The orchestra conductor tapped his baton and the musicians struck up a tune. When Gina saw Mabel dance onto the stage, she shouted along with the rest. She didn’t have a very big part.
After a series of high kicks that showed her frilly knickers, spins, and the splits, she disappeared into the wings. Then a comedian came on stage. He took a fair amount of heckling from the audience and seemed glad to run off. A group of acrobats appeared, dark-haired men like peas in a pod with their muscled chests and striped jerseys. A juggler dropped one of his flaming torches and the fear of fire sent a louder gasp through the crowd than when he’d juggled eight balls in the air.
After a brief interval, three men with handlebar mustaches sang My love is like the red, red rose, in perfect harmony. Mabel appeared again, this time dancing in clogs. Gina clapped hard.
After the sword swallower stunned the audience, the musicians struck up with a flourish for the finale. The curtain closed, and minutes later swept open to reveal women dressed as Ancient Greek goddesses. Looking mysterious and beautiful, they stood like statues among columns of an ancient temple, their figures boldly displayed in flimsy drapery. Moments later, the curtain closed again to tumultuous applause.
Gina made her way out of the theater into William IV Street. Dusk had fallen, and lamplighters did their rounds with their ladders, turning on the stopcocks at each lamppost. Patrons wrapped their warm cloaks around themselves and rushed home, as the savage night air bit into any exposed skin. Carriage wheels rattled over the cobbles and took the last of the patrons away.
Gina set out to walk home. A prostitute crossed the road, swaying coquettishly, her kiss-me-quick ringlets peeping from under her hat. A tall man passed her without a glance. He came up to Gina and swept off his hat. “The girl in the painting,” the Scot said. “Aphrodite, wasn’t it?”
When Gina hesitated, he reached into his pocket and drew out a calling card, handing it to her. “Charles Ogilvie, Earl of Douglass.”
Gina gazed at the elaborate gold lettering.
“I missed out on buying that painting; it went for an extravagant sum,” he said. “I’d very much like to view the rest of the artist’s work. May I escort you home?”
He was a sallow-faced man with curly, fair hair, his eyes a cold, dull green. When he drew a gold watch from his pocket, an ornate ring flashed on his hand.
Gina looked at the card again. “You may come with me now if you wish,” she said. Milo might sell another painting. “It’s not far.”
“Excellent.” He took her arm and led her across the street. She didn’t like him touching her, but before she could draw away, a black carriage pulled up with a crest on the door drawn by four snorting black horses. “Shall we travel in comfort?” He urged her toward it.
When they settled in the carriage, the earl’s demeanor changed. He moved closer to Gina on the crimson velvet squabs and studied her as if she were a horse he intended to buy. “Do you agree to unusual requests?”
Gina swallowed, as fear flooded through her. “What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “No need to pretend with me. I tell my girls straight up what I want. And I pay well.”
“You mistake me. I’m an artist’s model, sir.” Her heart banged against her ribs, and she edged back into the corner. The carriage sped through the darkening streets.
He laughed humorlessly. “Don’t play the actress with me. It bores me.”
She clasped her hands in her lap and swallowed, her throat dry. “Do you mean you wish me to pose for a specific painting?” She hoped he would seize on this as a way out of an embarrassing mistake.
He watched her. “Pose? Not exactly.” She felt like a butterfly he’d caught in his net. “You really don’t know what I refer to? Now I’m interested.”
“Please stop this carriage. I wish to walk.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You’re not a prostitute?”
“I am not. Not that it’s any of your business.” Gina reached for the door. “Stop this carriage immediately. I want to get out.”
He grabbed her, like a cobra striking, his fingers biting into the tender skin of her forearm. “I’d pay extremely well for a virgin.”
As she struggled, he pulled her toward him and whispered in her ear. “I’ll tell you exactly what I want you to do....”
The filth that came from his lips made her gag. Her skin crawled and her heart sickened. Gasping, she placed her hand on his chest and shoved away from him. “Never speak to me again. You probably have a horrible disease.”
