He considered her a friend. They considered him her pet. He tried not to let it bother him; most of the time it didn’t. But then he spotted her… Mrs. Richards, the woman who had been so aghast at his youthful age… the beautiful if cold-looking blonde who had left him, rejected him, really, for some reason. Aye, when he spotted her he didn’t want to be seen as Lady Lavender’s little toy. He merely wanted her to see him as he was… a man.
He shifted from behind the marble column to get a better view and watched her float across the room like a bleedin’ dove amongst foxes. She wore a pink silk gown trimmed with lace and roses, the bust so low her creamy breasts were on proud display. The familiar rush of heated lust swept through his body. She belonged here, a queen amongst subjects who paled in comparison. She belonged more than any of them. It wasn’t merely her beauty that set her apart from the rest, no, it was her confidence, her very being. Although she wore a mask the same rose color as her gown, he was sure the woman was Mrs. Richards. Yes, she belonged here, at balls with the wealthiest London had to offer. So why the bleedin’ hell had she risked it all by visiting a brothel?
“Because if my husband ever uncovers the truth, he will kill me.”
Her words had haunted him in the days since he’d seen her last. Of course any husband would be irate if he found he’d been humiliated. In fact, they’d had to deal with more than one angry spouse, which was why Ophelia kept only the most brutal of guards on staff. But there was something about the woman’s words that disturbed him. Almost as if… as if she truly believed her husband would kill her.
He scanned the crowds and found Lady Lavender easily in her rich purple gown. Sure enough two hulking guards stood behind her. She was in deep conversation with a young, handsome dandy who had most likely been dared to speak with her. She would not notice if he slipped away.
James briefly touched his black mask, making sure it was in place, then moved along the outskirts of the ballroom, avoiding the crush of visitors, and headed toward Mrs. Richards. He did not intend to speak to her, of course. He’d destroy her reputation. But he couldn’t deny that he was curious about the woman and at the very least wanted to know her real name. Was she titled? Did she have children? A million questions flooded his mind when he’d rarely been curious about any of his clients before. What was it about her that had him so enthralled?
He paused beside a potted palm, half-hidden by the plant, and took a glass of wine as a servant went by. Mrs. Richards chatted with a few patrons, but for the most part she strolled casually through the ballroom, her face unsmiling, her gaze only mildly curious, as if she’d merely stopped by on her way to something more important. Hell, what was wrong with him? He’d never cared about a client before. Caring interfered with business.
“No, it can’t be,” a young woman in a brilliant yellow gown whispered furiously, drawing James’s attention. She stood only a few feet away, huddled close to another woman, both twitching their painted fans excitedly. “It is! That blonde hair… that cold demeanor… dear Lord, it’s Lady Beckett!”
“Indeed! I never!” the older woman exclaimed.
“Neither I! The epitome of elegance and grace, here?” They both giggled behind their fans, but spotting James they broke off, flushing. They had the courage to attend the ball, the gall to gossip about others, yet they would not look him in the eyes.
“Ladies,” he murmured with a slight incline of his head, intent on teasing them.
Their flushes spread and they clutched onto each other, scampering away as if he’d threatened to steal their virtue. James sighed, downing his wine, and found her again. Lady Beckett. A lady then. He wasn’t in the least bit surprised. Her elegance and the large jewels she wore gave her away. He started to turn away, his curiosity sated, when she inclined her head ever so slightly. Their gazes met. For the briefest of moments something warm and surprising flashed in her cold, blue eyes. Shock, a little nervousness, and something else he couldn’t quite identify. She jerked her attention away from him, and the moment was gone before it had barely had time to begin. But James was sure of one thing… she had recognized him.
Aye, she’d recognized him, and he’d been thoroughly dismissed. He watched her walk away with a small group of other elegantly dressed women. Women who would never risk their reputation by visiting Lady Lavender’s, yet she had visited, hadn’t she? James frowned, annoyed for some reason. He had a feeling he would never, ever see her again. Why that bothered him, he wasn’t sure. He turned away from her, determined to forget the woman with the sad eyes, a woman much too good for the likes of him.
