One Night with a Rake (Regency Rakes) (9 page)

Part of him certainly could. His eyes threatened to roll back in his head.

But he really did love Mercy.

He loved her wit and sparkle. He even loved her sharp tongue. He had feelings, he did. For all of her.

And he wasn’t going to settle for less.

“No, Mercy.” With regret, he hauled himself out of bed and began yanking on his clothes. He didn’t dare look anywhere but at his discarded boots, lest his resolve crumble. He balanced on one leg while he tugged on first one, then the other. “Not until you allow that I can teach you something too.”

He heard the sheets rustle and couldn’t help but look up at her. She’d risen to her knees. The sheets were tucked up to her armpits so her nakedness was covered.

But not the nakedness in her face. Pointed chin atremble, eyes just this side of glittering with tears, she’d never looked so like a waif in the gutter.

“What can ye teach me, Mr. Darling?”

He leaned down and pressed a kiss on her forehead. “That you deserve to be loved.”

Reuben closed the door quietly behind him, but before the latch snicked, he could’ve sworn he heard a soft sob.

Sadie O’Toole perched on a high stool in the larder of his lordship’s hoity-toity kitchen. It was bad enough she’d been shooed around to the back side of his town house to be offered only grudging admittance by his kitchen help. Now His Nibs was keeping her waiting beneath the strings of garlic and cured hams. He’d have given more immediate attention to her if she’d been a boil on his backside.

Well, boils could be a nasty surprise for a body what ignored ’em too long. She’d seen ’em turn septic, and if his lordship kept her waiting much longer, she was of a mind to do the same.

The footman’s eyes had bugged out when Sadie presented one of the monogrammed cuff links as her calling card. She hated parting with it, but she had the other one stashed away safe and sound, all ready to be sent to where it would do the most damage should something unfortunate happen to her.

She’d make sure His Nibs knew it before she left him this night, too.

Sadie shook her head. She’d always been too softhearted where gentlemen were concerned. She held the winning hand. It was time she made her position perfectly clear. No point in leaving that sort of thing to chance.

Finally, the footman reappeared in the kitchen and crooked a finger at her. “Come with me.”

She hopped down off the high stool, expecting to be led up the stairs into the private parts of the grand house. She snickered at that thought.

Private
parts, indeed. The story of my life…

But instead, the footman headed for the back door.

“Wait a half a mo’, guv,” Sadie said. “I’m not leaving till I see his lordship. An’ ye doubt me, I’ll start caterwauling fit to bring down the house.”

“There’d be no point. My lord isn’t here,” the fellow in deep burgundy livery said. “So if you are earnest in your desire to see him, you’d best come along. And quietly.”

There was nothing else for it. She followed the footman out and climbed into the waiting hansom. Sadie was only mildly surprised when the footman came with her.

If
this
isn’t on the up-and-up, ’spect he means to see me out of this high-in-the-instep neighborhood for certain
, Sadie thought grimly.

The cab rattled over the same cobbled streets she’d slogged along on foot to reach St. James’s Square. Sadie sighed. At least she was traveling back to Covent Garden in style, and if the footman wasn’t the most talkative of companions, he was at least one of the finest-looking fellows she’d seen in a very long time.

But His Nibs was going to regret trying to shuffle her to the side. It wasn’t in her nature to give up without a fight. She only needed someone with more money and power in her corner if she had any hope of getting her place back. Or something like her place.

The cab finally stopped before a dingy-looking pub called The Hare and Hound. Its shuttered windows sent tiny spokes of light through the cracks, mere hints of the warmth and candlelight within.

“His lordship is inside. Ask to be taken into the back room,” the footman said. “I’d advise you not to keep him waiting.”

“Hmph!” She climbed out of the cab without a speck of help, either from the footman or the cabby.

As if his lordship wasn’t the one who’d kept
her
waiting. Lord or lackey, all men were the same.

Especially
once
you
shuck
’em out of their clothes.

Sadie should know. She’d been a whore for twenty years before his lordship finally came up with the chinks to help her open a house of pleasure. She’d been able to stop lifting her own tired skirts and live by skimming the income of those who still did.

Not that His Nibs did it out of the kindness of his exceedingly tiny heart. She had the goods on him and no mistake. He couldn’t avoid giving her a leg up.

And
not
the
way
he
used
to,
either
, she thought with a wry curl of her lip.