When the traffic slowed to a crawl, Gina reefed the carriage door open and jumped. She fell straight into the putrid, gushing waters in the gutter, while the reek of hot horse dung stung her nostrils.
When she struggled to her feet, the earl called down, “Perhaps you have to sink to the gutter before you can appreciate what I offer you. Think about it, as I said, I pay well. You have my card.” He slammed the door shut and tapped the roof of the carriage with his cane
“Not if I was a penniless orphan,” she yelled and ran down the street, aware that the carriage took off behind her. Looking like the devil’s own vehicle, the carriage disappeared around a corner. Gina stopped and bent over, breathless with revulsion, fear, and rage.
She took her bearings. He had taken her out of her way. She was a mile from Shoreditch. A sob blocked her throat. She lifted her reeking skirts away from her skin, aware that in her soiled clothes, she looked like a streetwalker. As it was, an unaccompanied woman always drew glances.
A crowd gathered outside the gin shop. Gina pulled her cloak tight and gritted her teeth, pushing her way through the rogues and thieves, trying not to inhale the rancid smell of unwashed bodies. A pregnant woman was shoved to the pavement as she tried to sell apples. Gina stooped to help her to her feet.
She slapped down the groping hands of a man who leered at her with a mouth of blackened teeth and hurried along giving a street singer a wide berth. Her knees were bruised and a graze on her leg stung almost as much as her wounded pride, as she hurried home. She had grown so tired of this life. She didn’t belong here, any more than her mother had.
This morning, Milo said he couldn’t consider moving yet. He had too much work to do. She still hoped that he would change his mind, but knew it would do little good to daydream. She no longer hoped for that knight on a white charger to whisk her off and marry her. To survive, she must become smarter, tougher. It was foolish to have trusted that earl. Just because he had been born into the nobility, didn’t mean he was a gentleman at heart. She would never make the same mistake again.
Chapter Seven
Dublin
Blair entered his mother’s bedroom lit by a small gas lamp. He sat beside her bed and held her thin hand in his. “I’m here, Mamma.”
She didn’t stir.
Some hours later, while he remained at Maeve’s bedside stroking her feverish brow with a cold cloth, Blair forced himself to face the fact that he could lose her. Of course, he would sometime, but please God, not yet. Maeve had always been there, annoyingly opinionated at times, but always affectionate and full of life.
Blair yawned and went to open the curtains. It was dawn, the sky a soft gray-violet. He watched motionless, as it turned a pale, watery blue then returned to the bed and took up the cloth again, wringing it out in the basin.
A hand fluttered up to touch his. “Blair.”
With a sharp intake of breath, he looked up. Maeve’s eyes were open. She smiled. “Have I been very ill?”
“A touch of the influenza, Mamma. But you’re on the mend.”
“Have you have been here all night?”
“Yes.”
“Bless you. Go and get some rest son, now. Promise me?”
“After the doctor has called.”
“Talk to me, then.”
An hour passed. The maid brought tea and Maeve drank a little. When the doctor came, he declared his patient to be improving. He took Blair aside. “It was touch and go. She
will be weakened by it.”
His mother weakened by anything was unthinkable. “I’ll take mother to Dunleavy House when she’s strong enough. The country air will be beneficial.”
“An excellent idea.”
Several days later, while Blair stalked the rooms like a caged animal, guiltily wishing to be gone, Cathleen O’Brien, the young lady his mother urged him to marry, called in to see how Maeve fared. She entered the sitting room with her arms full of pink and white roses. They matched the gown she wore and filled the room with a sweet fragrance.
“Pink is undeniably your color, Cathleen,” Blair said. “It’s good of you to come.”
“It’s good to see you back in Ireland. We don’t see nearly as much of you as we’d like.”
She handed the flowers to a maid. “How is the patient, Blair?”
“Anything but patient.” Blair signaled the girl to put the flowers in water. “If she continues to improve, I’m removing her to Dunleavy House in a few days.”
