“Yes, well, I don’t
want
you
to pay me for it.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I just
don’t.”
He bent and retrieved
the money then tossed it back to the mattress.
She crossed her arms.
“I won’t take it.”
“Take it.”
“I won’t be
your
whore.”
“You’re not my whore.
We’re lovers and I gave you a gift.”
She was staring at the
money. She looked so sad. “I am at a very low ebb.”
“I can see that,
Jeanne. Hence my gift.”
“I have been trying
not to rely on men.”
“It is a hard world
for a young, unmarried woman.”
Her eyes were wide,
focused on the money as if she were transfixed. She compressed her lips. “I
don’t like being cold. I don’t like when my skin itches and I cannot stop
shivering. I do not like stale bread and old cheese.”
He walked to the bed
and cupped her face. God, he adored her face. Had there ever been a more
perfectly pretty girl? Her face should be painted and captured for all time. If
she were truly his, he would carry her miniature inside his pocket watch. Then
her likeness could sweeten the sourest of his days.
She looked up at him.
“Don’t be so proud, not with me. Take the money. Buy yourself firewood and
food.”
“I may soon get an
advance from my publisher. If he likes the last story I wrote then he will
publish the lot of my completed stories into a leather-bound volume. He said he
would give me an advance.”
“Well, then, take my
gift and let it make do until you get your advance.”
“Papa’s doctor meant
well, but he was wrong. I am meant for more than simply serving men’s carnal
needs.”
Savage emotion raged
through his blood. He wished there was some way that the blackguard could be
killed all over again.
“Of course he was
wrong.” She wasn’t meant to be a whore. She’d been made to cherish.
Her large blue eyes
were killing him. Just killing him inside. He wanted more than just to provide
for her and to protect her. He wanted her.
He had to leave. Now.
Or he would never leave without her. He stroked her cheek then walked away and
gathered the remainder of his clothes. Pulled his waistcoat and jacket on
without stopping to button them. Then he picked up his greatcoat.
And he walked out of
her life.
Chapter Seven
“These new stories are exceptional.” Mr. Ratherford stared
over his spectacles, his pleasant, round face bland.
Jeanne refolded her hands upon her lap. Just a moment ago,
he had been staring at her so strangely. As though he’d were picking her apart,
looking for some flaw upon which to base a rejection. She’d been grateful for
her gloves, which hid her ink-smudged fingers. Perhaps it was just the effect
of his spending so much time in this office. The chamber contained several
sticks of plain but relatively new furniture and was painted in a grayish sort
of green that had always made her feel a bit sad.
And she’d lost much sleep lately from writing.
Mr. Ratherford’s normally flat, brown eyes brightened. “I
enjoyed all your stories but this one has something special. If you continue to
develop your talents in this manner, your future will be bright indeed.”
Nothing could make her feel sad now. All her tension melted
away in the wake of such happy news. She couldn’t help smiling.
Mr. Ratherford laid the stack of pages upon his desk. “If
you can give me seven more stories, just like these, then we shall have to draw
up another contract for an additional leather-bound volume.” He opened his desk
and pulled out a document. “I have the contract for the first volume here. If
you sign today, we can move forward with all due speed.”
She folded her hands a little tighter and a small smile
tugged at her mouth.
“Does that please you, Miss Darling?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, let us see to the signing, shall we?”
She read through the contract and signed. When she was done,
her gloves were soaked through with sweat.
“I say this calls for a celebration, does it not?” Mr.
Ratherford said.
Pleasure pressed on her throat, rendering her incapable of
speaking. Jeanne fancied that she just might be walking on air instead of
sitting.
The back of her neck prickled. She looked up and caught him
studying her so intently that once again he appeared to be picking her apart.
As if she were under suspicion. She’d been smiling this whole time and now that
smile faltered a bit. “Mr. Ratherford, is there something wrong?”
“Miss Darling, I would like to escort you to the theatre.”
Shock washed over her, all bubbly and joyful, like the
champagne Bernard had once given her. Would she like to go to the theatre? Was
Ratherford jesting? She’d only been to the theatre a handful of times with
Bernard. The experience still held magic for her. Thankfully Bernard hadn’t
asked her to return the evening gown he’d gifted her with. It had seemed silly
not to sell it but now she was exceedingly glad she hadn’t.
“I would be quite honored, Mr. Ratherford.”
“This evening I shall pick you up in my carriage. I’ll also
give you a little advance at that time for these new stories.”
* * * *
Seated in the Drury Lane Theatre, Jeanne took out her opera
glasses. They were secondhand, old fashioned, tarnished. But they worked.
Bernard sometimes rented or borrowed a box but tonight she and Mr. Ratherford
sat with the common folk. It surprised her that Bernard had more resources
available to him than Ratherford did, but she didn’t mind. Sitting down here
was a different experience and one she was enjoying because it gave her a
better vantage point to observe others. These were the best moments, before the
performance began.
She scanned the grand theater boxes, her gaze drinking in
all the color, the various faces and forms. She listened to the hushed rumble
of voices of the elegant people who occupied them.
A tall man with a high, broad forehead, long, elegant nose,
sharply hewn cheekbones, and hair as black as midnight, made her freeze. A
thrill passed through her insides and she sucked in her breath.
Oh, goodness.
David.
His box was filled with gentlemen. And one woman who sat at
David‘s side, casually touching his arm and leaning close to whisper in his
ear. She was dressed in an expensive-looking gown with glittering earbobs and
necklace. She was tall, voluptuous in the right way, with full but not too
large breasts, and a waist which a man’s hands could easily span. Not a plump
little plum like Jeanne.
Something like pain knifed through Jeanne’s chest.
Only it couldn’t be pain because it didn’t matter in the
least how David spent his time or with whom. Despite the pleasures they had
shared, he was really still just a stranger. Their time together was over.
