“Freshfield,” Jude said slowly. “We were up at Eton with him. Brilliant fellow. Cunning and totally without ethics.”
“But from a good family,” Turgoose said.
Jude stared at him questioningly.
“That’s what my mother says when I point out that other stuff. Nothing else matters to her. She says Miss Ritter is totally beyond the pale. Not acceptable. I only wish—”
Sharp and still, Jude asked, “What do you wish?”
“I liked the girl. I liked her a lot. I just wish I had the bottom to take up the cudgels on her behalf. But my mother would break me like a crust of toast.”
“She certainly would.” Turgoose’s mother, Lady Reederman, was a stickler for propriety, a guiding light of society, and she inspired fear in every one of her seven children as well as in her husband, all her servants, and every debutante who had made her bow for the last twenty-five years. Funny that Jude even cared whether Turgoose, of all people, was eliminated from the competition for Miss Ritter. With an intensity that he felt down to his toes—no, to his groin—Jude said, “Tell me the details.”
“Debut year, Miss Ritter was as glorious a creature as any I’ve seen, and she was constantly in trouble. Men were always trying to kidnap her, or declaring their undying love on their knees in the middle of a quadrille, or threatening to commit suicide for her.”
Jude should have been acting languorous, but the thought of her and all those men, all those suitors, kissing her hand, whispering about her charms, trying to sneak a kiss made him furious. They made him jealous, and of a girl he had met once, in the bushes, in the mud. A woman who’d ruined the plans he’d so carefully set in motion and made him lust when he should be focused on vengeance. Yet he managed to sound amused, to look casual, when he asked, “Bodies strewn in her path, eh?”
Seriously, Turgoose said, “Not really. They always stopped short of shooting themselves. But you get the idea.”
“The Season was a circus that revolved around Miss Ritter.”
“Precisely!” Turgoose clapped Jude on the shoulder. “You may look like a damned fool, but your understanding is still superior.”
“Sh,” Jude said softly. “Don’t spread that around.”
“No, of course not! No man wants to be known as intelligent! I wouldn’t like that at all.”
“I think you’re safe.”
“Exact…” Turgoose paused as if suspecting sarcasm.
Jude kept his face blank, and prompted, “You were telling me the tale of Miss Ritter.”
“Oh. Yes! Mr. Manfred Ritter was mightily pleased with Miss Ritter’s success.” Turgoose sneered. “He saw the chance to advance his family name at last. He’s not only a cold fish, but he clutches the coin so tight his shillings scream in agony.”
Jude swung his monocle back and forth on its ribbon. “I don’t understand.”
“He’s cheap! The damned fool didn’t obtain a responsible chaperon, and when Lord Freshie started romancing Miss Ritter, that viper of a chaperon took a bribe to convince Miss Ritter of Freshie’s good intentions and persuade the gel that he could be trusted.”
Jude felt his face settle into grim lines. “But he’s married.”
“Precisely. She should have known better, and that is what her enemies point to as conclusive condemnation.” Turgoose drew out his handkerchief and blotted the perspiration on his forehead. “Walk slower, will you?”
Jude hadn’t realized how his gait had speeded up beyond the appearance of a stylish man loitering down the path on a spring day. So he did slow, but with his cane he poked at Turgoose. “So Miss Ritter was a fool.” And Jude, who remembered Freshie and his reputation for perversions, thought he might take the time, when he’d finished his mission, to take Freshie apart joint by joint.
“I hesitate to put such a label on that darling gel, but Freshie can be charming and she was infatuated with him. Certainly she trusted him beyond all propriety, and at a party given at his house, he carried her away to his study. Alone. And locked her in with him.” Turgoose ran his finger under his collar. “I was the one who realized what he had done. I broke into the room.”
“Really?” Jude examined his friend with renewed interest. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“I was rather more than infatuated,” Turgoose mumbled.
“You were in love,” Jude teased, but he wasn’t laughing. He was furious. This was his friend, and he didn’t even appreciate Turgoose’s efforts on Miss Ritter’s behalf—because Jude wanted to be her rescuer.
