One Night with a Rake (Regency Rakes) (21 page)

He tugged her close and kissed her with thoroughness for several minutes. When he finally released her mouth and pulled back, his eyes were hooded.

“But you know, I’ve heard it said that love is like a garden. It needs tending and light and fresh air to thrive. It can’t stay hidden forever,” he said. “Love that keeps to the shadows isn’t love.”

“You’re right. Too much shade is a receipt for fungus.” She laughed, but he didn’t join her in it. “Come then, my toadstool prince. Let us see if there is any sunshine in Whitechapel.”

Georgette had thought herself prepared for Whitechapel.

She was not.

Lackaday Lane was dreary, but it seemed the sun had never shown here in Whitechapel. It would have had to fight its way into the twisting streets where the houses sagged against each other like drunkards, their facades tired and crumbling.

A brawl broke out before one of the taverns they passed, and a crowd gathered to shout encouragement to the combatants and lay wagers on the outcome. Even when one of the men lay battered on the cobbles, the other fellow continued to kick him with the viciousness of a mad horse and no one moved to interfere.

A woman huddled in the doorway of a shuttered-up storefront, tipping back a flask and wiping her mouth on her raggedy sleeve. She seemed to have no plans beyond her next drink. As their hackney moved along at a foot pace in the clogged streets, Georgette wondered at the hundreds of people wandering aimlessly.

“Haven’t they homes to go to?”

“No,” Nathaniel said. “Most of them live in common lodging. By night they’ll share a room with six or seven strangers, but by law, they must vacate it during the day. Thank God the last of winter is leaving us. Whitechapel on a gray January day is a special sort of hell.”

She glanced at him sharply. “How do you happen to know so much about it?”

“When I first returned from France, I didn’t want to tar my family with my disgrace,” he began.

“As I recall, you were not discharged from service with any sort of discommendation.”

“No, but only because the victory at Waterloo overshadowed the defeat of Maubeuge enough for some well-placed lords, my father among them, to hush it up.” He continued to stare at the foot traffic, but Georgette had the distinct impression he was seeing something else entirely. “Even so, I couldn’t go home. A little leaven makes the whole loaf rise. The whiff of scandal for one member is enough to taint an entire family. So I made Whitechapel my home. It was all I deserved.”

Georgette prided herself on her vivid imagination, but even she couldn’t imagine Nathaniel as one of the residents of Whitechapel. He was a man of fastidious habits. She’d never seen him less than splendidly turned out. Even a dash into dirty Lackaday Lane had never left so much as a smudge on his cuffs. How had he borne living in the squalor of Whitechapel for even a day, let alone months?

“What made you finally leave here?”

“Caroline,” he said. “My sister wouldn’t give up on me. She fretted my father into hiring an inquiry agent to find me and bring me, by force if necessary, back to the family country seat.”

“What makes me think force
was
necessary?”

One corner of his mouth turned up in a rueful grin. “If I hadn’t been the worse for drink he’d have never gotten the drop on me.”

Their carriage rumbled past a waif on the corner selling matches, her cloak whipping around her slight form. The fabric seemed far too thin to keep out the wind whistling down the narrow streets. Georgette hoped matches were all she was selling.

“I haven’t any money with me,” she said woodenly, wishing she could help the child.

“Even if you did, you’d dare not give her any but the smallest coin.”

“Anything more would make her a target for thieves?” Georgette guessed.

“Or her employer,” Nathaniel said. “The children in this neighborhood are little better than slaves to the ones who provide them with goods to sell.”

Georgette’s chest constricted. “I had no idea. Why is nothing done about this?”

“What would you do? Take the children from their families? Each penny they earn helps put bread on the table.”

“Surely the government could—”

“No doubt there are reforms that might help the lot of these poor, but with the Crown racking up debt to build follies at the royals’ country estates, it’s not likely anything more can be spared for Whitechapel.”

The needs were overwhelming, but surely if she were a royal duchess, she might—

“And lest you think once you’re married to Cambridge you can divert some funds in this direction, let me remind you that control of your considerable dowry will lie in your royal husband’s hands,” he said with bitterness. “You’ll be lucky if he gives you pin money.”