He had other clients to dwell upon and she was merely a fleeting star in a night sky full of brilliance. He glanced around the room, looking for someone who might be interested. There were plenty who whispered seductive words, who had grabbed his arse a time or two, but none of them appealed at the moment. Still, there was always a surge of interest when they made an appearance. And so he would smile mysteriously, wink at a woman or two, and come Monday there would be a few new clients added to the list.
It was the same thing every year, over and over again. Most guests at the ball were either young and curious or old and bored with life. He should be grateful for his position, he’d reminded himself repeatedly in the last few days. After all, he’d never in his life tasted champagne before he’d met Lady Lavender. Never slept on silken sheets or worn the finest of French fashion. And never would he have been able to support his family.
She’d promised him riches, and she’d come through. So he didn’t mind the lewd glances and occasional wandering hand from women… and men. At least he had never minded before. But tonight… tonight was different. Tonight he felt the odd desire to crawl out of his own skin, to be free of it all, to know something different.
He shook off the unsettling feeling. He was here to do business for Ophelia, the woman he owed. More business meant more money for his family. And so he smiled charmingly at the ladies he passed, although he wanted to frown. He smiled, even when they looked him over like he was nothing more than prime horseflesh. Smiled although he knew he did not belong here and never would.
“Sir.” A servant paused next to James, tray in hand.
“Thank you.” James set his flute upon the tray and started to turn away, intent on capturing at least one new client that night.
“No,” the man whispered furiously.
James paused, glancing back. The man’s face was utterly red with embarrassment. He didn’t speak, merely slid a folded note toward James. Frowning, James took the missive and moved away. Another mysterious letter. Surely Alex wasn’t contacting him here, of all places. He slipped behind a column, hidden from view, and opened the note.
Head through the kitchen and meet me in the back garden.
Dare he hope that Lady Beckett had written the note? No, he wasn’t that lucky. But it was obviously from a woman, if the feathery handwriting and floral scent were any indication. It must be a client, one who frequented the estate, for they were the only ones who would be so bold. He glanced toward Lady Lavender, and as she met his gaze, she understood. He needed no permission, as long as he was working.
He placed the note into his jacket pocket and followed the corridor toward the back of the house. The dancing, laughing guests did not notice, for he’d learned early in life to become one with the shadows. The farther into the house he traveled, the quieter it became. He followed the dimly lit corridor past many wealthy paintings of landscapes and dour-looking relatives. Past maids and footmen scurrying to get drinks to spoiled guests. Even past a few couples kissing in the shadowed corners. It was a ball that was not for the innocent. Nothing surprised him anymore.
At the end of the corridor he could see the serving maids rushing around the kitchen, various meals in midpreparation. He breathed deeply the scent of bread, roasted duck, and other delicious servings. It was one of many benefits of his station in life… the meals. Meals he never could have imagined, let alone tasted, as a lad
. He turned left and headed out the back door. He knew the layout well, for he had entertained more than one tryst in Lady Rutherford’s gardens.
The night air was cool and crisp. Only a few stars were visible, for they were not far enough away from London to escape the gray cloud of smoke produced by the factories. He shifted his gaze west to the stone wall and beyond. There was the countryside. Just beyond those hills. And out there, hours away, his mum and sister breathed in the clean air. Perhaps tonight they were eating his mother’s famous beef stew and wondering where he was, what adventures he was on. The thought made him uneasy, melancholy.
He smoothed down his jacket and glanced around the garden, looking for signs of a gown, the giggle of feminine laughter. No one. He moved down the shallow steps and followed the gravel path around the corner to the rose gardens, the air heavy with the sweet scent of roses. A scent that reminded him all to clearly of Lady Beckett. He paused near a fountain of a naked baby spewing water from his mouth.