“Buckle your beak.” Turgoose put his hands on his waist and glared. “We’re talking about Miss Ritter, and my dedication is undiminished.”
He was simply, Jude diagnosed, too afraid of his mother to do anything about his passion, and that was fine. Turgoose’s fear almost made him likeable again. “My apologies. Go on with the tale.”
“Trouble was, that whoreson Freshie had more than seduction on his mind. He wanted to use Miss Ritter to obtain a separation from his wife. Figured Miss Ritter was safe because her commoner father couldn’t call him out. So when I tried to get her out of the room, Freshie made a fuss to attract attention.” Now Turgoose blotted his upper lip, and his perspiration wasn’t from exertion, but from remembered horror. “It was a nightmare. A nightmare, I tell you. When his wife broke in, she shrieked like an Irish banshee and blamed it all on Miss Ritter. Freshie came off innocent as a rosebud.”
Jude scarcely moved his lips as he asked, “With as many suitors as you said Miss Ritter had and Freshie’s reputation, why wasn’t she able to find someone who would marry her?”
“Because her father threw her from his town house in a dramatic scene. You can imagine the calumny for her.” Turgoose’s color fluctuated. “Eighteen-year-old girl. No resources. No dowry. Reviled by her family. Frightened…”
If Jude had been there…what would he have done? Until the day he had stared down at his brother’s body, he had been shallow, conceited because he wasn’t a worthless bon vivant like Michael, superior for no more reason than the ability to hold his liquor and a talent for logical thinking. He probably would have shrugged and agreed that no beautiful young woman should have to suffer such an inequitable fate…yet, remembering his reaction to her face, perhaps he would have been as indignant as Turgoose. “Why, my good man, what did you do?”
“Nothing. I did nothing untoward!”
Lifting his monocle, Jude fixed his gaze on his friend.
“I didn’t,” Turgoose insisted. “Her younger sister gave her her allowance. The servants sneaked her food. But she was truly destitute, so I recommended her for a position teaching singing and pianoforte.” He scuffled his feet. “She lost the position. But Mrs. Cabot loved Miss Ritter, as does everyone who meets her, and she gave her a glowing reference that found her another position.”
Seeing the developing pattern, Jude suggested, “Which she lost?”
“If only the dear gel could discover something she did well for which she could be paid.”
A plan slid easily to the surface of Jude’s mind. For the first time he blessed his father’s interfering ways. “She may have already have done so.”
“Really? As what?”
“I imagine if someone attempted to resuscitate her reputation, it would cause an immeasurable fuss.”
“But what kind of fool would attempt that?” Turgoose’s gaze slid up Jude’s frighteningly green jacket, and he backed up a step. “I mean, it would be absurd to think anyone could bring her back into the fold.”
“You insinuated she had been used for nefarious circumstances by a known libertine and yet remained innocent.”
“Yes, of a certainty.” Turgoose rubbed his shining forehead. “But no maiden can survive such a blow to her reputation.”
“What if a duke’s heir attended her at the opera?” Which, considering her face and figure, would be a labor most enjoyable.
Turgoose chuckled weakly. “You are jesting. Why would you do tha
t?”
Because the Moricadians liked her. Because the resultant scandal would both draw attention to Jude and allow him to do his work under the cover of gossip and resentment. And because—this was no small matter—it would make his autocratic father think twice before he again attempted to control his second son.
Turgoose pleaded, “Jude? You are jesting, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”
“No.” Jude smiled a sharp, predatory smile. “I don’t believe I am.”
Chapter 7
Caroline picked her way through the refuse in the narrow alley toward her flat. The westering sun shone at an angle across the high rooftops three stories above, but here below, the shadows were deep and the stench obnoxious. The scene was, she reflected, much like her own life. Somewhere, she saw evidence that light and happiness existed, but no matter what she said, no matter how hard she worked, no matter how much she climbed and clawed, she couldn’t reach the light.
A croaking voice came from a recessed doorway.
“Ahoy, Miss Ritter!”
