Read Promise of Pleasure Online
Authors: Cheryl Holt
Promise of Pleasure (34 page)
“ARE you sure about this?”
“Yes. Mrs. Monroe is a friend of mine. She’ll be glad to assist you.”
Mary stared at Lauretta Bainbridge, knowing there was a scheme in the works but unable to figure out what it was. Mrs. Bainbridge was being extremely obliging even though she possessed no cooperative traits.
Mr. Adair had slept most of the way to London and debarked the carriage shortly after they’d arrived. When he’d left them, he’d assumed Mrs. Bainbridge was dropping Mary at the Carlyle Hotel, which he’d mentioned as an excellent spot to spend the night. But as soon as he’d gone, Mrs. Bainbridge had suggested an alternative that was less expensive.
She had a friend, a Mrs. Monroe, who rented rooms in her home, and with cost being a factor, Mary had agreed to tour the establishment. She was uncomfortable with accepting lodging from a person she’d never met, and she didn’t want to impose, but Mrs. Bainbridge had insisted, and now, Mary was wondering if she shouldn’t have followed Mr. Adair’s original advice.
She was leery of Mrs. Bainbridge and worried that Mr. Adair might have had the better idea.
For some reason, Mrs. Bainbridge had been cordial and chatty the entire trip.
She made London sound like a grand lark, akin to a circus or an unending fair where people were happy and rich and busy and glamorous.
Mary had tried to persuade herself that she’d be fine, but as they’d approached the outskirts, then plunged into the dirty, crammed streets, she’d grown increasingly unnerved. Nothing could have prepared her for the noise, the crowds, the smells, and the general disarray.
She was very frightened, wishing she hadn’t come, but what else could she have done?
She glanced out the carriage window, seeing that they were parked in front of Mrs. Monroe’s house. It was three stories high, with black shutters and flower boxes. Rosebushes bloomed along the walk, and at viewing the reputable condition, Mary’s fears calmed somewhat.
If Monroe was courteous and civil, the matter of finding a place to stay would be easily accomplished, and in light of all that had occurred, the prospect was soothing. However, it seemed too good to be true, and she didn’t trust Mrs. Bainbridge, not being able to imagine why Mrs. Bainbridge would trouble herself on Mary’s behalf.
Maybe Mrs. Bainbridge was simply humored to see Mary brought so low, or maybe she enjoyed rescuing Mary. If the situation worked out, Mary would owe Mrs. Bainbridge a huge debt of gratitude that Mrs. Bainbridge would collect in any number of ways.
“Why would Mrs. Monroe help me?” Mary asked.
“She regularly takes in women who come to London from the country. Years ago, she came herself—without a penny in her pocket. She knows how scary it can be.”
“That’s kind of her.”
“Yes, it’s very kind.”
Mary glanced out again. “It looks as if she’s done well for herself.”
“She definitely has.”
“How is she earning her income? It can’t just be from collecting rent.”
“She was married to a wealthy fellow, and when he passed away, she inherited the house. Now her boarders chip in. It’s a beneficial arrangement for everyone.” Mrs. Bainbridge smiled, appearing amiable and empathetic, but Mary refused to take her word for anything.
Mary would investigate for herself, would speak to Mrs. Monroe and see what sort of individual she was. If the circumstances weren’t as Mrs. Bainbridge had claimed, Mary would simply thank Mrs. Monroe and move on.
The carriage door was opened and the step lowered. Mrs. Bainbridge climbed out and swept inside. Mary followed, relieved to be greeted by a footman, which was a sign of normalcy.
He showed them to a secluded parlor at the rear of the residence. As they strolled through, Mary noted the beautiful paintings on the walls, the luxurious rugs on the floors. The furnishings were expensive, tasteful, and clean.
She sat on a sofa while Mrs. Bainbridge went to have a private conversation with Mrs. Monroe.
After she left, it was very quiet, and Mary fidgeted. She was tired and drained, and she felt very cold, as if her blood had turned to ice. She couldn’t get warm.
Mrs. Bainbridge was gone for ages, and Mary’s anxiety flared. What was taking so long? What if Mrs. Monroe didn’t want Mary? If that was the case, Mary would die of humiliation.
She’d just decided to give up on Mrs. Bainbridge, to leave and locate an inn for the night, when Mrs. Bainbridge entered, accompanied by a blond woman who was introduced as Mrs. Monroe.
