A Fiery Escort For The Roguish Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency)

by Scarlett Osborne

  The baker folded her arms and let out an enormous sigh. “Next street along,” she said. “Building on the corner. Third floor.” She poked a floury finger under his nose. “If I find out you’ve hurt her, I’ll come after you. I’ll hunt you down in your grand house and make you sorry you were ever born. Do you understand?”

  Ernest swallowed. “Yes,” he said, meeting her eyes. “I understand.” He scooped the bread loves from the counter and tucked them under his arm. “Thank you for the directions,” he said stiffly. “And the bread.”

  * * *

  The knock at the door yanked Rachel from her broken dreams.

  “Miss Bell?”

  She stiffened at the sound of Mr. Jackson’s voice. In spite of herself, she felt tears pricking behind her eyes. She willed him to go away.

  “Miss Bell? Are you there? Please open the door.”

  Miss Bell. Last night, she had been Rachel. Best this way, of course. Best she never forgets her place.

  She lay motionless. She would not answer the door. She would not entertain this foolish thing between them any longer.

  Betsey had been right. Where was this ever going to lead but heartbreak? She swiped at a tear that slid down her cheek.

  “Rachel, please. I just need to speak with you.”

  She hesitated. A part of her longed to open the door and throw her arms around him. A part of her longed to drag him to her sleeping pallet and finish what they had started last night.

  But what when it was over? They would have no choice but to be coughed back out into the world; he a marquess and she a lowly escort.

  And he had used her. She could not let herself lose sight of that. She had been nothing to him but a means of finding his sister. Hadn’t she?

  She felt a faint flash of doubt.

  Would he be standing on her doorstep if he were only using her?

  Yes, she decided. No doubt he simply wanted to hound her about that cursed stitching on her underskirts again.

  She closed her eyes.

  Let him leave.

  Finally, she heard the landing creak and his footsteps disappeared down the stairs. Rachel climbed to her knees and peeked through the rag covering the window. There he was, hands in the pocket of that ridiculous greatcoat, head down as he trudged back through the street. She felt a stabbing pain in the back of her throat.

  What is that smell?

  She opened the door to see five loaves of bread sitting on her doorstep. She scooped them up and sat them on her table. She pulled an enormous piece from the end of the loaf and began to chew.

  Betsey’s bread.

  So Mr. Jackson had been to the bakery. She wondered what Betsey had made of him.

  She swallowed the bread and stood abruptly. She needed him out of her mind.

  Tonight, she would go to the tavern and be more charming than she had ever been before. She would take her usual clients and find new ones and earn the money to buy those new clothes for the mop fair.

  Hell, she would buy some new underskirts too. Ones without tulips embroidered on the hem…

  * * *

  The White Lion was busy. Rachel was glad of it. She had taken two men to that creaky little room before the sun had even gone down. She made her way back to the bar, running her fingers over the coins in her pockets. The money felt good in her hands. A reminder that all this would be over soon.

  She caught sight of a man striding across the bar toward her. He was tall and broad shouldered, dressed in a fine black suit. A silk scarf was knotted at his neck.

  Rachel hesitated. She’d had enough of men with silk scarves. But his eyes were firmly fixed on her.

  I bet there’s plenty of money in those pockets of his. Plenty of money to buy me new clothes…

  She flashed him a smile.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, not returning her smile.

  Rachel swallowed. Something in his eyes made her shift uncomfortably. “Annie,” she lied. “Annie Turner.”

  The man looked her up and down. “Annie Turner.” His eyes felt as though they were boring into her. “I’m looking for an escort, Annie Turner.”

  The muscles in her shoulders tightened. “I’m sorry,” she blurted. “I’m not available.”

  “I can pay you well.” He dug into his pocket and flashed her a glimpse of a pound coin. “Plenty more where that came from.”

  “Why such a good price?” Rachel asked stiffly. “What do you want from me?”

  He smiled a thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re a beautiful woman, Miss Turner. I just want what all men want. A little company.”

  Rachel hesitated. The man’s flinty eyes made her muscles tighten, but she could not deny the coin between his fingers was alluring.

  “Two pounds,” she said hurriedly, before she changed her mind. “Two pounds for the night. That’s the sum for my company.”

  The sum was ridiculous, she knew. A part of her expected him to laugh in her face. But he simply shrugged and handed over the coin in his pocket.

  “One pound now, one pound at the end of the night. Seems a fair deal, does it not?”

  Rachel slid the coin into her pocket. “Indeed sir,” she said throatily. “A fair deal indeed.” She eyed the man cautiously. Threads of grey hair hung over his temples, his face lined and leathery. His eyes were like black marbles, set back deep in his worn cheeks.

