“You don’t.” In other words, they didn’t know her husband abused her. They didn’t know she lived a life of pain and suffering. No, because she did a damn good job of hiding it behind a façade of a woman of elegant perfection. The perfect life. He suddenly understood why he was so drawn to this woman… they were both playing a part. Both trapped and trying to make the best of it.
“What happened?” she asked, leaning over the table, closer to him. “Why did you move away from here?”
He had a feeling she was trying to change the subject. He dropped his gaze to the brooch at her neck, a colorful French painting of a couple embracing. It looked like an antique, something his mother had owned once… before she’d started selling her jewelry for food. “My father lost his position and then his life.”
“Oh James, I’m so sorry.” The kindness in her eyes was almost his undoing. If only someone had shown such compassion back then. She wrapped her gloved hands around her teacup. “Did you move in with relatives?”
“No. My mother tried to work in the factories, until it nearly killed her. Fortunately, Lady Lavender found me just in time.” He drank his tea, letting the warm liquid soothe him. “If it weren’t for her, my mother and sister would never have made it out of the slums. I probably wouldn’t have lived.”
“You send the money to your mother and sister?”
He nodded. Her eyes softened, and he was lightly sickened by her obvious concern. She dropped her gaze to the little cakes with white-and-pink frosting, as if embarrassed to show she cared. “It’s very kind of you.”
“Believe me, I’m not martyr.” He didn’t particularly want to discuss his past, and he certainly didn’t want to discuss his position at Lady Lavender’s, at least not with Eleanor. “The brooch… where did you get it?”
She lifted her hand to her chest, smoothing her fingers over the piece, a painted brooch of lovers embracing. “It’s nothing really. A cheap trinket. It was my aunt Jeanie’s. The only thing of hers that I own.”
Obviously the woman was important to her, but he didn’t push the subject. He noticed the hint when she quickly grabbed a little cake and stuffed it in her mouth.
Her eyes widened in surprised delight. “Oh my.”
He grinned. “Still good?”
She covered her mouth with her hand as she chewed and spoke at the same time. “Not good, delicious.”
“They were my sister’s favorites.” He immediately regretted the remark, having no desire to discuss his past or family. But the words had slipped unguarded past his lips. She didn’t push him. It was yet another thing he respected about this woman, this stranger, really. Both of them had pasts, both of them had secrets, but neither of them pushed the other to give more than they could.
She glanced back at the counter where Mr. Swift was clearing away dishes. “How have they not been discovered?”
“They have, but they won’t move.”
“They’d be quite the thing at my next gathering…”
He rested his hand atop her gloved one. “Eleanor, darling, you can’t hire them; they would realize your true identity.”
“And who am I?” She frowned and pulled away. It was a harsh reminder that they were merely playing house. Pretending to be a happy couple. “A wife? A sinner? And don’t call me darling.”
“Why not?”
“It’s what my husband used to call me, before we married.”
So, Lord Beckett had charmed her until the marriage papers were signed and sealed, and then the true monster had appeared. Perhaps they’d both been tricked into a life neither wanted. “Fine. I’ll call you Ellie, then.”
She looked up, startled.
“Yes, I shall call you Ellie.”
“It’s what my aunt used to call me.” Her face grew soft, her eyes hazy. He knew in that brief moment she was back there, with her aunt, a woman who was obviously special to her. A memory that she cherished. She sighed, shaking her head, and the fog of the memory cleared. “I really don’t know why you must call me anything. After today we shall most assuredly never see each other again.”
The truth, yet it didn’t sit well with him. Damn it all, he liked being with her. At Lady Lavender’s he felt trapped in an endless future. In London he felt trapped in the past. But here, with Ellie, there was only the present.
“Blessed be!” a familiar feminine voice cried out. “I’d know ye anywhere, James McKinnon!”
James flinched. It was too late to run. “Blast it.”
Eleanor seemed more amused than worried. “James McKinnon, is it?”