She was older than Mary, probably thirty-five or forty. With big blue eyes and a rounded figure, she resembled Mrs. Bainbridge in sophistication and style. She was very polished, very elegant, and it was easy to understand why they were friends.
Mrs. Monroe ordered tea, then settled herself in a chair across from Mary.
“What brings you to London, Miss Barnes?” Mrs. Monroe inquired.
Mary wasn’t sure what to say. She wasn’t about to admit that she’d been disowned and disavowed.
“I grew up at an estate in the country.”
“Yes, Mrs. Bainbridge told me about it: Barnes Manor. It must have been lovely.”
“It was, but there was nothing for me there. I don’t have a dowry, so I could never marry. I was living with my stepmother, and it was . . . difficult.”
“Oh, I can imagine,” Mrs. Monroe commiserated. She studied Mary with a keen intensity. “You have no family?”
“No.”
“No one to miss you? No one to care if something should happen?”
Mary shook her head, as tears welled into her eyes. How could her life have come to such a horrid fork in the road?
“You poor dear.” Mrs. Monroe reached over and consolingly patted Mary’s hand. “Yours is the saddest story I’ve ever heard. To be all alone in the world! It doesn’t bear contemplating.”
A maid rolled in the tea cart, and they were silent as Mrs. Monroe poured and offered Mary a cup.
Mary drank it down, and Mrs. Monroe poured her a second serving. Mary was glad for the warmth of the beverage, for the distraction it provided. It gave her a moment to compose herself, to tamp down any maudlin sentiment.
She would not mourn her losses! She would not feel sorry for herself! What had occurred couldn’t be changed, and there was no use complaining.
“Would you like to stay with me, Miss Barnes?” Mrs. Monroe asked. “I have a room available. There’s no need for you to traipse about London, hunting for a place.”
“You’re very kind.”
“I try to be helpful. I was once in dire straits—as you are. I wouldn’t want anyone to suffer as I did.”
“It has been a bit overwhelming.”
“I’ll be worried sick if you go off on your own.”
Mary stared at her; the woman seemed sincere.
Why not?
a voice whispered. It was the simplest solution.
a voice whispered. It was the simplest solution.
Suddenly, she felt dizzy and overheated, and she fanned herself with her napkin.
“Is it hot in here?”
“No,” Mrs. Monroe answered. “Perhaps it’s stress from the journey.”
“Perhaps.”
Mary yawned. “I beg your pardon,” she said.
“It’s quite all right. Would you like more tea? If your energy is flagging, it might enliven you.”
Mary gazed at Mrs. Monroe, but she looked blurry, as if she was no longer solid. Her disorientation grew more peculiar by the minute, and vaguely, she noted that Mrs. Bainbridge and Mrs. Monroe hadn’t drunk any of the tea.
Only Mary had.
Mrs. Monroe filled Mary’s cup again, and though Mary meant to have more, her arms must have weighed a hundred pounds. She couldn’t lift them, so Mrs. Monroe leaned over and pressed Mary’s cup to her mouth, holding it till Mary had swallowed down the entire amount.
Mrs. Monroe relaxed in her chair, she and Mrs. Bainbridge watching Mary.
Mary wanted to tell them that she was ill, that she didn’t wish to stay after all, but she was too lethargic to speak up.
Gradually, she dozed off, her body toppling sideways onto the sofa, and as she drifted away, Mrs. Monroe said, “That was easy.”
To which Mrs. Bainbridge replied, “Like taking candy from a baby.”
“SHE’s so bloody gullible.”
“They all are when they first arrive.”
Lauretta smirked. “As if I’d actually assist her! What was she thinking? She’s an idiot.”
“Not everyone is like us, Lauretta,” Barbara Monroe stated. “Some people
trust
other people.”
trust
other people.”
“But why
me?
She knows I can’t stand her. She’s insane to suppose I’d be concerned about her.”
me?
She knows I can’t stand her. She’s insane to suppose I’d be concerned about her.”
Two maids had swiftly and expertly undressed Mary Barnes, stripping her of clothes and shoes and attiring her instead in a negligee and robe.
A footman entered and came over to Mary, exhibiting no surprise at finding her unconscious on Barbara’s couch. He had to have seen a similar sight dozens of times over the years.
He picked up Mary and turned to Barbara.