Caroline peered into the shadows at the pile of rags that shifted as she stared, becoming a man—or what was left of a man when a cannonball ripped off both his legs more than thirty years ago at Trafalgar. “Greetings, Harry. My day has been fruitful, and I trust yours has been the same.”
“A difficult day, Oi’m afraid. Very difficult.” She couldn’t see his eyes beneath his hood, but his pale, pointed nose quivered like a rabbit’s scenting fresh feed. “Oi lifted six pocketbooks off the gennamen goin’ in the Bank o’ England, and no’ one carried more than shillings.”
“Rather thoughtless of them. Perhaps they’ve heard you were working the area?”
He nodded dolefully. “Aye, a beggar’s life is ’ard, and just when ye get a territory set up, along comes a bunch o’ coves who ruin a man’s ’onest labor.”
“Not honest and not—” She stopped herself. She had previously tried to point out the error in Harry’s ways, but he saw nothing wrong with begging, and certainly nothing wrong with picking the pockets of any gull who stopped to throw money into his hat. He said the gentlemen owed it to him—after all, hadn’t he sacrificed everything to preserve their country? And no thanks except a sawbones to cut off the shattered remnants of his legs.
His voice changed from the whine of a professional beggar to the deeper, surer sound of a man defending his territory. “I thought ye ought t’know. Ye’ve got a visitor.”
“A visitor? Here?” No one of import came here, where shattered hopes met implacable poverty. “What kind of visitor?” A creditor, waving a bill and demanding satisfaction? Or…him, Lord Freshfield? She drew a painful breath. Had he found her here?
“ ’Tis a man, young, tall, ’andsome. Rich-looking sort o’ fellow all dressed up fancy.”
Her fear subsided a little. “Fancy? Really, really fancy? Colorful fancy?”
“I’d call ’im positively eye-popping.”
Huntington. Her savior. She was surprised he had found her so quickly. She gave Harry a lopsided smile. “Then I know who it is.” The handsome Lord Huntington. In the bright sunshine in the park, his clothing had looked even more absurd than in Nevett’s study, and his selfish disinterest in assisting a beautiful, helpless young woman provided a challenge to her skills as a flirt—and as a matchmaker. If all he cared about was himself and his clothing, she’d have to find some other leverage than desire to make him want to marry. She needed to make another notation in her planning book, design another strategy to make him want what his father and she wanted for Huntington—to wed.
She had to get Huntington married to some poor debutante, and with the money Nevett would provide her, she could take Genevieve and go to France. Their mother’s people weren’t rich. She didn’t expect to live off their generosity forever. But somehow, she would find something that she could do to earn a living. Something that would give Genevieve a chance at a life unmarred by their father’s indifference. As it was, in the dark of night, Caroline feared she was fit only for life as a mistress—or a prostitute.
She had to teach Huntington to flirt. She had to find him a wife. For when she remembered the slow crawl of Lord Freshfield’s fingers over her leg, she wanted to vomit.
“Don’t look like that, Miss,” Harry said. “Ye’re not one t’ end in such a manner.”
How did he know what she was thinking?
“I’ve seen it time and again,” he answered as if she had spoken. “Poverty eats ye alive, but ye’ve got an aura. It surrounds ye like sunshine. Ye’re one o’ the lucky ones. Ye’ll see.”
Although her lips trembled, she smiled. “Harry, you’re a philosopher and a seer.”
“Don’t ye recognize me, Miss? I’m a fallen angel, I am, a curate’s assistant who went t’ war and came back ’alf a man.” He pulled back into his rags, as if he were sorry that he had revealed so much. “As long as ye’re sure this gennaman is not a threat t’ ye, I’ll not worry further.”
“Thank you for the warning,” she said softly. “It would be unpleasant to come on him unexpectedly.” She turned away, and heard the rhythmic squeak of Harry’s wheels as he pushed his low-slung cart toward his pitiful home. She didn’t look back; the man deserved his dignity.