“How will we find Mrs. O’Toole?” Georgette asked, mostly because it irritated her that Nate knew the direction her thoughts traveled so well and she didn’t want the conversation to wander back to the duke.

“We ask. Or rather, I ask.” Nathaniel rapped on the ceiling of the carriage and it halted. “Stay here.”

He climbed out of the equipage and stopped the first man who trudged past. After a few moments’ conversation, Nathaniel returned, gave the driver new instructions, and rejoined Georgette.

“Sadie O’Toole has opened a new brothel in the next block over,” he explained as the carriage moved forward. “She’s brought in a fresh stable of girls and is busy refurbishing a former common lodging house. The place has a red door, the fellow said.”

“Would you have said Sadie O’Toole had the means to do all that?” Georgette asked.

“No. When I repaid her for the rest of her lease, it was only a couple pounds. Even her girls’ debts didn’t amount to enough to open a new place. Not even here.” Nate eyed the foot traffic as if he were looking for someone in particular. “Clearly, she has a benefactor of some sort who is supporting her business.”

Someone
who
can’t satisfy their needs elsewhere. Someone who likes “gasping,”
Georgette thought, remembering Madam Bouchard’s ghastly explanation of some of the House of Sirens’s more exotic specialties.
Or
someone
who
likes
making
other
people
gasp.

Vesta’s death by strangulation was enough like that aberrant behavior to make Georgette wonder if Sadie O’Toole’s mysterious investor and the person responsible for the murders on Lackaday Lane were one and the same.

The carriage stopped halfway down the block from a crumbling brick structure with a red door. The dentils beneath the cornice hadn’t seen a lick of paint in years. Several of them were black and decayed as a diseased mouth. Vibrant cerise curtains hung at the windows on either side of the red door, their bright pink all the more garish in contrast with their shabby surroundings.

Nathaniel made no move to climb out of the carriage.

“Aren’t we going in?” Georgette asked.

“No. We are reconnoitering. Sh!” He pulled the curtains on the carriage closed so no one could see in, but was careful to leave enough of a slit in the velvet for him to see the door clearly.

“Wouldn’t it be simpler to just go in?” Georgette asked. A gentleman in a theatrical black cape rapped on the red door and was admitted. “Other people are.”

“No, it wouldn’t be simpler. For one thing, I don’t know what’s on the other side of the door. I have no idea if I can protect you in there.”

“You have a pistol,” she pointed out.

“In France I had a whole company of men armed to the teeth, but that didn’t stop most of them from being killed at Maubeuge, did it?” he said through clenched teeth. “We trusted the report of others when we should have done our own scouting.”

His frown deepened. “
I
should have done it,” he amended.

“There’s no way you could have known you were being given false reports. I understand you feel responsible, but clearly someone sabotaged your company of soldiers. Isn’t there some way to prove that you were not at fault?”

“There is.” The muscle in his cheek ticked. “A certain well-placed gentleman has assured me he holds the proof that would exonerate me, as well as Warrington and Sharp, who were the other commanders that day.” Tension knotted his brow. His whole face seemed at war with itself. “But the price he’s demanding for the information is too high.”

“If it’s a question of funds—”

“No, damn it, I don’t want your bleeding money.”

Georgette flinched as though he’d slapped her. She bit her lower lip, wishing she hadn’t made him think of the disaster in France again. He suffered so over it, but he didn’t need to lash out at her about it.

She never knew what might trigger a memory of Maubeuge. It seemed as if anything she said might lead his thoughts there.

She leaned toward him so she could peer out the narrow opening too. Concentrating on the current search seemed safer than wandering through Nathaniel’s past. “What are we looking for?”

“A familiar face.”

Almost to a man, the passersby had their hats tugged so far forward, their features were obscured.

Minutes ticked by, but Georgette didn’t see anything of import. She fidgeted with her reticule, wishing again that it held her coin purse for the sake of that little match girl. She would happily empty the contents into that child’s lap, no matter what Nathaniel had to say about it.