Why did men with the smallest winkies always insist on the most awkward positions? At least, thank God, that part of her life was over. She didn’t spread her legs for anyone now unless it was her idea.

But His Nibs had come through when she needed him to. Now he was going to help her again, if he knew what was good for him.

No one would put her out of her own place. Not even if the young gentleman did have what looked like official papers in hand.

His Nibs had better right the situation and damn quick, too. Or Sadie would see him swing. Hell, she’d dance on his coffin.

And she had the means to do it, too.

***

For the next two days, Nathaniel saw little of Georgette aside from the time he spent sitting across from her in the grand dining room each evening.

As
far
as
she
knows.

Nathaniel was aware of every place she went and had been able to shadow her effectively. To stay apprised of Georgette’s schedule, Nate had enlisted the help of Reuben Darling. Once he explained that his sole interest was in keeping Georgette safe, Nate found a willing partner in the footman.

Mercy had been more difficult. She wasn’t about to spy on her mistress, she claimed. But it only took the promise of sixpence a week and she was suddenly eager to provide him with eyes and ears inside the secret world of Georgette’s chambers.

He’d watched covertly from the little balcony as Mr. Gooch drilled Georgette on her dance steps. Nate could barely restrain a cheer when she sailed through the lesson without mishap. Mr. Gooch, on the other hand, was so flummoxed, his usually pasty complexion turned an unhealthy puce. The dance master had been forced to admit to Lady Yorkingham that there was no need for further instruction.

“Lady Georgette is now fully prepared to charm the royals,” Mr. Gooch had announced grandly, as if his time with her was responsible for the improvement in Georgette’s grace and carriage.

If
he
thought
she
did
well
with
the
line
dances, the man should see her waltz,
Nate thought with a wry grin.

Thanks to Reuben and Mercy, Nathaniel had tailed Georgette on her visits to the modiste for fittings. He’d followed at a discreet distance as Georgette and her mother paid social calls on prominent matrons.

In those cases, Nathaniel was thankful to be in semi-exile. Nothing was more tedious than balancing teacups and finger sandwiches on one’s knees while trying to remain awake through exhaustive conversations about the weather.

All in all, it was a satisfactory arrangement, except for the fact that he couldn’t really spend any time with Georgette. He was beginning to feel a bit like those courtly lovers she was so keen on. Like the lovesick medieval swain, he could only worship his lady from afar.

He’d much rather worship her up close. And not just to satisfy Mr. Alcock’s Machiavellian schemes, either.

Still, this hidden game of cat-and-mouse was the best he could manage at present. His minions in Yorkingham House had been scrupulously efficient in their reports to him.

So when he pushed aside the threadbare curtains on the upper story of his disreputable new acquisition in Covent Garden, he wasn’t surprised to see Georgette and Mercy making their way down Lackaday Lane.

He checked his pocket watch, then returned the gold timepiece to its place. “Right on time, Georgie.”

If he hadn’t spoken to Mercy after breaking his fast that morning, he’d have been furious with Georgette for daring this “rescue mission” without Mr. Darling at her side. But the maid had assured him that Tuesday mornings were the bully’s half day off at Madam Bouchard’s, so the physical danger to Georgette was minimal.

Just in case, he’d decided to drop in unannounced in a few moments, both to make sure Georgette was all right and to surprise her with how industrious he’d been in the last couple days. Somehow, he had to get back into her good graces and this was the only thing he could think of.

The only thing she might accept from him now.

***

Vesta was the virginal Roman goddess of fire, the embodiment of the hearth, purity, and all wifely virtues. The whore who went by the same unlikely name pulled her wrapper up over her shoulder, but not before Georgette caught sight of a purpling bruise.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, duchess,” Vesta said, “but if I was you, I’d make myself scarce before Madam wakes and catches you at it.”

“I’m no duchess.”
At
least
not
yet.
Georgette moved further into the slightly shabby room. She imagined the velvet coverlet didn’t appear nearly so threadbare by candle glow. In the right light, the gilt paint on the headboard of the bed that occupied the central place in the chamber probably glinted like the real thing. “I’m a woman, just like you.”

Vesta’s lip curled as she plopped down at the foot of the bed. “You’re nothing like me.”

Georgette looked down at her lace-gloved hands. Before she renewed her acquaintance with Nathaniel Colton, she’d have agreed. Now she knew she had far more in common with Vesta than she’d suspected.

