скачать книгу бесплатно
Morgana, blood still boiling at his scold, could barely muster a word of conversation with her aunt, whose favourite topic of the moment was how splendid Mr Sloane was, and how kind he’d been to attend to her dinner. On the other side, her cousin Varney mumbled to her about how he did not care if Sloane was worth more than ten thousand a year, he did not like him paying his addresses to Hannah.
Lady Cowdlin leaned over both Morgana and Varney to speak to the Poltrops. A moment later she insisted to Sloane that he share their carriage after the musicale.
* * *
When the party had ended, Morgana stood at Sloane’s side while they waited for the line of carriages to move.
Sloane pretended not to notice as Morgana tapped her foot impatiently. True, he was also tired of the wait, and Hannah’s constant chatter had worn very thin. He could have walked home twice already and the carriage was not yet in sight.
What the devil was Morgana up to this time? He swore it must have to do with that female Lucy. Had not the altercation in the park shown her how dangerous the dissolute world could be? Harriette Wilson, indeed. Harriette was just the sort who would spread in every gentleman’s ear that Cyprian Sloane’s acquaintance Miss Hart had corresponded with her. He would be blamed for whatever mischief Morgana Hart was plotting.
The carriage finally pulled up. Even though he was thoroughly vexed with her, Sloane could not help but relish the feel of her hand in his as he assisted her into the carriage. He took the seat next to her, her perfume filling his nostrils, the heat of her body warming him. She sat stiffly and turned her head to look out of the window into the dark night.
When the carriage arrived at Culross Street and good-nights were said, Sloane helped Miss Hart from the vehicle. The coachman drove off and Sloane walked her to her door.
When she reached for her door knocker, he stilled her hand. ‘Not so hasty, Miss Hart. I would speak with you first.’
Chapter Eight
Sloane doused the rush light, giving her time to enter her house if she chose. She did not. The darkness afforded some protection from passers-by, though it also gave the illusion of intimacy, as if a blanket wrapped around them both.
He stood close to her. The night breeze stirred a lock of her hair that had come loose from its pins. He almost swept it back into place.
He forced himself to get to the point. ‘Tell me why you wish to correspond with Harriette Wilson.’
She did not flinch from him, but remained still, face upturned to his. ‘I seek some information from her.’
He disliked her evasion. ‘What information?’
‘That, sir, is private.’ He could almost see her chin set in stubbornness. She turned to her door.
He grabbed her arms. ‘I have a nose for trouble, Miss Hart, and I smell it now.’ But what he really smelled was the exotic spice and floral scent she wore. ‘I demand to know what mischief you are in this time.’
She did not pull away from his grip. ‘I assure you, it is no mischief,’ she said softly.
‘You are flirting with a dangerous world, Miss Hart.’ He leaned closer to make her heed his words. ‘The glove shop may be respectable by day, but you can be sure it is not respectable at night.’
‘I know this.’ Her voice was low. It put him in mind of dark bedchambers rather than dark entryways. ‘You need not worry.’
But he was worried. He told himself his only interest was avoiding blame for whatever her scheme was this time. He told himself he rued the day he had purchased property next to hers.
But, at the same time, she seemed pliant under his grasp. Her femininity was an intoxicating lure. It had been long since he’d tasted a woman’s lips, or held a woman against him. Morgana Hart felt wonderful in his arms. He leaned closer and she rose on tiptoe. She placed her palms against his chest, her touch soft, but it filled him with heat. He wanted to slide his hands behind her and press her to his groin, to ease the ache that increased with each sweet breath that cooled his cheeks.
His arm trembled as he set her away from him, then released her. He sounded her knocker and stepped away, waiting until the door opened and she disappeared inside. She did not look back and he made his way slowly to his own door.
Morgana hesitated only slightly as she stepped into the hall. She greeted Cripps as if nothing had happened, but inside she felt altered, as if Sloane had rearranged all her organs. He must have removed one of them, because she was aware of needing… something.
She sounded very normal when she spoke to Cripps about closing up the house for the night. She even calmly ascended the stairs.
But once out of her butler’s sight, she ran to the door of her bedchamber. She felt like dancing—or weeping—she did not know which.