“My dear boy!”
Mrs. Swift raced toward them, a whirlwind of activity. Age could not change that about her. The woman came to a stumbling halt before their table, her large bosom bouncing as she clapped her hands in front of her, releasing a puff of white flour into the air.
“I never in my life thought to see you again. How are you?” She reached out, flapping her arms as if she wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. James had the horrifying feeling she wanted to hug him.
“Good, very good indeed.” James stood as the woman’s husband shuffled toward them, grinning a toothless grin. He had the good decency to look somewhat embarrassed by his wife’s burst of energy.
“Thought I recognized ye,” he said. “Told Mrs. Swift, I did, to catch sight of the young man out front.”
James gave them a tight smile and rubbed the back of his neck. Wonderful, he could thank Mr. Swift for this reunion. The other patrons had turned and were glancing toward them with a curiosity that didn’t put him at ease.
“It’s been ages!” Mrs. Swift said. “Where do ye call home? Please, ye must tell us everything!”
“There isn’t much,” he muttered, raking his hand through his hair. The fact that both Mr. and Mrs. Swift looked so very excited to see him made James ill. If they only knew what he truly did to survive, he doubted they’d be so happy to see him.
“Do you have children?”
He didn’t miss the hopeful plea in Mrs. Swift’s voice, as if all anyone lived for was having children. He glanced Ellie to share her amusement, but she had grown sullen and was staring at the tabletop. Something had changed. Perhaps she was worried about being recognized, or tired of the deceit.
“Two children,” he said softly. “Two girls.”
Ellie glanced up at him. This was not the dominating, cold woman who ruled the ton. This woman was sad, lost, alone. Something was wrong, very wrong.
“We have a lovely town home in Chester,” he added. “But are merely visiting London.”
“Oh, I’m so happy fer ye.” Mrs. Swift rested her hand on his shoulder. “After yer da passed on, I wasn’t sure what became of ye. Then ye left without word. When yer poor Mum died, I wasn’t sure if we’d ever see ye or yer sister again.”
Suddenly the world came sharply into focus. James stiffened, his heart hammering wildly in his chest. “When yer poor Mum died, I wasn’t sure what had become of ye or yer sister.”
Mum, dead? No, he’d misheard, or… or she was wrong. “My mum?” They were the only words he could seem to get past his suddenly cold lips.
“Aye.” She shook her head, sighing. “Her death was a shock to us all. Hard to believe it’s been five years. How we missed your little round faces visiting the shop.”
But he was barely aware of what she said. Barely aware of the people around him. The floor suddenly felt very, very far away. The room spun, his body growing numb. No. It couldn’t be. The thought that his mother was dead, had been for some time, seemed incomprehensible.
“We must go,” Eleanor said gently, slipping her hand into his. Her touch brought him back into a harsh reality he didn’t want to explore. “But it has been lovely meeting you, truly.”
He didn’t hear their words of farewell. Was barely aware as Eleanor led him from the shop. The world had gone muted, gray. His mum… dead. Five years. How? He shook his head and jerked his hand from Eleanor’s kind grip. No, it couldn’
t be. He wouldn’t believe it.
“You didn’t know,” Eleanor said.
They paused there on the footpath while the rain fell heavy around them, soaking their clothing. She didn’t have her veil down. For some reason that bothered him. He didn’t respond as he reached for the gauzy material and tugged it over her face. It was a lie, or a misunderstanding. She couldn’t be dead. He would have heard.
“Oh James, I’m so sorry.”
He was briefly aware that she felt compassion for him, true sorrow. How very odd. He felt nothing in return. No anger. No pain. Not even shock any longer. He lifted his arm and hailed a cab. It wasn’t true; it couldn’t be. “Are you well enough getting home on your own?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
He helped her into the carriage.
“James,” Eleanor whispered, her voice catching. “I’m so sorry.”