“Listen to her, Vesta,” Mercy said. “Changed my life, she did.”

The girl rolled her eyes.

Mercy went over and sat next to her friend. “I have my own room now. And no one comes into it, unless I gives ’em leave. I eat regular too, and even if I’ve spilled bootblack on the rug or ripped a bit of lace on milady’s unmentionables, no one docks my pay or makes me do without.”

So
that’s what happened to the Brussels lace. Not surprised about the bootblack though
, Georgette thought, but she was careful to keep her expression cautiously neutral.

Vesta narrowed her eyes at Georgette, still trying to decide whether or not to trust her.

“You don’t know me any more than I know you,” Vesta said. “Why do you care what happens to me?”

There was a time when a whole string of pious platitudes would have spilled from Georgette’s mouth. Now she weighed her words.

“How old are you, Vesta?”

“Nineteen.”

Georgette struggled to keep the surprise from her face. With the dark smudges under Vesta’s eyes and the lines that were beginning to gather around her mouth, Georgette would have put her nearer to thirty.

“I’m not so much older than you,” Georgette said. At twenty-three she would have been considered “on the shelf,” if not for the Duke of Cambridge’s interest in her. “I’m not trying to change you if you are content with your lot. But I know what it is to make choices one later regrets.”

She still wasn’t sure which she regretted more—the time she spent dallying with Nathaniel in the ballroom or the fact that she’d cut it short. But she did feel regret.

Every waking hour. And in a few of her dreaming ones as well.

“If
you
would like the chance to make different choices,” Georgette said, “I believe I can help.”

“How?”

Even though Georgette really didn’t need two maids, she’d intended on offering Vesta a position. She’d hoped the girl had a gift for styling hair, but Vesta’s own straggly tresses were no recommendation. “Well—”

“Whatever you have in mind, unless you can spare ten quid and sixpence, duchess, you’re no use to me.”

Georgette didn’t carry that kind of money with her. All the merchants her family traded with dealt on credit. Besides, that sum was more than Mercy earned in a year. Of course, her maid also received room, board, and her pick from Georgette’s cast off clothing. She could even sell what she didn’t want on the secondhand market, so Mercy’s true income was higher if one considered more than just her salary.

“I haven’t much money with me,” Georgette admitted, wondering how she’d finagle that sum in ready cash from her father.

When she roamed about London, she made sure Mercy had only enough to cover small incidental purchases and her maid doled out the needed coin. Georgette never actually handled money herself and wouldn’t dream of carrying any on her person.

Certainly
not
enough
to
exceed
a
year’s wages for a semi-trained, slightly insubordinate domestic servant.

“Is ten pounds six what you owe the madam?” Nathaniel’s rich bass came from the open doorway.

Georgette whirled to face him.

“What are you doing here?” He’d obviously followed her. She wasn’t sure whether to be incensed or relieved.

“Same as you. Trying to help.”

Vesta’s gaze turned immediately to Nate and she let her wrapper gape a bit to display more of her ample bosom. “Maybe you’d like a little help from me right back, eh, guv? I can be oh so helpful when a bloke’s as fine as you.”

“A charming offer, but not necessary, thank you.” He kept his gaze riveted on the whore’s face. “I repeat. Will ten quid and sixpence square you with the madam?”

Vesta nodded brusquely, cinching her wrapper closed.

“How did ye ever get so far into dun territory, Vesta?” Mercy placed a hand on her friend’s slim forearm. “I never owed more than two pounds in all my living life. And it was hard enough to scrape together that much to repay.”

“I can’t help it if I like fine things.” Vesta rose and paced around the room, positioning herself so the bed separated her from the rest of them. “Madam always said I’d get better clients if I had better dresses. Silk don’t come cheap, you know. Then there’s the interest. And my meals.”

“Madam Bouchard didn’t charge for food when I was here,” Mercy said.

“She does now,” Vesta said. “And if I want clean sheets once a week, I have to pay the laundress, don’t I? All told, I owe about two shillings more each week.”

It didn’t take an abacus to figure that Vesta was as good as a slave to her employer. She’d never work off the debt on her own. The burden would simply accumulate. Once she was too old for whoring, she’d be turned out or maybe turned over to the magistrate and sent to debtor’s prison.