Amy waited in her bedchamber to help her undress.
‘Did you have a nice evening, Miss Hart?’ the maid asked as Morgana removed her gloves, resisting the impulse to stare at the fingers that had caressed his chest.
‘Very nice,’ she replied. She did not wish to talk. She did not want anything to break the spell of his touch, the nearness of his lips.
Morgana undressed as quickly as Amy’s assistance would allow, but she was eager for the maid to leave so she could think about him holding her in his arms.
What did it mean that he’d held her so close? Why had he released her? Why, oh, why had he not kissed her?
Amy jabbered as usual, while removing Morgana’s hairpins and loosening the plaits so her hair could be brushed. Morgana watched herself in the mirror, amazed that she still looked the same.
Soon enough she was tucked under her covers, and Amy had closed the door behind her. Morgana hugged a pillow, rubbing her cheek on the soft fabric, still feeling his hands gripping her arms, still filled with the clean masculine scent of him.
She squeezed her eyes closed as tightly as she could and rolled over.
He had pushed her away, after all. He did not want her. He wanted Hannah. Young, vibrant, beautiful Hannah.
Sloane melted into the darkness, standing in the shadows as she hurried through the doorway and out of sight. He stood in the darkness a long time, hoping the blood would stop surging through his veins.
He’d wanted her, wanted her like the very devil, like the rake he was. A second later and he would have tasted those lips, felt her soft body against his hard one—his much too hard one.
Instead of reaching for the doorknob, Sloane spun around and strode down the walk to the street. A brisk walk would cool his loins.
He made his way through Mayfair, in the general direction of Bond Street, caring not how far he walked. The night welcomed him like an old friend, and soon his step became lighter, quieter, smoother. He had almost forgotten this sensation, of moving through the darkness unseen, as if he were part of it. His agitation eased as the familiar role overtook him.
Slipping through the darkness, Sloane avoided St James’s Street, where the gentlemen’s clubs still spewed members on to the street. Sloane might, like them, pass some time at White’s, even gamble a little, but he had no desire to break the spell the night had created.
St James’s and streets nearby were nearly as busy as day, though most of the night people sought pleasures best hidden in darkness. Sloane thought about entering one of the gaming hells that attracted gambling of a more dangerous sort than the respectable White’s Club, but the urge to test his skills in those deep waters had fled. Of course, there were establishments where he might slake the primal urges Morgana Hart had awoken, but Sloane, no matter what his reputation, had always avoided that sort of debauchery. If he wanted a woman, he could find a willing one without having to pay for her services.
The notion that it would be an easy matter to make Morgana willing quickened his step. He’d come very close to doing that very thing when he’d held her in his arms. No matter her birth and respectability, she had a wild nature underneath, one he could so easily exploit. It would be a simple matter indeed to ruin her, if she did not ruin herself first.
Sloane stopped in a shadow and shook his head. He must cease these rakish thoughts. Besides, far more likely than he ruining Miss Hart was that she would ruin him.
She was up to something. He needed to discover exactly what it was before she dragged him down with her when her fall came.
Sloane proceeded with new purpose. He made his way to Jermyn Street, concealing himself in the darkness, while he watched men come and go through the door of the glove shop. The front of the shop was unlit, but windows in the upper floors showed the peek of candlelight when the curtains stirred. Certain now that his suspicions of the establishment had been accurate, Sloane waited. He did not know what he hoped to discover, but the years he’d worked for the Crown had taught him to bide his time. Something useful always came his way.
His reward came when a man in a plain coat paused under the street lamp, giving Sloane a glimpse of his face. It was the man from the park. He entered the glove shop with the familiarity of a frequent visitor, but Sloane suspected his visit was for business, not pleasure.
Sloane left his place of concealment and crossed around the row of shops to the back. One light shone in a window on the ground floor of the glove shop. He crept closer.
The window was open, allowing the cool night breeze into the house. Sloane heard voices. He gripped the exterior sill of the window a couple of feet over his head and pulled himself up high enough to peek inside.
A woman’s back was visible. The establishment’s owner, he guessed. She shook her finger at a man facing her, the man from the park.