He didn’t respond, merely nodded to the driver. The carriage took off with a jerk, the curtain fell into place, and he could no longer see Ellie. Still he stood on the footpath while the rain soaked his clothing, trailed down his face in rivulets.
His mother was dead? But that would mean Lady Lavender hadn’t told him the truth. James watched the carriage disappear around the corner. It would mean, dear God, that Alex and Gideon had been right about the woman all along.
Chapter 6
The rain had tapered off, but it didn’t matter much as Eleanor was a sodding mess by the time she reached home. As always the door opened before she even reached the stoop. Eleanor handed her dripping bonnet to Graham, not bothering to say a word to the man. Instead, with her chin high, she swept up the stairs and through the house, leaving behind a trail of rainwater and not feeling the least bit guilty about the mess.
Graham didn’t matter. Her husband didn’t matter. Even her own problems didn’t matter. The only one who seemed to matter was James. James and the shock he’d experienced when he’d found out his mother had died. James and the hollow look in his gaze as he stood on the footpath in the rain, watching her leave.
Nothing made sense anymore. Not her feelings for this man, not his loyalty to a brothel owner whom Eleanor knew didn’t give two figs about him, and not the death of his mother. If Lady Lavender had been sending money to his family, wouldn’t she have known about his mother’s death? Life had made her a cynic, but she could admit, grudgingly, that perhaps Lady Lavender had not told him out of kindness.
She managed to make it to her chamber without running into her husband. Fanny was waiting for her in the attached dressing room, the older woman napping in a chair. At the sound of Eleanor’s approach she jumped. The nervousness upon her face would have been amusing if Eleanor hadn’t known whom the woman feared. Everyone was ill at ease in this house thanks to her husband. It was a dark and dreary place indeed.
“Dear God.” Fanny stumbled to her feet. “What a sight you are.”
“Help me out of this dress? It’s become quite chill and heavy.”
When she’d first married, she’d had a young, vivacious lady’s maid who had become quite dear to her. After the first few months of marriage, her husband had fired the girl while Eleanor had been at church. She had her suspicions that her husband had flirted with the maid and been rebuffed. Or perhaps her husband had merely wanted to get rid of anyone she might care for.
“Of course, my dear.” Fanny helped her undo the bodice. “Poor child.”
When she’d hired Fanny three years ago she’d been truthful with the woman… she would be let go if they became too close. Instead of keeping her distance, they’d merely decided to remain reserved toward each other in her husband’s presence. She didn’t know what she’d do without Fanny, the only person who knew the truth about her life, the only person who cared.
No, that wasn’t true. She paused, glancing out the small round window to the gray skies above. James knew, and he seemed to care. Perhaps it was an act, or merely typical human compassion. She sighed as she stepped out of her sodden skirts. Yes, James was a stranger, yet he knew she despised her life. He knew she craved the pleasure between a man and woman. He knew her deepest, darkest secret, and he could destroy her if he wanted. The realization struck her hard. She’d handed her power over to another, something she’d sworn never to do again. She’d turned into a fool and all because of a man with moss-colored eyes.
“Where have you been?” Fanny whispered.
“Merely… out. I came home early because of a headache.”
She tsked. “Best come up with a better excuse. Your mother-in-law returned to check on you an hour ago.”
A cold chill washed over her that had nothing to do with her damp clothing. Her mother-in-law knew. Her husband knew. Frantically she clawed through her mind imagining and discarding excuse after excuse.
“When she found you were not here, she grew oddly silent, suspicious-looking witch.” Fanny took her robe from the hook. “I don’t know what you’re up to, and I don’t want to know. But remember to feign normalcy when you lie, hold their gazes, and for God’s sake, don’t blush.”
Eleanor nodded, nerves getting the better of her. She felt ill, her stomach roiling with a familiar tension. Always tension; she was bloody sick of the worry. “No, not the wrap, a dress. The plain brown with the satin trim.”
Fanny quirked a brow but returned the robe. “You know he’ll kill you if he finds out you’re doing something he doesn’t approve of.”
