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‘Stop? But isn’t this why you’re here?’ His expression was innocent, but there was a hint of dark irony in his voice. ‘To—make yourself available?’
Damn the man. ‘Yes,’ she lied, her heart racing, ‘yes, of course, but at a time like this—it’s absurd—it’s like …’
‘Fiddling while Rome burns?’ he murmured, eyes glinting. ‘Deuce—I forgot—we’re supposed to be in Grecian mythology tonight, aren’t we? Athena, I appeal to your sense of justice. My God, I’ve had to pay a lot for tonight’s entertainment!’
She let her eyes rove scornfully over his shabby coat, which had certainly seen better days. ‘Too expensive for you?’ she said sweetly.
‘It’s a matter of principle.’ He smiled pleasantly back. ‘You see, I normally never have to pay for female company.’
Unbelievable arrogance! She gasped and tried to slap him; a mistake, because he caught hold of her raised wrist, and of course once more she was in his power. She fought hard to free herself. ‘Let me go. You know that I’m in danger here and need to get out!’
Just then a couple of men tangled in drunken combat blundered through the doorway, grunting and swearing. Releasing her, he moved swiftly to push them back into the hall and kicked the door shut again, hard, before locking it.
And he came slowly back towards her. Dear Lord, this man was dangerous. Hadn’t she registered it from the moment she saw him? That velvet couch seemed to fill the blasted room. Even the single candle flickered as if in warning. A coil of something dark, something forbidden, snaked down to her stomach even as she clamped down desperately on the effect this man was having on her pulse rate. Her breathing. Her existence.
‘A bargain, Athena,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll get you safely out of here, if you’ll tell me why that man Stephen claimed to have business with you.’
She shrugged and moistened her dry lips. ‘How should I know? He just said—he was eager to get to know me better. As they all do,’ she supposed.
His dark eyes flashed with incredulity. ‘Yet you threw away his money?’
Rosalie glanced towards the locked door. ‘Let me go now. Please.’
Still his lithe figure blocked her way. His strong hands were warm on her shoulders again. ‘Not before you promise me that you won’t throw yourself away, in a place like this. To a brute like Lord Stephen Maybury.’
She breathed in sharply. The touch of his fingers was nothing less than a caress. Gathering her wits to protest, she couldn’t help but notice that on one of his hard cheekbones a livid bruise was appearing. And there must be other injuries, all over that lithe and supple body …
‘Perhaps you should stay away from here yourself,’ she said, tossing her head. ‘Those men were trying very hard to kill you.’
He arched one eyebrow. ‘And that’s why you launched yourself into the fray—on my side? Surely you’re not telling me that you actually care?’
‘No! I mean, you’re just another client of Dr Barnard’s, your private affairs are no business of mine whatsoever!’
‘A true professional,’ he was murmuring, in that husky voice that made her blood pound. ‘How much does it cost for a kiss, Athena? And don’t try telling me again that you’re not for sale.’
He was drawing her closer. She could feel the heat of his body now. See the texture of his skin, his lightly stubbled jaw that her fingers ached to touch …
‘Let me tell you,’ he was saying softly, ‘that on closer inspection I’d have paid twice the usual rate—for this.’ His eyes never leaving hers, he lowered his head and brushed her lips with his.
It was a fleeting caress, but even so Rosalie had never experienced anything like it. A sweet, melting sensation was pouring through her nerve ends. A moment later his strong arms were cradling her even more securely and he was kissing her properly, his mouth possessing hers, his tongue stroking her soft inner moistness in a sensual dance that stirred the blood in her veins to white heat.
He was masterful. Dangerous. Exquisitely provocative. The worst of it was that she wanted more and he knew it. She felt one of his strong hands slide up to cup the back of her head so his tongue could continue its rhythmic thrust, the slight roughness of his stubbled jaw providing a sensuous counterpoint to the silken sweetness of his mouth. His other hand slid tighter round her waist, pulling her closer against the hardness of his powerful body, his chest, his thighs. The urge to succumb to this dark magic and open herself to his potent masculinity was irresistible. Her hands crept upwards of their own volition to cling to his shoulders, feeling and savouring the vital force of his body.