  “What’s your name, sir?” she asked, her voice trapped in her throat.

  The man raised a wooly eyebrow. Rachel didn’t blame him for his surprise. She was not in the habit of asking clients their names. Best if a man and his escort knew as little about each other as possible. Best they be strangers, ghosts, passing, fleeting images that were forgotten come the morning.

  But there was something unsettling about this man. Naming him made him somehow less frightening. Somehow more human.

  He paused. “Burns,” he said finally, pinning her with those hard black eyes.

  Rachel gave a slight nod. Something tightened in her throat and she pushed it away.

  Two pounds, she reminded herself. All the things two pounds could buy…

  Two pounds would bring that elusive new life closer than it had ever been.

  She held out a hand and let him slide his rough fingers into hers. “I’ve a room upstairs, Mr. Burns. Shall we?”

  And she led the man up the creaking staircase, ignoring the churning in the pit of her stomach.

  Chapter 26

  In the morning, Rachel awoke with fresh enthusiasm. The ache in her chest over all that had happened between she and Ernest Jackson was still there, but the coins in her pocket made it possible to push it aside.

  Coins in her pocket. They would get her new clothes. Clothes she might wear to the mop fair and find a position at a manor house. Clothes that would earn her a life that did not involve selling her body to anyone with a penny in their pocket.

  She rolled onto her back and stared up at the rough beams of the ceiling. She could see a dark patch above her head where dampness had softened the wood.

  A position at a manor house would also see her in new lodgings. She would have a room of her own with a proper bed and a fire that did more than hiss and spit. No longer would she sleep on this damp straw pallet, while east London clattered and groaned around her.

  She reached an arm out from beneath her blankets and felt for the money pouch she had tucked beneath the mattress. She pulled out the two pounds she had earned last night. She rolled the coins between her fingers. They felt solid and satisfying. They left a small smile in the corner of her lips.

  Burns had not been the most pleasant of clients. Beyond the unsettling sharpness of his eyes, he had been cold and demanding when she had taken him upstairs to her room. Firm hands and a rough, possessive body. She had come across plenty of men like him before. Men who needed to be in control.

  Still, she could not deny he had paid her well for the privilege. And he had asked for her company the following night. �
�An evening on the town”, he had said. Four pounds for the pleasure.

  Rachel drew in her breath, feeling somehow both edgy and excited. The thought of an entire evening in Burns’ company left an uncomfortable churning in her stomach. But with the sum agreed, she would have enough for the coming month’s rent and the clothes she needed for the mop fair.

  I can manage an evening with Burns for that…

  Her new life felt tantalizingly in reach. She clasped her hands around the coins and drew in her breath.

  Might this man be my last ever client? Might I never be forced to do this again?

  The thought brought a faint flutter to her chest.

  She climbed from her sleeping pallet and dressed. It was early, she realized. She could tell by the pearly light filtering through the patched window.

  How long has it been since I’ve awoken so early?

  She took a large bite of the bread Mr. Jackson had brought her. At the thought of him, the ache inside her began to swell, and she pushed it aside.

  This thing between them was over.

  For the best.

  She told herself again.

  For the best.

  She had known from the beginning, of course, that their little tryst would have no future. It had gone on far longer than she had expected. And, yes, it had hurt much more than she had expected when it had come to its abrupt and bitter end. But she could not claim to be surprised.

  She pulled back the rags patching the window and glanced out into the street below. The cobblestones were bathed in morning sun, the sky above a vibrant blue. She could feel a warm breeze against her cheek. In such brilliant spring weather, even Bethnal Green managed to look something more than a cramped and filthy slum.

  It’s gone, Rachel realized suddenly. That feeling of being watched.

  She smiled to herself.

  It’s completely gone.

  She took another mouthful of bread and chewed, deep in thought.

  New underskirts, she thought suddenly. She had two pounds in her pocket. Enough to buy herself new underskirts, along with the food and coal she needed. She would buy those skirts today. It would signal the start of her new life and stop her from thinking of Mr. Jackson each time she saw those cursed purple tulips.

  She slid on her cloak and made her way out into the street.

  * * *

  Ernest forced down a few mouthfuls of congealing eggs, a headache thumping behind his eyes. His parents sat at either end of the breakfast table, barely acknowledging the other’s existence.

  Ernest choked down another forkful of eggs and glanced at the Duchess. She sat hunched over her plate, wearing a colorless day dress and shawl, her grey hair ghosting around her face. Her clothes seemed to hang off her body.

  Has she always looked this fragile? Or is she losing weight?