“Honestly, why don’t we simply go up to the door and ask to speak to Mrs. O’Toole directly? We wouldn’t have to go in. She could come out,” she finally said. “It certainly worked for me at the House of Pleasures. Once I gave Madam Bouchard a chance, she was very forthcoming about a number of things.”

“I’ll bet,” Nate said wryly, but didn’t look away from the slit in the curtains. “It’s a safe wager someone
not
involved with the Lackaday Lane killings would be forthcoming.”

“How did you know Madam Bouchard wasn’t involved?”

“Murder is bad for business. Makes the customers nervous,” Nate said. “She may have been upset with Vesta for leaving her, but she didn’t stand to gain anything by her death.”

“Then why would Sadie O’Toole kill Vesta? She was gone from Lackaday Lane by the time the murder happened.”

“I didn’t say she did it, but I think she may well know who did,” Nathaniel said. “However, if our killer is one of her regulars, or more to the point, her investor, she’s not likely to tell us for the asking.”

“From your description of her, Sadie O’Toole strikes me as a businesswoman first,” Georgette said. “She might tell what she knows for the right price.”

One of Nate’s brows arched. “That’s a thought. But information that can be bought is always suspect. She might only tell us what she thinks we want to hear.”

Something must have caught his eye because he sat forward suddenly and followed the progress of a man in a dark tweed greatcoat till he disappeared into the red door.

Georgette couldn’t make out the man’s face since he wore a black-and-white-checked deerstalker with the flaps tied down. But she didn’t think the fellow more remarkable than any other gentleman who ducked into Sadie O’Toole’s new establishment. Nate, however, smiled grimly and reached up to rap on the carriage ceiling, signaling that they were ready to move on.

“This whole exercise is a complete waste of time,” she said.

Nate didn’t correct her, but it was obvious he’d seen the familiar face he was looking for. Georgette didn’t dare ask him who the man in the tweed coat was. She was still smarting over accidently reminding him of Maubeuge and didn’t want to chance that the connection Nathaniel had made with the fellow was somehow related to his time in the military.

As the neighborhood outside the carriage windows improved, Georgette found she could stop worrying the ties on her reticule. Whitechapel had bothered her more than she would admit.

“Now where are we bound?”

“Back to Madam Bouchard’s,” he said. “It seems I may owe your footman an apology.”

“Mr. Darling? Even if you did, he and Mercy are probably not still there. I wouldn’t be surprised if they have returned to Yorkingham House and raised a hue and cry over the way you carried me off.”

“No, I imagine they are still at the House of Pleasures,” Nathaniel said a trifle sheepishly. “It was not intentional, you understand, but during your abduction, Mr. Darling was knocked unconscious.”

Her mouth gaped for a moment. “Why on earth did you do that?”

“I’d just laid out the house bully and thought one of his friends was coming up the stairs after me,” Nate said. “It was only after I struck him that I realized it was your Mr. Darling.”

“Oh, dear.”

“He’s probably fine.”

“Probably?”

“Well, I expect the tumble down the stairs didn’t do him any favors, but when I stepped over him as I carried you out, he was still breathing.”

Georgette shook her head. “He deserves a rise in his pay for this.”

“I’ll be happy to contribute to it,” Nate said. “Provided he hasn’t sounded the alarm. Surely he wouldn’t. He knows I’d never do you harm.”

Maybe not physically, but her reputation would be in tatters if anyone knew they’d spent a stolen couple hours in bed at his Cheapside flat.

Her parents would be devastated by the scandal. The royal match would be off and it would mean a hasty marriage with Nate. Her mother would find exchanging a royal duke for a second son to be lowering in the extreme. Her father would never call her “Georgie” again.

Worst of all, Nathaniel might profess to love her now, but would his affection withstand being forced into a union he hadn’t offered?

She cringed inwardly. They simply couldn’t be caught in a compromising position.

Which meant she had to make sure they didn’t get into one ever again.

Fortunately, both Mercy and Mr. Darling were still at the House of Pleasure when Georgette and Nathaniel arrived. By that time, the footman was sufficiently recovered to make his way down the stairs unassisted and even declared himself fit to ride on the rear of the carriage, clutching the baggage rail as usual.