This should not be happening. She’d sworn to let no man touch her again, yet her body was melting to his every caress.
He let out some sort of sigh and pulled her still closer. Now his right hand was sliding over the thin muslin that covered her breasts and, as her nipples peaked beneath his touch, she shuddered. The liquid warmth in her lower abdomen was like a burning ache of need; her mouth opened wider to his relentless plundering, and for Rosalie, for that space of time, nothing else existed. The fighting, the clattering of furniture up above, the bursts of raucous shouting, all receded into a meaningless background noise. There was no one else in the whole wide world but her and him.
Until he let her go. She felt bereft. Her legs were so weak that she could almost have sunk on to that blasted sofa in the corner.
Alec stepped back. Damn. He knew he’d come to his senses a little too late. It was a long time since he’d been so tempted by a woman. Too long, if he was feeling like this about one of Dr Barnard’s wenches. And he certainly wasn’t prepared for what this one’s melting pink lips did to him.
Shy. Delicate. God, it was almost as if she’d never experienced a man’s kiss! Yet at the same time she was so sweetly, wonderingly responsive that sheer lust had for a moment gripped his loins …
Damn it. She was a bewitching little hoyden, feigning innocence when the rouge was still fresh on her face—hoping, perhaps, to lure him into making some sort of offer for her, because she sure as hell wasn’t going to be working here again. Gazing down at her, he held up his five-shilling ticket for the dancing that he’d drawn from his pocket and, tearing it into tiny pieces, let it flutter to the floor.
‘Well worth it, for that kiss,’ he said flatly. ‘You’re surprisingly good at what you do.’
Rosalie felt, suddenly, as if her heated blood had turned to ice in her veins. Of course. He thought her a whore.
‘Do you know,’ she said steadily, ‘I was a fool to come to your rescue earlier. Doubtless you thoroughly deserved the beating you were about to get. Will you let me past, please?’
‘Feel free to go.’ He shrugged. ‘And I hope you find a new job soon. You’ll certainly need to. Remember what I told you. They’re watching for you down at the main exits.’
He saw the colour leave her face beneath that rouge. ‘The main exits …’
He jerked a finger towards the far door, the one she’d already tried to make a run for. ‘One of the first rules of warfare, blue-eyed Athena: always plan your escape before the battle begins. If this house runs true to form, through there is a flight of stairs that leads down to the back of the house, where you should find an unguarded door.’
‘And—and you?’ Curse the man, thought Rosalie. Why did she ask that?
He lifted his eyebrows as if the same thought had struck him. ‘You still care? I’ll go and check that Harry and his friends aren’t doing too much damage. Then I’ll leave, too.’
He held the door open to show her the stairwell. Head high, she marched past him.
‘Remember,’ he called out softly, ‘watch out for Maybury.’
She made no acknowledgement. But halfway down, where the staircase turned so he could see her no more, she leaned her back against the wall. Oh—fiddlesticks. The man called Lord Stephen Maybury posed no threat whatsoever as far as she was concerned. But dear God, the Captain was another matter altogether.
She felt dazed. She’d been out of her mind, to let him caress her like that. She had been pressed so close to his body that the potent force of his manhood had been all too evident in the heat of their embrace—and he had been the one to move away first!
She felt shattered. She felt bereft.
And his kiss had been the most magical moment of her life.
She hurried on down the stairs, ashamed because her legs were shaking. If those brutes caught her … But he was right. None of Dr Barnard’s men were to be seen in the back room she emerged into.
The dressing room first. No time to get changed, so she thrust the clothes she’d arrived in into a bag, rammed on her cloak and bonnet, and stole into Dr Barnard’s silent office. Back to business, you fool. Reaching up, she heaved down that heavy tome—The Myths of Apollodorus—then laid it on the desk and opened it.