Cathleen arranged a Chantilly lace shawl over her pink gown. Artifice of any kind didn’t fit with the Cathleen he knew, but had she dressed carefully for his sake? Beyond the affection of a long-standing friend, she’d revealed little sign of having stronger feelings for him. As they chatted, Giovanna suddenly pushed her way into his thoughts. He frowned. What was he doing thinking of her when this undeniably lovely young woman smiled at him? It mystified him that the words he’d planned to say to her, which would set his plans in motion, refused to come to his lips.
“I’ll visit her when she is there.” Cathleen put down her cup. “And relate all the town gossip. It will entertain her.”
He smiled. “You are a good friend, Cathleen.”
Cathleen’s gray eyes met his with a frank expression. “Do you remember Charles Reilly? He has been calling lately.”
He waited for a pull of jealousy that would catapult him into action. It didn’t come. “We rubbed shoulders at Trinity College. I liked him.”
Cathleen fiddled with a pearl button on her glove. “He’s joined his father’s law firm here in Dublin. Has a very bright future it’s said.”
“I’m not surprised. You’ll stay for lunch?”
Cathleen’s gaze rested on him. Something unspoken passed between them. After a pause, she rose. “I won’t, thank you. I’d best return home before the weather changes. I came in the brougham and it looks like rain. Tell your mother I wish her a swift recovery and look forward to one of our chats very soon.”
He rose and kissed her cheek. “I will, Cathleen. I’ll see you to your carriage.”
Blair walked back to the house admitting his plans for his future were falling apart. He should have been dismayed, he’d just let a wonderful woman slip through his fingers. Would he kick himself when he heard the bans had been read for her nuptials to Charles Reilly?
All he could think of was his return to London, as soon as his mother was well enough to be left.
Chapter Eight
London
Blair alighted from the train in London. The wind drove the rain horizontally into his face, wetting his collar and soaking his hat. He held the Tatler magazine overhead and ran for shelter. He liked rain ordinarily. In Ireland, the rain replenished streams and rivers and turned the landscape emerald green. But in this sooty, polluted city, rain was downright dreary. When a hansom stopped for him, he leaped gratefully inside.
Confident that Gina would accept his offer, he planned to visit her this afternoon. And once he had the first part of his plan in place, the rest would surely follow.
The hansom pulled up outside Blair’s townhouse. He disliked town living. The streets all the same the townhouses built in the classical style with an Ionic portico over each doorstep and a stucco pediment above every window with polished steps and black iron railings in front. He liked to have space around him, and nothing could equal the green hills of Ireland.
After a change of clothes and a quick glance at the mail, he left again and hired a hansom to take him to Shoreditch. The going was painfully slow, the wet roads clogged with carriages, horses, carts, the air turning foul. They drove past noisy tenements and poor cottages, inns, alehouses, taverns, dicing houses, brothel houses, and stables. Beggars and people without trade took up residence on the pavements.
Blair alighted and paid off the driver after the cab stopped outside the down-at-heel building where Gina and Russo rented rooms. On impulse, he’d stopped at Covent Garden and purchased a bunch of yellow roses, like the flower he’d seen adorning Gina’s hair. Yellow roses were perfect for her and these blooms sparkling with raindrops were handsome indeed.
Gina opened the door. She gazed at the roses and her topaz eyes widened in surprise. His heart leaped at the sight of her.
“Hullo, Mr. Dunleavy.” Her questioning gaze rose to meet his.
“For you.” He held them out to her.
“They are lovely, thank you.” She took them and pressed her nose to the blooms. “I’m afraid Milo’s not home. Have you come about another painting?”
He shook his head, taking delight in the pleasing picture of the roses held against her peach-tinted cheek. “I came to see you.”
Her cheeks flushed, and she opened the door wider. “Please come into the sitting room.”
The sitting room seemed too grand a name for this meager space and so inadequate a setting for the lovely young woman. “I came to ask you something, Gina,” he said, surprised to find he was nervous.
Gina carefully laid the roses on the table and turned to him. “Yes?”
He took her hand, drawing her over to the sofa. “I want you to live under my protection.”
Gina slipped her hand from his. “I am protected. I have Milo. Why?”