Georgette wouldn’t hear of it. However, nothing would induce Mr. Darling to ride inside the carriage with his employer and Lord Nathaniel.

“Not that I’m worried about being close enough to you for you to take another swing at me, your lordship, but I’m sure you’ll agree it wouldn’t be fitting for me to ride inside,” Mr. Darling said with a deferential duck of his bandaged head.

Nate took the footman’s side and the driver found himself wedged between Mercy and Mr. Darling all the way back to Yorkingham House. For all the conversation Georgette and Nathaniel indulged in on the trip, the maid and the footman might as well have been in the carriage with them.

Even though they’d made furious love that afternoon, the distance between Georgette and Nate seemed to widen with each turn of the carriage wheels. His profane outburst when she’d offered to pay for the information that would clear him of wrongdoing in France still stung. Nate’s revelation about his time in Whitechapel made her realize she really didn’t know much about the man on the squab next to her.

Getting to know him was as hazardous to her heart as pruning her mother’s runaway roses was to her hands. She never knew when his thorns would prick her. He’d professed to love her, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that since that astounding declaration, he’d done everything he could to push her away.

When they came to a stop before Yorkingham House, she couldn’t fault his manners as he handed her down from the carriage. His smoothly correct gait as he matched her narrower stride and the hand resting gently on the small of her back were beyond reproach. But the extreme politeness rang false.

He hunkered behind the social conventions as if they were shields.

As soon as Georgette was inside the massive front door, her mother came swooping down the grand staircase. Her billowing sleeves trailed like bat wings.

“Where on earth have you been, child? Oh, never mind. You’re here and that’s enough for now. Mme. Reynard is waiting in your suite for the final fitting. How could you have forgotten something so absolutely vital?” Lady Yorkingham hurried on, not waiting for a reply. “Really, it is too bad of you, Georgette. She has moved heaven and earth to prepare your gown in record time and—what in the world have you done to that poor bonnet?” Her mother quickly untied the bedraggled ribbons and handed it to the waiting steward. “Humphrey, dispose of this at once. Come along, daughter.”

When Georgette reached the first landing she turned her head to see if Nathaniel was behind her. He’d been such help when she’d decided to defy her mother and order the pale pink gown instead of the red Lady Yorkingham wanted. Of course, he wouldn’t be allowed in her suite while the pins were being plied, but he could certainly soothe her mother’s ruffled feathers in the corridor. He’d helped foment this fashion mutiny. The least he owed her was his support now, when her rebellion was sure to be found out.

All she saw of him was the tail of his greatcoat disappearing through Yorkingham House’s door.

***

“Ah, Lord Nathaniel, welcome.”

Mr. Fortescue Alcock’s butler had been quick to show Nate into his master’s study. The room was cluttered with ledgers and stacks of paper. A globe occupied a place of honor near a tall window, the better for the Member of Parliament to keep track of Britain’s interests around the world. Along with leather-bound books, the shelves were filled with oddments, an engraved plaque from the Duke of Somerville commemorating some service Alcock had rendered His Grace, a brass kaleidoscope on an ornate stand, and on the topmost shelf what appeared to be a stuffed badger. Mr. Alcock rose from his throne-like chair and came around the burled oak desk, hand extended.

Nate did not move to take it.

After an awkward moment, the Member of Parliament lowered his hand, his smile hardening. “I take it this is not a social call. No matter. Among men of good conscience, disagreements sometimes arise. However, there is no reason we cannot conduct ourselves in a civil manner. Please have a seat.”

Nathaniel didn’t know how Alcock could describe himself as a “man of good conscience” without risking lightning strikes from the Almighty. Lord knew, Nate didn’t consider himself one. “I’ll stand.”

“Very well.” Mr. Alcock returned to his chair and steepled his long fingers before him. “I suppose you want what’s been promised to you.”

Nate frowned at him in puzzlement. Of course, he wanted the proof that would clear him, but he knew Alcock wouldn’t give it up for the asking.