Sunlight still slipped into the dark corridor of her building, and for the first time since she had rented this third-floor flat, she climbed the stairs with a kind of lively interest. She wondered what Huntington would demand: that she leave him to his own devices, probably…or perhaps he would welcome her as a sycophant. Who knew? He was an odd sort of fellow, apparently more interested in the Moricadians than in her. Yet she’d recognized that glint in his eyes when he’d first looked upon her; he was very much a man, with a man’s strong appreciation of a handsome woman.
For a moment, when he looked at her that way, she had experienced a thrill, a kind of heady anticipation and girlish alarm. Foolishness. She knew her place.
When he noticed her red rose, she had enjoyed his start of surprise more than she should, and now she unfastened it from her bodice and twirled it, and the pin, in her fingers.
She would take pleasure in this interview.
Opening the door into her flat, she found a candle already lit. Of course. The son of a duke would never think of the price of a candle. She saw the bulk of him sitting there in the one chair beside the bed, and as she stepped inside, she said in an amused tone, “I’ve been expecting you.”
The man rose. She saw the flash of his golden hair, and in that split second, she realized—this wasn’t Huntington.
It was Lord Freshfield.
She took a hard, frightened breath.
In that suave, knowing voice she despised, he said, “I would have come sooner if I’d known.”
She stood frozen, paralyzed with revulsion. She wanted to run, but if she did, he would know how much he frightened her. She wanted to shriek, but he would like that, too. She wanted…she wanted him out of there. “How did you get in?”
“Your landlord saw no reason to keep me out.” In other words, Freshfield had bribed him.
Her heart thudded against her breastbone. He was so handsome, a glorious creature of sunshine and shadow, and only the discerning could see the corruption that tarnished the gold.
She hadn’t been discerning. She had been a trusting fool. That night…that night, Lord Freshfield had offered her a drink in private, and she, imprudent, infatuated, and enjoying the intrigue, had agreed. He had slipped away from the party. She had slipped away from her chaperon—although, looking back, she realized that had been all too easy.
He toasted her. “To my beautiful release.”
She didn’t understand what he meant. She didn’t wonder, either. She just drank of the deep, rich wine…and after that, memory came in bursts. Disoriented, she giggled. When she staggered, he led her to his study.
Then what started as an adventure became a nightmare. He shoved her down on the sofa. She protested. He tore her bodice. She pushed at hi
s hands. He touched her breast. She cried out. He slid his hand up her skirt. She kicked at him with her soft slippers.
But she didn’t gouge his eyes with her nails. She didn’t scratch his face, or punch him, or bite him. God help her, she had been trained to be a lady, never to hurt anyone, and she couldn’t bring herself—didn’t even think of—seriously defending herself.
People burst in. Men, three men, she thought. Mortified, she cried harder. They stared, then averted their eyes as if she were soiled. Dear Goose—Rodney Turgoose—tried to remove her from the chamber, but her knees collapsed beneath her. More people arrived, women this time. Lady Freshfield shrieked. She slapped Caroline, a blow to the face that sent her staggering.
And from the murky depths of remembrance, Caroline could hear someone in the crowd murmur, “She’s drunk. She’s ruined.”
Everything that had followed was humiliation, and horror, and disgrace.
She would never be so weak again. She would never be so stupid again. She had learned. Through the last painful years of poverty and struggle, she had learned. No man would ever use her as abominably as Freshfield. Looking at him, she knew—she’d kill herself first.
And a voice that sounded like doom echoed in her head—and Genevieve would be alone.
There was no escape for Caroline. She had to make this employment work.
Determined not to be trapped in the room, she stayed in the open doorway. “I’d like you to leave.”
“Darling, you don’t mean that.” He swept his arm around her pitiful hovel of a room. “Let me take you away from this. I can provide a house for you, and luxury such as you’ve never imagined.”
“I can’t afford the price.” Her gaze fixed on his cravat. It was a bright orange color, like the one Lord Huntington had worn the day before. No wonder Harry had thought Freshfield was positively eye-popping. The marquess was imitating the earl.
“Of course you can. Every woman can afford that price. Women are made to let men pay for their every little whim.”
“I thought it was your wife who paid for your whims.”