As Helen had said, the pages had been carved away to form a cavity. Inside was a book bound in green morocco, where the names of Dr Barnard’s many customers were listed by the dates of their visits, together with their addresses.
But the name her dying sister had whispered was not here. She flicked to and fro, her agitation increasing. She checked all through the spring and early summer of 1813, but there was no sign of it at all. All this effort, all this risk, and she was no nearer in her search. For a few moments the disappointment crushed her.
But towards the back of the book, she found a list of the girls who’d been employed here. June 1813. Linette Lavalle. She caught her breath. That was the name Linette had used at Marchmont’s theatre. Their mother’s maiden name. She read on hurriedly. From the country … The girl has fancy ideas above her station. Refused to do anything except the stage show—then one day just didn’t turn up. Found herself a rich protector, I suspect …
Her throat aching with sadness, Rosalie carefully replaced the book in its hiding place, then stole from the house, using the door the Captain had told her was unguarded. Outside it was starting to rain, heavily. Rosalie hailed a hackney cab—her one concession to Helen’s concern for her safety—and the driver gave her a look indicating what he thought of young women out on their own at this time of night. She tossed her head defiantly as she gave him directions.
But all the way back to Clerkenwell the usual questions tormented her. When had Linette realised that she was pregnant? Was that when her—protector discarded her? Had her poor sister lived for a while in the agonised hope that her seducer might marry her?
Oh, Linette.
Alec Stewart rode back to Two Crows Castle as the rain poured down on London’s dark streets. Those damned footmen would have been paid to attack him by his brother, as Stephen’s cowardly revenge for Alec’s ultimatum tonight.
As revenge on Alec for existing.
When Stephen went away to boarding school, distance had temporarily eased their relationship. But Alec’s arrival at the same school two years later had sparked off the old jealousy, especially since Alec, as ever, had excelled at sports and had a light-hearted manner that made him friends far more easily than Stephen did.
A crisis came when Stephen, aged fifteen, had set up a secret gambling clique and, when discovery threatened, had slipped the evidence—cards, dice and money—under Alec’s dormitory bed.
Alec had silently taken the blame and the beating for it. But since then Alec had not troubled to show his contempt for Stephen on the rare occasions on which they met. A year ago Alec had been utterly disowned by their father—told he was no longer part of the family, in effect—and Alec had thought Stephen would be satisfied. No danger now of Alec supplanting Stephen in the Earl’s affections.
Yet still his brother diced with fate.
Why had Stephen come here, to idle away his time in a place like the Temple of Beauty, picking up girls like blonde Athena?
Alec felt his insides clenching again. That girl. The girl who knew about French watercolours, with her exquisite face and her clouds of silver-gold hair and that meltingly slender body … He remembered how, as he drew her close, her warm breath had feathered his cheek and the delicate scent of lavender had risen sweetly from her skin. Remembered how her fingers had almost shyly stolen up to his shoulders, how her lips had parted for his kiss.
But then had come the moment of pure shock. For as he took the kiss deeper, as he prised her lips further apart, she’d registered almost utter innocence. Her exquisite, thick-lashed blue eyes had flown wide open in surprise as he tasted the soft flesh of her mouth and, when he’d cupped her tender breast and felt it peak, he would swear she’d shuddered in his arms and clung to him as if she’d never experienced a man’s caress before.
He’d only pursued her because he wanted to know what Stephen’s business was with her. That kiss had been part of his strategy to wrongfoot her. Yet he, Alec, had been the one to leave that place with all his convictions shaken.
Be sensible, you fool. The rouge was still fresh on her face. Innocent? Impossible. Yet his body still raged for her.
His mouth set in a hard line. Just a clever act on her part, down to the detail of denying any interest in his rich brother’s attentions. And she was in trouble with Dr Barnard—probably for arranging appointments with clients on the side and keeping all the profits for herself, a common trick.