“I’ve been informed that congratulations are in order,” Alcock said. When Nate continued in silence, he went on. “My operative tells me you have succeeded in deflowering Lady Georgette.”

Anger burned a hot trail through his insides. “He lies.”

Alcock picked up a piece of foolscap and read the spidery script aloud.

“The subject carried a hooded, bound woman into a
Cheapside flat, whereupon the two of them remained there for the better part of two hours by St. Paul’s bells. I begged for a bite at the kitchen of the house in question and was accommodated. Cook was voluble about her employer, Lord Nathaniel Colton. Thinks the sun rises and sets on his noble arse.”

Mr. Alcock peered at him over the top of the paper. “Forgive my agent’s editorializing. He sometimes brings more to the report than strictly necessary. But I digress.” He returned to reading aloud.

“Cook blushed when I mentioned seeing a woman carried in against her will, but she assured me his lordship was engaged in a bit of tomfoolery with his ‘light-o-love.’ When Lord Nathaniel and the woman emerged, the lady was no longer hooded and no longer struggling to get away from his lordship. I recognized her as Lady Georgette Yorkingham.”

Alcock let the report drop to his desk to find a place among the reams of other papers and ledgers. “If you didn’t manage to bed her in two hours, I have serious doubts about your manhood.”

The backs of Nate’s eyes burned. “You will not use this information.”

“Of course I will,” Alcock said with a smarmy grin. “This is exactly what’s wanted to keep Cambridge from taking her as his bride. The old bugger will have to start fresh with a new virgin now and I needn’t remind you, time is the ultimate enemy of the royal dukes.”

Nathaniel reached across the desk and snatched Alcock by his snowy-white neckcloth. He pulled him forward to glare at him, nose to nose.

“I am
your
ultimate enemy,” Nathaniel said through clenched teeth. “If so much as a breath of scandal touches Lady Georgette, I will call you out.”

“A duel? Surely you don’t mean…” The whites showed all the way around Alcock’s eyes. And well they should. Whether Alcock chose pistols or swords, it wouldn’t make a particle of difference. Nathaniel was an acknowledged master of both. “How very…”

“Murderous? That’s the word you’re looking for. Because it’s apt. It would be murder and you and I know it. Socially sanctioned murder, but murder all the same. If we meet on a field of honor, I promise I will kill you.”

Alcock’s complexion paled to the color of week-old porridge. His Adam’s apple bobbed in a hard swallow.

“I scarcely think you’re one to talk of honor,” the man said. “Have you forgotten that if I decide
not
to clear you, I can just as easily lay the full weight of failure for Maubeuge at your feet?”

“I don’t care what you do about that. My sins are my own and I’ll answer for them.” He gave the man a rough shake before releasing him with enough force to send him sprawling back into his chair. “But you will not harm Lady Georgette. Is that understood?”

“You’re going to regret this.”

“I regret many things, sir. But I’ll never regret this.” Nate glared at him. If Alcock had discovered information that cleared him and his friends, it stood to reason that Nathaniel could uncover it too. “Do your worst to me. I don’t care. Do the slightest discourtesy to Lady Georgette and you’ll answer for it.”

Mr. Alcock adjusted his neckcloth and jutted his chin forward, obviously feeling a little braver now that Nate had released him. “I believe you’ll see things in a different light shortly. The tinge of scandal you’ve suffered up to this point was merely living under a cloud. If you insist on thwarting me in this, Colton, I will rain down the full storm of public censure on you, including criminal charges.” Alcock smoothed down his waistcoat. “Consider, sir, what your complete disgrace will mean to your family.”

“My family knows what I am,” Nate said woodenly. Even when he was languishing in an opium den in Whitechapel, his family hadn’t abandoned him. Somehow, he’d find another way to protect them from Alcock’s venom besides ruining Georgette. “Lady Georgette does not. If you besmirch her reputation in any way, you may expect me to demand immediate satisfaction. Do you understand me, sir?”

“Yes.” Mr. Alcock narrowed his eyes to glittering slits. “I believe I do. But trust me when I say you will wish I did not by the time I am finished with you.”

