’t want to see you get yourself in trouble.” He held her gaze for a moment.
“I found your Baron,” she said after a moment, a smile lighting her face.
“You did?”
She nodded. “Recently moved to Covent Garden. Likes to frequent the Grand Hotel in Piccadilly.”
Ernest’s face broke into a grin. “You truly are a marvel.”
Rachel shot him a playful smile. “Of course I am. Now I’d best get out of here. If anyone saw me take that man down the back of the tent, they’ll throw me out in an instant.”
Chapter 21
Rachel peered through the window of the Grand Hotel.
“That’s him,” said Mr. Jackson beside her, pointing to an enormous, wide-shouldered man with a green and gold waistcoat straining across his middle. “You see him?”
Rachel gave a snort of laughter. “It’s a little hard not to.”
He grinned, then turned to face her, his eyes grew serious. “Are you sure about this?”
“Of course.” She hesitated. “Are you?”
“I’m sure,” said Mr. Jackson. “I know you’re a professional at this and I’m sure you know how to handle such a man without—”
Rachel smiled slightly. “I meant, are you sure you want to find out what he knows about your mother and the Viscount?”
“Oh.” Mr. Jackson’s cheeks colored slightly. “Yes. Yes, I’m sure.”
She smiled to herself.
She smoothed her skirts and tucked a stray strand of blonde hair back into the knot at her neck.
Mr. Jackson took her arm. “Be careful.”
She nodded. “I’m always careful.”
She pushed open the door and sidled into the lavishly-decorated bar, weaving her way through the throng of tail-coated men toward the Baron.
She sidled up to him. “You need a little attention, My Lord?”
Standing beside him, he felt impossibly large. Seated, he reached past her shoulder. The skin hung from his neck in rolls, and he smelled of sweat and brandy. Grey hair hang lifelessly at his collar.
He looked at her sideways from beneath his thick eyebrows. “Perhaps,” he said. “I’ve a game of whist planned. Will you still be about when I’m done?”
Rachel looked at him from beneath her lashes. “I’ll still be about, My Lord, but I can’t guarantee I’ll be free.”
The Baron hesitated, raking her pale skin with his eyes.
“Perhaps you might find us a room?” Rachel suggested, fluttering her lashes.
Finally, the Baron nodded, scooping his glass from the table and easing himself from his chair. He disappeared into the foyer, returning moments later with a sly grin stretching his cheeks. He wrapped his meaty hand around Rachel’s and led her toward the staircase.
Rachel paused. The glass in his hand was almost empty. She had no idea how much he had drunk earlier in the night, but she knew a man with liquor in his blood was far more likely to spill his secrets.
“Perhaps a drink?” she asked the Baron, giving him a coy smile. “After all, we don’t want tonight to be over too soon now, do we?”
He chuckled. “A drink’s a fine idea.” He slid a key from his pocket and pressed it into her hand. “Room twelve,” he told her. “I’ll be up shortly.” He looked up at down at the crimson gown she wore whenever she ventured into high society. “And I expect to see that gown on the floor.”
Rachel pushed away her revulsion. “Of course, My Lord,” she twittered. She tossed her cloak alluringly and made her way up the stairs.
She walked down the hallway until she found Room twelve, then slid the key into the lock. The room was elaborately decorated, with gaudy velvet curtains and a wide, ornamental picture rail. A lar
ge painting of a seascape hung on one wall.
She slid off her cloak and laid it over the crimson-colored chaise in the corner of the room. Then came her dress, her underskirts.
She stood by the chaise in her shift and stockings. The Baron, she guessed, was a man who took great joy in removing a woman’s stockings.
The door swung open and in he ambled, a bottle of fine French whiskey swinging in his fist. Rachel managed a wry smile.
At least I’ll get a decent drop to drink out of all this.
He grinned at the sight of her, shuffling across the room and planting a wet kiss on the side of her neck. Rachel’s skin crawled at the contact, but she managed to keep the smile plastered on her face. How adept she had become at keeping a smile plastered on her face, she thought dully.
She reached for the bottle and took it from the Baron’s hand, letting it slide alluringly across her thigh as she made her way toward the table. She filled two crystal glasses. A small one for her—just enough to take the edge of this sickening debacle—and a large one for the Baron so he might develop the loosest of tongues.
She clinked her glass against his. “Tell me about yourself,” she said. “I’ve always been so fascinated by men of your standing.”
Rachel feigned interest as the Baron rattled on and on about his family—descended from Danish royalty, no less—sliding off his monstrous coat and waistcoat as he did so.
Soon he stood before her in all his naked glory; a juddering mountain of white flesh.
Rachel forced herself not to look away in disgust.
And then he was coming toward her, his flinty eyes shining with anticipation, sweat already sheening his forehead.
Rachel lay back on the bed and closed her eyes, clenching a fist around the edge of the pillow as he pushed his way inside her.
The seaside, she thought hurriedly.
Chocolate cake.
Christmas time.
She felt tears prick her eyes.
She swallowed heavily.
The seaside. Chocolate cake. Christmas time.
The tears persisted, tightening her throat and making her eyes burn.
What is this?