His mind flew on in conjecture. Yes, she had an air of innocence that would draw men to her like moths to a candle flame. But she worked at the Temple of Beauty where she was attracting the likes of Stephen, damned Stephen, who, having spent years of debauchery with professionals like her, was now, whenever he could, secretly pleasuring the woman who just happened to be their father the Earl’s beautiful young wife.
Chapter Six
By the time that Rosalie let herself into Helen’s house in Clerkenwell, it was almost midnight. Lighting the lamp in the kitchen, she made a pot of tea quietly so as not to wake anyone. Then she sat down by the embers of the fire, still huddled in her cloak. Tonight had been a disaster—not least her encounter with the Captain, who’d managed to disturb her peace of mind in a manner that she guessed would cause her more than one sleepless night.
Why was he there?
Be honest with yourself, Rosalie. Why did any men go there? They went, of course, be they lords or tradesmen, to ogle the girls and pick out one for an hour of lechery upstairs. And at a place like that, her sister’s seducer would have found it easy to spot Linette, with her head full of fanciful dreams.
She drew some blank paper from a nearby table towards her and by the light of the lamp started writing, assuming the easy-going tones of her alter ego, Ro Rowland. Since childhood, she’d found that it helped to write. Her earliest stories had been fantasies, a way of escaping into a place where happy endings existed. Later she’d found that wit was an even more effective weapon against the cruelty of strangers and this was now Ro Rowland’s world—a world not one of heartbreak, but of wry, almost cynical humour.
Tonight your fellow about town Ro Rowland took himself to the well-known Temple of Beauty. And there he observed … The Captain. Damn him, damn him. She stared into the distance, her thoughts unravelling once more. A fencing master, Sal had said.
It had been a long time since Rosalie allowed herself to think of any man with anything other than suspicion. Yet the thought of an hour alone with that dark-haired rogue, using the private room in Dr Barnard’s house for the purpose it was intended, set off a disturbing wobble somewhere at the pit of her stomach. She could not forget the rough silk of his lips and tongue; the warm, muscle-packed strength of his body—his aroused body—moving against hers … Oh, Lord. You stupid fool.
Suddenly she heard footsteps out in the hallway and Helen padded in, her long nightshirt covered by a large India shawl. Rosalie jumped to her feet. ‘I’m so sorry, Helen. I didn’t mean to wake you!’
‘I was awake anyway. I heard the hackney and I’m just so glad you’re back safely … Rosalie, why are you still wearing your cloak?’
Because I’m wearing next to nothing underneath it! Airily Rosalie replied, ‘Oh, I’m a little cold, that’s all. Would you like some tea?’
‘Yes, please.’ Helen pushed her loose brown hair back from her face, adjusted her spectacles and flopped down in a chair. ‘How did you get on at the Temple of Beauty? Was it full of fat old roués?’
‘They weren’t all old!’
‘But they’re all despicable, the men who patronise such entertainments! Oh, I knew that you shouldn’t go.’
Rosalie decided there and then that it just wasn’t safe to tell her friend any more. ‘I was perfectly all right.’ What a terrible lie. ‘It was actually quite boring.’ An even worse lie. Rosalie quickly poured Helen’s tea and curled up on the small settee opposite her. ‘Helen, did you manage to get The Scribbler out everywhere today?’
Helen immediately looked happier. ‘I did. That piece you wrote about the swells in Hyde Park is going down an absolute treat.’
‘Good! Though I hope none of the men I described recognises himself; I’d really hate to get you into trouble. Did you take Toby with you to deliver them?’
Helen sipped her tea. ‘Yes, but I left Katy with Biddy; she’s happy with her.’
Biddy O’Brien was a warm-hearted young Irish neighbour who kept house for her brothers, all in the building trade. She came in every day to clean Helen’s home and the children adored her.
‘Thank goodness for Biddy,’ said Rosalie fervently. ‘But, Helen, you really should allow me to pay you for letting Katy and me stay here.’ She had offered before, but had always been refused.