Not a soul, which was odd. Usually there was at least a couple or two kissing in the privacy of the gardens. He started to turn when he was greeted by the crunch of feet over gravel. Not the soft whisper of feminine slippers. No, these were heavy, hurried. A shiver of unease raised the fine hairs on the back of his neck. James spun around.
The two hulking forms that suddenly appeared from the shadows didn’t exactly make him feel better. “Can I help you gentlemen?”
Gentlemen, for they were dressed in evening attire. But they were young, pocked-faced lads who were barely out of the schoolroom; spoiled brutes who were all too common in the ton. They were looking to prove their worth, and unless he could talk his way out of the situation, he had a feeling this wasn’t going to end well.
“Yes, you can help us by leaving,” the shorter man said, heading left as his friend went right. “You don’t belong here.”
Contempt hovered heavily around them. James knew society thought of him as the scum of the earth, the worst of all sinners. Yet Lady Lavender kept them so isolated he’d rarely dealt with such men.
“I’m sorry to report that we were actually invited. In fact, Lady Rutherford practically begs us to join her gathering every year.”
“Blasphemous,” the shorter man hissed. “Your kind are only welcome in hell!”
His surprise gave way to anger. “Certainly you can respect a man who is merely trying to make a living,” James said, spreading his arms wide in mock innocence. He could feel the cold press of the dagger he had strapped to the inside of his jacket sleeve, and he itched to take it out and show them just who he was. One didn’t grow up where he had without leaving home prepared. But he knew very well that he’d hang if he cut a gent.
“You’re sinning, and you’re destroying our women by seducing them. You think society won’t see you in the gaols? It’s coming, whore.”
James’s worry flared. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard rumors about the government closing Lavender Hills. Is that why Ophelia had been acting so odd lately? Was she worried about her business? “Oh no, they come quite willingly, I promise. Perhaps if you spent less time harassing innocent men and more time learning to please your women, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
The taller man growled, his hands curling into fists. James felt a grim sense of satisfaction. They thought to toy with him? He was itching to hit someone, and these men would do quite well. To hell with them all.
“Demon spawn,” the shorter man hissed.
“Let he who cast the first stone and all that,” James said, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it atop a box hedge. He wouldn’t use the knife. No, he would hang, and as discontent as he felt with life at the moment, he didn’t want to bloody hang. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to give in without showing them exactly who they taunted. Perhaps next time they’d think twice.
“We aren’t sinners. There’s a difference between gambling and drinking and becoming a whore,” the taller man said, tossing his own jacket aside. They were getting down to business, and frankly, James looked forward to thinking about something other than Ophelia and Lady Beckett.
“Ah, but doesn’t the Bible say that all sins are the same in the eyes of the Lord?” James rolled his sleeves to his elbows, unveiling the dagger strapped to his forearm. A little warning they took to heart, if their nervous gazes were any indication.
“It also says to smite your enemies,” the man hissed. “You are destroying good people and good families because of your sinful ways.”
“A bit dramatic, aren’t you?” James released a wry laugh. “And which good people do you speak of… you?” His mocking laughter sent them over the edge.
“Better than you, rat.”
James expected the first punch and ducked easily, jumping to the side and avoiding the shorter man’s reach. What he couldn’t avoid was the third man who snuck up behind him. He heard the thump of feet only too late. Suddenly James’s arms were pinned behind him.
“Bastard!” James cried out, trying to twist away. “Cowards!”
The shorter man swung his arm forward, his fist connecting with James’s stomach. The air burst from his lungs and stars flared to life. He would have sunk to the ground if the third man hadn’t been holding him. Another fist connected with his chin, jerking his head back. Pain shot across his jaw, down his spine. He would not cry out. No, he welcomed the pain because it meant he would feel again, feel something, anything.
“Teach him,” the man holding him said, “that no one touches our women.”