He looked up. His gaze seemed to lock with hers. But of
course, she was holding opera glasses. He would not be able to see her as clearly.
She was just another face framed by golden hair in a sea of faces.
“I daresay Hartley is a little too high for a trollop like
you to aim for.” Mr. Ratherford’s tone was quiet. Deadly.
Gooseflesh rose all over her body, especially at the back of
her neck. With suddenly shaking hands, she lowered the glasses to her lap.
“What?”
“Don’t act as though you don’t know.” Ratherford’s cold tone
couldn’t penetrate her confusion.
She turned to Ratherford. He was glaring at her.
“What is it?” she asked.
“What, indeed?” He took her arm. Roughly. “We’re leaving.”
“Leaving?”
“Quit acting as though you don’t know what this is about.”
“Well, I don’t.”
He jerked her arm as he jolted to his feet. She resisted. He
leaned back down and gave her a harsh shake.
“Mr. Ratherford, please.”
“Come, don’t make a scene.”
People were staring.
“I’ll say you are a harlot I picked up and that now you’re
picking my pockets.”
She slowly stood. He took her arm and she had no choice but
to allow him to lead her out of the theatre and into the lobby. Once they had
collected their wraps and put them on, he turned to her.
“You want to play the whore?” Ratherford whispered, again in
deadly tones.
“I don’t understand.”
“Here, look at this and then look me in the eyes and pretend
you still don’t know.”
He reached into his pocket and shoved a folded paper at her.
“They have papered all of London with these.”
With shaking hands, she unfolded the paper. It was a crude,
colorful depiction of a coffee shop. A cartoon. More attention to detail was
paid to the tall, dark haired man and a short, very plump blonde girl.
A certain truant duke
plays with a harlot whilst his sudden absence from the House of Lords on the
day of an important vote remains a mystery.
The Duke of Hartley!
David was a…duke.
A duke.
Good God.
She glanced back at the cartoon. There were two sheets. Her
heart rose to her throat as she slipped the bottom sheet into view. It was a
nighttime scene. Light spilled from a carriage’s window and illuminated a
shoddy, old building that greatly resembled her boarding house. The gutters
flowed with brownish muck and several disreputable looking men and women
lounged about. One beggar was reliving himself and a huge rat-like creature
grinned in the foreground.
The truant duke keeps
his harlot in style on Wentworth Street, Whitechapel.
“I didn’t want to believe it was actually you.” Ratherford
took a deep breath. “After all there are scores of women who must easily
resemble the cartoon. But that building, the exact street number of your boarding
house. Still, I just didn’t want to believe it, so I brought you here tonight,
as I had planned to before. I hoped he would be here. And your reaction told me
all.”
What could she say? What did he want to hear? Why should he
even care if she bedded a duke here or there?
“I thought you were better. I thought you had simply been
forced into an unworthy situation. I thought you wanted to become something
decent. I wanted to help you.” He leaned closer. “I wanted you.”
“You’re not making sense.”
“You were my investment.”
“What are you saying?”
“Our association is over, Jeanne. You shall have to find
another publisher.” He grasped her reticule, jerked it open and took the bills
then threw the bag to the ground.
“What are you doing?”
“The money I lent you was only because of my investment in
you. That’s over now.” He regarded her coldly and then walked away.
“Mr. Ratherford!” She ran after him but her slippers did not
make good traction on the floor and her evening gown restricted her stride. He
disappeared quickly through the doors.
She followed, into the night. Rain poured from the heavens,
frigid, soaking her as she ran down the street. Her delicate hat quickly became
drenched. Worthless. Her hair became waterlogged, too heavy for the pins. It fell
into her face, blinding her. She raked it away.
Sheets of rain and fog obscured her view. She could never
find Ratherford now. Besides, what good would it do to catch up to him?
Ratherford had abandoned her.
Washed his hands of her.
Her book would not be printed now.
Maybe never.
She stumbled along the side of the street, unable to think
of anything else. Then an icy gust of air brought her back to her senses. The
wind cut right through her pelisse and evening gown.
She was so far from her cozy little garret and with no money
to hire a hackney. What good would it do to complain to the watch about
Ratherford having stolen her money? He was an established man of business and
property. They would take his word over the word of a twenty-one-year-old harlot?
A sound echoed on the wind. It sounded a little like her
name. She turned and her hair sloshed into her face. She whipped it away.
A tall man holding an open umbrella was striding quickly
towards her.
“David.”
He quickened his pace. And then he was with her.
A large, heavy garment fell over her shoulders and swallowed
her up. Still warm from his body, it smelled of wet wool, spicy-citrus cologne
and him. The rain drummed on the umbrella. He touched her cheek.
“Come, Jeanne.”
Still a bit shocked, confused, she let him lead her, putting
one foot in front of the other. Her slippers were soaked and her feet were fast
becoming frozen. Her steps slowed. He stopped, handed her the umbrella, and
swept her up into his arms. She’d never been carried by any man except for him.
The air was cold and he was warm. She buried her face in his evening jacket. It
felt so natural, so right to be in his strong arms. As if she’d always been
there.
The drum of rain stopped. She pulled her face away from his
broad chest and opened her eyes to the radiant chandelier light. They were in
the lobby.
He lowered her until her feet touched the floor. She let the
umbrella drop. She was dripping all over and she glanced about nervously. A
couple of elegant, colorfully dressed women were talking to a small group of
young men.
David took her hand. “I’ve called for my carriage. It will
be here soon.”
* * * *
David helped Jeanne into the carriage. Warmth instantly
surrounded her, making her bones melt in blissful relief. The interior was well
lit. Fine velvet seats of royal blue. Jeanne became aware of her clothes, her
dripping hair.