Helen chuckled. ‘Your Ro Rowland articles are payment enough, believe me. I’ve never sold so many copies of The Scribbler, and people are always asking me who the real Ro Rowland is!’ Her face suddenly became more serious. ‘We’re two sides of the same coin, you and I. You expose the wealthy by making fun of them, whereas I hope to shame them by pointing out the truth. Just as in my report the other day about that haughty woman—the wife of an earl, no less!—who had a young maidservant whipped and dismissed, simply because she accidentally dropped a vase. A paltry vase, Rosalie!’
‘I know. The poor, poor girl …’ Rosalie hesitated. ‘Helen, I did just wonder. If this earl or his wife should hear of your article …’
‘I mentioned no names. And even if they guess, they’ll not dare to take action. That would be as good as admitting their own guilt!’ replied Helen crisply. ‘You know, it’s as if the so-called lower classes aren’t human to these people! Though it’s one thing for me to be as outspoken as I am, but quite another for you, you’re so much younger. Sometimes I even wonder if you should be writing your articles for me.’
‘What, me stop being Ro Rowland? Dear Helen, I adore writing; if you didn’t print my pieces in The Scribbler, I’d find someone else to publish them, I assure you! I am twenty-one, after all! I love exploring London, and all the fascinating people I meet on its streets …’ Her smile faded. ‘Well, nearly all of them.’
‘Be careful. That’s all,’ said Helen crisply. ‘And, Rosalie dear—’ Helen was already delving into a pile of notes on the table ‘—if you’re determined to keep writing as Ro Rowland—’
‘Try to stop me!’
‘In that case, I thought that this might be just up your street, because I know that you were, only the other day, starting to write an article about the rapacious landlords of London who let out hovels for high rents to desperate people!’
Rosalie nodded. The practice known as rackrenting was a subject close to her heart, not least because of that dreadful room off the Ratcliffe Highway where her sister had died.
Helen was adjusting her spectacles and running her finger down a sheet of her own notes. ‘As chance would have it, I heard today about a place in—yes, Spitalfields—that takes disgraceful advantage of poor soldiers. It’s called Two Crows Castle, and it’s not a real castle at all, but a rundown barracks of a place, owned by some ne’er-do-well—I haven’t got his name—who lets out rooms at exorbitant rents to unemployed soldiers. I thought you might investigate.’
‘Of course! Spitalfields, you said? Where, exactly?’
‘The house is in Crispin Street. It’s an unsavoury area even by daylight, so I trust you’re not even thinking of actually going there, my dear! But what I did hope was that tomorrow you might deliver a bundle of Scribblers to the news vendor in Bishopsgate, which is close by. You could take one of Biddy’s brothers with you and just ask some of the shopkeepers there—carefully, mind!—about this Two Crows place.’
Building work was slack this time of year and Rosalie knew that one or other of Biddy’s burly brothers could usually be relied upon to take on extra jobs for Helen—repair work to Helen’s house, errands, or in this case, thought Rosalie wryly, a spot of personal protection.
Rosalie patted Helen’s hand. ‘It sounds just my sort of story. I’ll get your Scribblers delivered, and I’ll make sure I’ve got an O’Brien brother with me before I start asking any questions about crooked rackrenters.’ She was just getting up to tidy away the tea things when the door opened and two sleepy little figures stood there hand in hand.
‘Toby!’ cried Helen. ‘Katy! What are you doing, out of your beds?’
Toby clung to Katy’s hand protectively. ‘She was crying,’ he explained. ‘I thought one of you would hear her, but you didn’t. She’s upset.’
‘Oh, Katy darling.’ Rosalie picked up and hugged the tear-stained infant, who was clutching her battered rag doll. ‘Poor Katy, what’s the matter?’
‘Mama,’ whispered the child. ‘I want Mama.’
Rosalie kissed her, at the same time fighting down the sudden ache in her throat. Taking Katy upstairs to the cot in the corner of the bedroom they shared, she gently sang her to sleep. Tenderness and love she could give in abundance; she would also fight, with all her strength, to make sure Katy was not pointed at, whispered at, as she and her sister used to be as children.