***

“Come, daughter,” Lady Yorkingham said as she made her umpteenth circuit of Georgette’s chambers. “I haven’t all day.”

Georgette drew a deep breath, straightened to her full height, and stepped from behind the chinoiserie dressing screen in the pink gown, leaving Mercy to tidy up her discarded clothing.

No matter what her mother said, the pale silk was divine. The clean lines were undisturbed by a single ruffle or furbelow. A deep magenta sash snugged under her breasts, delineating the high waist and allowing the slender skirt to fall in a foamy column to the floor. The fit was perfect.

Lady Yorkingham stared at her for a good half minute. “What is this? Did I or did I not specify red?”

“Have no fear, my lady,” Mme. Reynard said, flying to the trunk in which she’d packed the pink gown. She tore through its contents. “I have also a red gown for Lady Georgette as well. No need to thank me. I value your custom much, you see, so if the pink will not suit, we shall use this one.”

She pulled out a vibrant red gown, festooned with flounces and sleeves so puffy, Georgette suspected they’d touch her earlobes.

“Oh, it’s wonderful,” Lady Yorkingham enthused as she crossed to run the silk through her fingers. “The color is so eye-catching, and the style! This ruching reminds me of a gown I used to wear. It’s exactly what I envisioned.”

Obviously, Mme. Reynard knew who paid her bill.

“I know your mind, my lady,” the modiste said with a grateful curtsy. “I’m happy to have pleased you.”

Georgette screwed her courage to the sticking point. She had no choice but to attend the ball. She didn’t have to appear in that garish red monstrosity. “No, Mother, I won’t wear that gown.”

“What?” Her mother rounded on her like a man-o’-war with all guns loaded for a broadside. “I cannot believe my ears. How can you prefer this”—she waved a bejeweled hand toward Georgette—“this
simple
thing. Honestly, do you think it fitting for the daughter of a marquis?”

“Is someone taking my name in vain?” her father called from the other side of the closed chamber door.

“Come in, Papa,” Georgette said, grateful for the interruption. “We’d appreciate a masculine opinion.”

The marquis opened the door a bit and peered around it, evidently skittish about invading Georgette’s room when such a delicate operation as a gown fitting was in progress. A smile lit up his face as he swept his gaze over her.

“That’s lovely, my dear,” he said with approval.

“But it’s so plain,” her mother complained.

“The better to complement her beauty,” her father countered. “Georgette doesn’t need anything more.”

Lady Yorkingham took the red gown from the modiste’s hands and held it up before herself. “But I want Georgette to wear this one.”

“Very nice,” her father said diplomatically. Then he cocked his head. “Seems to me I remember another young lady in that very shade of red. Someone who could carry off that bright hue because her own coloring was—and still is—so very striking.”

Georgette’s mother blushed to the tips of her ears. “You remember.”

“Of course I do. I’ll never forget it. You were beautiful in your wedding gown, but when you donned that red traveling ensemble, all I could think was what a very lucky fellow I was.” He checked the time on his filigreed watch and then returned it to his pocket. “I also remembered that you love the opera, my dear. We have a box reserved for tonight, so if you don’t wish to miss the overture, I suggest you leave Georgette to her fitting and prepare yourself for an evening with me.”

Lady Yorkingham’s mouth gaped in surprise for the space of several heartbeats.

“Of course, my lord,” she said, collecting herself swiftly. “Georgette, I’ll trust you to work with Mme. Reynard on the red gown as well.”

“Yes, Mother.” Slightly bewildered, she cast her father a look of pure gratitude as he escorted her mother out.

What on earth had possessed the marquis? Her father never surprised her mother like that. And she knew full well he loathed the opera. Why was the marquis suddenly behaving like an anxious-to-please suitor instead of a man who’d been married for nearly thirty years?

Georgette disappeared behind the dressing screen and let Mercy help her out of the delectable pink confection. In the interests of peace, she’d let the modiste fit her for the red gown as well.

But if her mother insisted she wear it for the ball, Georgette fully intended to spill a cup of chocolate on it while the string quartet was tuning up.