Her question disconcerted him. “Don’t you realize how enchanting you are?”
“Bah!” Gina jumped up and returned to the roses.
At a loss, Blair followed her. “I want you in my life. I hope you might come to feel some affection for me.” He’d made a hash of it. “I’d like to be the one who takes care of you.”
Gina arranged the roses in the vase. Her movements were jerky, the only sign his words had affected her. When a thorn pierced her hand, she pulled her hand away with a small cry.
“Let me see.” He took her hand and turned it over. After he removed the thorn from her palm, he raised it to his lips.
She frowned. “Milo takes good care of me, Mr. Dunleavy.”
He looked around the room. “Does he?”
She flushed, and her eyes flashed. “Yes.”
This had become too important to him. His usual tact seemed to have deserted him. He rushed on. “Will you listen to my plan?”
She hesitated and then nodded.
“I’ll rent an apartment here in London. You shall be the mistress of it—”
“Jermyn Street?”
“Pardon?”
“My friend Mabel says some toffs keep their mistresses in Jermyn Street.”
“I have one in mind. It’s in Hanover Square,” Blair said, thrown off balance by her skeptical tone. She certainly wasn’t pleased by his offer. “It’s an apartment equal to your beauty. You shall have lovely gowns, anything your heart desires.”
Gina licked the small wound on her palm. The simple gesture was enough to make him hard. When a frown creased her delicate forehead, his heart sank. She’d been rigidly polite, and somehow, with a growing helplessness, he sensed her disappointment in him.
“I suppose you think I should be grateful,” she said. “But I’ve never invited your advances. It’s the way your class has of doing things, I expect. You think your money and position in life can grant you anything. But you can’t buy me.”
She walked to the door. “Thank you for the roses, Mr. Dunleavy. Now please leave. I don’t wish to be your mistress, or anyone else’s. Don’t come again.”
He gazed down at her. “Is it so very bad of me to want to take care of you?”
She placed
her hands on her hips. “You have come with a completely false impression of what is on offer here. Only my stepfather’s paintings are for sale. Not me!”
He looked around the pitiful, shabby room at her small attempts to make it homely. “You deserve so much more than this.”
“That’s as may be. We are soon to move to Holland Park. We shall be quite comfortable there.”
“I’m sorry, Gina. I seem to have got it badly wrong, haven’t I?”
Did he see tears in her eyes? Perhaps they were tears of anger or frustration. He wanted to hug her to him, to console her with kisses, but he’d been the oaf who’d caused her distress. “Forgive me, please. I’d like to be considered a friend.” He dug out one of his calling cards from his breast pocket and held it out to her, but she turned away toward the door.
“If you ever need help, and there are no conditions attached, please contact me. This is my London address. You’ll find my home in Ireland there also. You can reach me by telegraphing the Dublin post office.” He laid the card on the table.
She opened the door. “Good bye, Mr. Dunleavy.”
“Good bye, Gina.” He glanced at her lovely face as he passed her. So close, he had only to stretch out a hand to stroke her velvety cheek. The urge was so overpowering he was surprised that she didn’t sense it, but her gaze dropped, and the door shut swiftly behind him, leaving him standing like a fool on the doorstep.
Blair hailed a cab and instructed the cabbie to take him to Horace’s apartment. He sat back as the driver negotiated the London traffic, and gazed unseeing at the passing parade of people on the busy streets. Young women such as Gina must hope for a generous benefactor to rescue them. Although he didn’t understand why she’d refused him, he had to admit he loved her spirit, how magnificent her eyes were when she was angry.
Perhaps she’d had a better offer, or she might have a lover. The ache in the region of his heart seemed incommensurate with her rejection. He shrugged. He would simply move on. Tonight, he and Horace were to visit the Royal Soho theater which staged an excellent play, Trial by Jury. There would be attractive feminine company, a good dinner and whatever came after that. Tomorrow this would all be forgotten. Just his pride was wounded after all. But somehow, the prospect of a pleasant evening didn’t raise his spirits.
What a Gentleman Desires Page 4