She had lost count long ago of how many men she had bedded. But she knew for certain, that she had never before felt like crying. But now the shame of it was welling up inside her, threatening to escape as a torrent of tears.
How had her life come to this? She had been a good, honest child, with decent, hard-working parents. This was not the life she was supposed to have had. She was supposed to have finished her studies at the charity school and found good honest work as a governess. And then she was supposed to have found a man who loved her enough to make her his wife.
A tear escaped down her cheek.
Who would ever make me their wife now?
Marriage was something she had not allowed herself to think about since she had begun to work as an escort. Women like her rarely married, and when they did it was out of desperation. That fairytale of finding a man she loved had become nothing but an illusion. A dream that had died along with her parents.
She had resigned herself to a life of being alone. Truly, it had never really bothered her. Her work as an escort had made her see that love was little more than a fantasy. Men came to her because they didn’t care for their wives. They came to her because they’d grown bored of the woman they had pledged to spend their lives with. Why would she bother to marry, Rachel had thought, when she’d be tossed aside the moment her husband grew restless? Why should she give herself to a man when he’d just end up in the arms of an escort?
Three years in this business had made her hard and made her strong. And it had also taught her that there was no such thing as love.
But now, she realized, she did not feel quite so certain. Because Ernest Jackson made her heart speed and her insides flutter. He made her words come out sounding like an innocent, tongue-tied school girl.
Ernest Jackson, of course, was not the type of man she could even dream of marrying. She had enough sense to know that. But since she had met him, she was unable to stop the thought from entering her mind:
Could it be possible that love is real?
Ernest Jackson, she thought. I’m doing this for him.
And she had best not let the Baron see her crying her eyes out beneath him. She was sure such a thing would dampen the passions of even the most lecherous of men.
She brought a hurried hand to her eyes and swiped away her tears.
The Baron finished with a grunt and rolled off her, Rachel drawing in an enormous, desperate breath. She lurched toward the nightstand for the whiskey and took a generous gulp.
Then she turned back to the Baron, sitting up on her elbow and giving him the silkiest of smiles.
“Did you ever meet the Viscount of Annerley?” she asked airily.
The Baron snorted, a line of sweat trickling down his forehead. “Why are you speaking of another man when you’re lying here in my bed?”
She shrugged. “I met him once, is all. When he was back in London for a visit. I seem to remember him speaking of you.”
The Baron raised his caterpillar eyebrows. “He did, did he? And what exactly did he have to say about me?”
“He mentioned your name in passing,” said Rachel. “Nothing more.” She shuffled across the mattress, so she lay closer to the Baron’s panting body. “I heard it was love that had the Viscount fleeing London.” She rolled over and reached for a glass, pressing it into his meaty hand. “Heard it was quite the scandal.”
The Baron chuckled, downing the whiskey and handing the glass back to Rachel. “Why you so interested in the Viscount?”
“Just like a good piece of gossip,” she said. “Don’t we all?”
The Baron nodded at the glass. “Get me another. There’s a good girl.”
Rachel slid from the bed and refilled the glass.
“Didn’t seem like the type to be involved in a scandal,” she said, sitting back beside the Baron and letting her breasts graze his pasty chest.
“Well…” He used his free hand to run his fingers over her thigh. “Time hasn’t been kind to any of us. But the Viscount was quite dashing in his day. Caught the eye of many a lady.”
“And one in particular,” said Rachel, trying for a sly, knowing grin.
The Baron sighed wistfully and gulped the liquor, drifting into a haze of nostalgia. “Yes indeed. Lady Sarah Edwards. She was quite the catch back then. I even fancied my chances with her for a while, but she was swept up by the Duke of Armson.”
Rachel sipped her whiskey. “Do you think Lady Sarah loved the Viscount?”
The Baron shrugged. “He claimed she did. But then, what man would admit to being jilted?”
Rachel gave a knowing smile. “But she didn’t marry him. She married the Duke. Why?”
The Baron lay back on his pillow, folding his arms behind his head. “She wanted a finer husband for herself, I suppose. Better to be a duchess than a viscountess.”
“Do you think that’s truly why the Viscount left London?” Rachel asked. “Because Sarah chose to marry another man?”
“Word was she cast him aside without a second thought. He believed she loved him, but then she up and married the Duke of Armson. Barely gave the Viscount an explanation.” He jabbed a fat finger beneath Rachel’s nose. “I tried to warn him. The Viscount. I tried to tell him. Said only fools marry for love.”
Chapter 22
Rachel sat opposite Mr. Jackson at her kitchen table in Bethnal Green. A pot of tea sat between them, along with a candle that was hissing and spitting its way toward the brass holder.
Rachel could still feel the Baron’s hands on her. She gulped the tea, the warmth of it helping settle her a little.
It was worth it. I finally have something worthwhile to tell Mr. Jackson.
She dug a hand into her pocket and felt the coins inside her pouch. She’d been paid well for the night too.
“The Viscount left
London because of my mother?” Mr. Jackson repeated, his eyes wide.
“Apparently his love was unrequited. She chose to marry your father instead.”
He hummed to himself, deep in thought. He gave a short, humorless chuckle. “It’s hard to imagine my mother being the source of such heartbreak.”
A Fiery Escort For The Roguish Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 12