  Ernest glanced at her plate. The eggs had barely been touched. Although, he reasoned, he’d hardly touched his either. They were exceptionally terrible eggs.

  The Duchess slid her long fingers through the handle of her teacup and took a delicate sip. She had not said a word throughout the entire meal, not even a cursory good morning to her husband or son.

  Ernest couldn’t remember her speaking at all since the night he had discovered the laudanum on her nightstand and the embroidered squares all over her bed.

  The embroidered squares.

  Purple tulips.

  The thought yanked him back to Rachel and brought a stabbing pain to his chest. Their argument had circled through his head throughout the night, punctuated each time by the slamming of the carriage door as she disappeared into the night.

  The carriage door…Oh lord, the carriage…

  How thoroughly he had lost himself when they had climbed into that carriage. She had filled the coach with her dizzying scent of rosewater and he’d lost all ability to think. Suddenly, all that had mattered was her, the taste of her beneath his lips, the feel of her beneath his fingers. The only thing that had stopped him from losing control completely were those damn purple tulips…

  Suddenly hot with lingering, unsated desire, Ernest realized he very much did not want to be sitting beside his parents. He gulped down the last of his tea and hurriedly left the breakfast table, pulling on his coat and heading out into the grounds.

  He strode away from the manor and wove through the grove of pine trees, needing an escape from the stifling atmosphere permeating the house. Needing an escape from the cloud that hung permanently over his mother.

  Ernest noticed dimly how brilliant the day was. The sky was a fierce blue, stretching unbroken and cloudless to the horizon. He was warm in his coat, a reminder that the long days of summer were not far away.

  The weather did little to lift his mood. He was regretful, ashamed and edgy.

  What if someone saw me at the theater with Rachel?

  He cursed himself for the thought. Tried to push it away. He had convinced himself he didn’t care. Somehow, he had managed to convince himself that a night with Rachel Bell was worth whatever came of it. And when they’d sat in the dark of the box with their hands intertwined, he had become sure of it.

  But all that had come from his evening with Rachel was a feeling of loss and hopelessness from the knowledge that he had ruined whatever fragile and fleeting thing the two of them had had.

  How would he defend himself if they had been seen? What possible explanation could he give that would not see him and his family embroiled in scandal? All the worries that had seemed so trivial when he was hyped up with lust and excitement suddenly came crashing back.

  He strode past the flower garden. The beds were awash with color, the blooms opening with the spring. Bees circled the garden, coming to land on the delicate petals. A warm breeze skimmed across the grass, making the flowers bend and sway.

  Those skirts. Tulips with intertwined leaves.

  Those skirts had ruined everything.

  Or rather, my obsession with them had…

  But he could not get the image of them out of his mind. The stitching on Rachel’s hem was exactly the same as on Unity’s smock. Exactly the same as the design his mother had stitched, again and again, on those small squares of fabric.

  This was no coincidence. He felt sure of it.

  But what possible explanation was there for an escort from an East End tavern ending up with those purple tulips embroidered on her skirt hem?

  He had to know where Rachel had bought them. He knew women like her rarely bought their clothes new. Most likely, she had found the skirts at a market or charity stall. She’d claimed not to remember. But had she just said such a thing out of anger?

  Anger that was well justified.

  Ernest sighed heavily. He knew he had almost no chance of speaking to Rachel about the skirts again. He had almost no chance of speaking to Rachel about anything.

  He longed suddenly for that dull, mind-numbing existence he had been drifting through before he had met her. That dull existence was mind numbing, yes, but it was easy. This ache in his chest was far too painful.

  He dug his hands into his coat pockets and kept walking, doing his best to push Rachel from his mind. An impossibility, of course, but perhaps he might at least focus on something else.

  He realized he had arrived at his family’s burial plot on the edge of the property.

  Is there where I was heading all along?

  Without thinking, he wove through the weather-worn graves toward Unity’s headstone. Fresh flowers had been strewn across it, each bundle tied with a narrow ribbon. Many flowers. Many bundles. The Duchess had been visiting the grave more regularly than usual, he could tell.

  Beneath one of the flower bunches, he could see a scrap of white poking out beneath. He knelt to inspect it.

  A square of white fabric. Embroidered with purple tulips.

  He sighed heavily.

  Oh Mother, what are you doing? And what did you do to my sister?

  He tucked the fabric back beneath the flowers and pre
ssed a hand to the earth beside the headstone.

  Is Unity truly down there?

  Though Ernest had never heard anyone outside his family speak of his sister, he supposed there must have been a time when people had known about her. After all, she had been the first child of a Duke and Duchess. A reason for celebration, despite not being the longed-for heir.