Blunt words, but the truth. She realized Fanny was merely trying to warn her. “I know,” Eleanor whispered. But truth was he would probably end up killing her anyway. Why should she not enjoy herself before it happened? She released a harsh laugh. Yes, she was mad indeed.
“Did anyone see you?” Fanny asked kindly.
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Well.” She pulled the dry dress from a hook. “All will be well then. Let’s not worry when nothing has happened and might not.”
The woman pulled the gown over Eleanor’s head. Fanny might put on a brave face, but she was just as frightened of Lord Beckett as the rest of the staff. Eleanor could see the woman’s hands trembling as the smoothed her skirts over her crinoline.
Eleanor grasped Fanny’s shoulders and pulled her to her feet. “It was worth it. Not just what I did, but—” She paused, trying to find the right words. “Just being myself for once. The freedom of it all. It was worth it, no matter what happens.”
Fanny’s lower lip trembled, the fear in her brown eyes genuine and disturbing. “Will it be worth it if he kills you?”
Eleanor sighed and pulled the woman close, hugging her. She suddenly missed her family. Her younger sisters and brothers, the loving kisses and companionable touches. Affection. She missed affection. “That moment of freedom will last me for years.”
“Or it will give you the itch to have more.”
Fanny knew her too well. “No,” she lied, pulling back. “Of course not.”
As Fanny parted her lips to argue, they heard the door to her bedroom squeak open. A noise that sent a chill down her spine. They both stiffened, remaining eerily silent. She refused to allow the servants to oil the hinges, for she’d wanted a warning when her husband arrived.
“It’s him,” Fanny whispered. “I can feel the wave of evilness.”
Eleanor felt the manic urge to laugh. Truth be told, Fanny was right. She swore she could sense the man and his darkness. She’d learned early on to control her features, to always retain a calm façade so as not to incite her husband. But even now, after years, inside she cried out in fear. Would this be the day, she wondered as she always did, that he killed her?
“Shhh.” She turned, giving Fanny her back. “Button my gown. Hurry.”
“Darling,” her husband called out in an overly jovial voice that crawled across her skin. The nicer he was, the more she had to fear. Dear Lord, did he know already? Terror clawed at her gut. She knew he’d had spies follow her in the past, but usually when she went out with his mother he let
her be, trusting his mum, if not her.
“Coming,” she called back.
“Go,” Fanny whispered, pushing her forward. The servant knew the longer they kept him waiting, the angrier he’d become. It was all about power with her husband. He liked to control his surroundings, his life, and the people within it. Unfortunately, he had enough money and position in society that he could.
She pushed open the dressing room door and stepped into her bedchamber. “What is it?” There was no point in being polite. He would most certainly think something was wrong if she didn’t act her normal cold self.
His icy blue gaze roamed over her face. “Mother said you left early because of an aching head.”
Do not blush, do not blush.
She nodded, moving to her dressing table and pulling the pins from her hair, her back to him. “Yes. You know how trying shopping can be.” At one time she’d loved to shop. Had been thrilled when her husband had been generous with his spending money. It was the one thing he lavished upon her… clothing, shoes, bonnets. But she realized soon enough that it was merely another way to control. He would not have a wife who was not wearing the highest of fashion; what would it say about him? And so her love of shopping had faded, much like her love for most things.
He strolled toward her, his reflection visible in her mirror. He wore a suit as black as his heart and eyes. “You shouldn’t travel alone.”
She told herself to keep breathing, to smile prettily, to act as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “I was quite safe.”
He took the brush from her table and began to stroke her long locks. She stiffened, resisting the urge to shove him away. How she hated when he touched her, hated it even more when he pretended to care.
“Then think of your reputation,” he said.
His reputation.
“If anyone would have seen you traveling alone, your name, and mine, would be tarnished.” He pulled the brush through her hair. To anyone else it would have looked like a loving touch, but she knew better. She felt the slightest tightening of his hand in her hair.