Another fist hit him in the gut. His stomach cramped, and he had to swallow the bile that surged up into his throat. He didn’t have time to recuperate before someone punched him in the cheek, snapping his head to the side. The animalistic need that he’d buried deep within years ago raged to the surface. The urge to rip them to pieces surged to the forefront.
With a roar, James jerked free, spinning out of reach. He hit the short man first, propelling him back into a rosebush. The anger within him would not be sated; it pushed, pulsed, becoming a thing unto itself. He swung his fist toward the taller man at the same time the coward who had held his arms kicked him in the stomach. James stumbled back, doubled over.
“Who’s out there?” someone called from the back stoop, the voice echoing across the garden.
Just as suddenly as his attackers had arrived, they were gone, fleeing the scene, even leaving behind their jackets. James fell to his knees, and then onto his back, staring up at the dark sky. Weak, spent, he lay there gasping for air as music from the orchestra drifted out the ballroom windows.
He heard the rustle of a silk skirt, just barely audible over the roar of blood to his ears. The scent of roses whispered around him, and for a moment he thought he dreamt, or perhaps they’d knocked his knob too many times.
“Is he well, my lady?” A footman hovered over James, his concerned face fading in and out of focus.
“I’m not sure. Go find Lady Lavender.”
Yes, it was her voice. Lady Beckett. He couldn’t quite believe she was there. Stunned, he remained silent, afraid of scaring her off. A silken dress caressed his hand as she leaned down near him. He had to resist the urge to reach out and grasp onto her ankle and beg her to stay.
“What have you done?” she whispered, shaking her head. The golden curls, silver in the moonlight, swayed hypnotically over her shoulders. She pushed her mask to her forehead and scanned his face with concern.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” he muttered through his swollen jaw. He wanted her, but he didn’t want her bloody sympathy.
“Nonsense,” she whispered, sliding her arm around his waist. “Now come, sit up. You’ll feel better.”
He doubted that very much, but allowed her to slip her warm arm around his waist and help him to his feet. Taking advantage of the situation, he leaned into her slight frame, breathing in her rose scent. She was stronger than she looked, and he was impressed when she helped him to a crate outside the back door
. The lanterns hanging from the eves spun, the merry sounds of the ball fading and pulsing in and out of focus. Aye, he’d been hit a few too many times, drunk a little too much brandy.
“Speak to me, James,” she whispered, standing in front of him with her gloved hands clasped tightly against her bosom, almost as if… as if she cared.
“I’m well enough,” he said gruffly. He would not mistake her worry for affection. No, she was merely sympathetic. He curled his hands against his hard thighs, resisting the urge to reach out to her, to bring her close and crush his mouth to hers. He merely wanted that hollow, empty feeling inside his chest to be gone. Damn it all, he wanted the peace he’d had before she arrived.
“You’re not well.” She settled beside him and gripped his chin, turning his face toward her. The gasp of shock and dismay that separated her lips warmed his unwilling heart. “What happened?”
“Just having a bit of fun.”
She tsked. When she took out her handkerchief and started to reach toward the cut near his mouth, he leaned back. Too much. Hell, it was too much. He’d lived over ten years on his own, and this woman, with her sad eyes and kind touch, was making him crave things he couldn’t have.
Her brows drew together. “Perhaps they were having fun, but I doubt you were.”
“On the contrary.” He took her handkerchief. Hell, he didn’t even remember getting hit in the mouth. “You should leave, go back to your ball before you’re missed. There is no need to risk your reputation for me.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, sending her bosom so high it threatened to spill from the low neckline of her gown. Her arms were bare and the air chill, but she didn’t complain. “I’m the eldest of five. Helping others comes rather naturally to me.”
“I see.” But he didn’t see. He didn’t understand how this woman who had been so cold, who had fled Lady Lavender’s so quickly, could be here now, attending to his wounds. Bold as you please. He pressed the handkerchief to his lip. It smelled of rosewater, refinement, cleanliness, wealth, her.