“Where to, Mrs. Monroe?”
“I’ve had the blue room prepared for her.”
The footman carried her out, Mary’s hand dangling toward Lauretta as if she was beseeching Lauretta to stop what was happening.
Lauretta simply chuckled.
“When will the auction be?” she inquired.
“I have some gentlemen visiting tonight. I had told them to expect something especially amusing, so Miss Barnes appeared just in time.”
“She was fucking Redvers. She’s not a virgin.”
“Yes, but we don’t have to inform them. Besides, they’re usually so intoxicated that they wouldn’t notice a missing maidenhead if it bit them on the ass.”
“And Miss Barnes will act like a virgin even if she isn’t one. She’s prim as the day is long.”
“Wonderful. Chippingham will be thrilled.”
“He’s coming?”
“Yes.”
Lauretta chuckled again.
Barbara ran an exclusive brothel, and her clientele was selected from the top echelons of high society. Patrons were only admitted after references were produced and backgrounds investigated.
Most of her customers were content to drink, fraternize with their companions, then enjoy a tumble with an experienced whore. But some—such as Lord Chippingham—relished a darker type of play, and Barbara was happy to supply it.
For the right price.
Lauretta hadn’t lied when she’d explained how Barbara took in women who traveled to London.
Females flocked to the city in droves, anxious for jobs, but they could quickly land themselves in dangerous predicaments.
Many approached Barbara willingly, grateful to be off the streets, but a prostitute’s life was difficult. Harlots perished from disease or in childbirth. They quit to get married. They became opium addicts and grew unreliable.
Barbara always needed fresh faces, and Mary Barnes would do nicely. As an added benefit—should Redvers ever cross paths with her again—he wouldn’t be nearly so enthralled when he learned that she’d been sold to Chippingham.
“Thanks for your help,” Lauretta said.
“And thanks for bringing her to me. She’ll fetch a pretty penny.”
“Let me know the details of the auction. I can’t wait to hear how it goes.”
“I will.”
Barbara escorted Lauretta to the door and walked her out.
“I hope Chippingham wins her,” Lauretta mentioned.
Barbara snorted. “You are awful.”
Lauretta couldn’t deny it. She wanted Mary Barnes to suffer the worst conclusion imaginable, for though Lauretta was loathe to acknowledge it, she had a terrible jealous streak. She wasn’t about to share Redvers; she wasn’t about to lose him. Mary Barnes shouldn’t have interfered.
As Lauretta climbed in the carriage, Barbara asked, “You’re certain Redvers is finished with her?”
“Very certain.”
“He isn’t pining away, is he?”
“No,” Lauretta scoffed. “He just wed some fussy debutante. Mary Barnes is naught but a distant memory.”
“Good, because I’d hate to have him show up on my stoop, searching for her. If he found out what we’d done, I’d end up on the wrong side of his temper.”
“Don’t worry,” Lauretta insisted, “he’ll never find out.”
“HE’LL come back, won’t he, Mother?”
“You shouldn’t count on it, Felicity.”
“But I wrote letters about the wedding to everybody. The whole world will know that he jilted me!”
Victoria’s lips pursed with disapproval. “How unfortunate.”
“I could die!” Felicity wailed. “I could just die!”
“Be silent,” Victoria griped. “All last week, you kept telling me how much you detested him. I had to drag you to the altar.”
“I was going to be a viscountess. Eventually, I’d have been a countess. Now I’m nothing at all.”
“There are other aristocrats. We’ll snag one for you.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“Could we proceed to London immediately to start making inquiries? I want Redvers to see that I don’t care a whit about him.”
“Felicity! Give it a rest. Your complaints exhaust me.”
“Well, he supposes that he can act however he pleases, and I—”
“Felicity! Have mercy!”
Victoria’s sharp tone halted the girl’s litany of grievances.
From the moment Redvers had stormed out, her harangue hadn’t ceased, and Victoria was weary of listening to it.
They were huddled in her library, struggling to regroup, and they needed to decide on a plan to move forward.
Victoria had been so sure of Redvers, positive of his greed, his penury.
How could she have been so wrong? And what was she to do now?
Though she’d told Felicity that they would begin the hunt for another title, it wasn’t that easy to attract a noble bachelor. Those available few were besieged with marital options.
Cassandra entered, dressed for traveling. She carried a portmanteau, which she set at her feet.
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