The woman’s voice could be clearly heard. ‘I do not want you to try to find my girls. I want you to succeed in finding them! And while you are at it, get me that pretty maid.’
‘Never fear,’ the man said in the rough voice Sloane remembered from the park. ‘When I clamp my hands on that one again, she will not get away.’
‘Hmmph.’ The woman tossed her head. ‘You could not hold her the first time. I wish I had held her when she turned up with that harridan.’
Morgana, Sloane thought.
The woman continued, ‘Do you know where to find her?’
‘I will discover her.’
Sloane’s arms trembled with the strain of holding on to the window. He let himself slip to the ground.
He had heard enough. There was no doubt in his mind Morgana Hart was toying with a danger she could not imagine.
He meant to put a halt to this flirtation of hers with the Paphian world.
The next morning Sloane rose early. He’d slept little. Dawn had not been far off by the time he’d returned to the house and his brain was racing too fast to turn off.
Why had Morgana Hart gone to the glove shop that day? Why did she wish to contact Harriette Wilson, of all people? What mischief was she getting herself into?
He told Elliot he was going for a walk, not precisely a falsehood. He planned to walk around the row of houses to the back.
He’d retained enough of the previous night’s mood to decide he would first watch her house, to learn what he could before confronting her.
As he stepped out of his door, a servant left Miss Hart’s house, hurrying down the street as if on an urgent errand. Sloane walked by Morgana’s house at a slow pace, glancing into her window as he passed. A female he’d not seen before appeared briefly in the drawing-room window. There was something afoot in that house, all right.
He crossed the street and walked around to the backs of the houses. Stepping through the mews, he reached her gate. Through the gap in the gate, he peered into her property.
Finding it deserted, he tried the latch. It was locked, but Sloane made short work of picking the lock.
He slipped into the garden. Luckily it had bushes enough to conceal him. He inched his way along the wall, looking for a nice vantage point to watch the back of the house, and almost tripped over a pile of bricks. Catching himself, he saw a gap in the wall and laughed. He might have spared himself a great deal of trouble had he known he could step from his garden into hers.
It proved an excellent place to stand, providing him easy escape. So he settled in and, like the Peeping Tom of the Lady Godiva legend, and the English spy he’d been during the war, he fixed his attention on the back windows of Miss Hart’s house, hoping to witness something he was not supposed to see.
He saw a great deal more activity than he would have expected. The sound of the pianoforte reached his ears, as well as a beautiful feminine voice singing to it. Either Miss Hart had exaggerated how badly she could play, or someone else had fingers on the keys. The voice did not sound like her either, too high and crystalline. A quite remarkable voice, none the less, but whose?
Sloane watched for over an hour, an inconsequential space of time compared to the long hours he’d put in for King and country. But instead of piecing the puzzle together, Sloane became more confused.
In the past hour, three women had walked out to the privy. One he recognised as Miss Hart’s maid. The other two were dressed as maids, but somehow they did not fit the part. Another puzzling thing. They all seemed to be gathered in the back room. Why would a covey of maids spend so much time in one room?
Perhaps Mr Elliot would have a notion how many people Miss Hart employed. Elliot had a way of knowing such things.
Sloane slipped through the gap in the wall and entered his house from the back, causing one of his maids to shriek in surprise when he suddenly appeared in the passageway. He told the girl to find Elliot and send him to the library, a room mirroring the location of Morgana’s busy back room.
When Elliot entered, Sloane was examining the books on the shelves.
‘I have meant to rearrange the shelves, sir,’ Elliot said. Sloane stepped back. ‘Are they out of order?’
‘Sadly out of order. Apparently no one has seen to their proper shelving in some time.’ Elliot picked up a stack of books and placed them on this shelf or that.
Sloane watched, wondering what made it worth the effort. Very little on the shelf interested him. One or two titles caught his eye, but that was because they related to the political issues of the day, and the Annual Registers sometimes yielded useful information. The rest he would not miss.
‘You wished to see me, sir?’ Elliot said, having found the books their homes.
Sloane picked up the Register for 1816 and handed it to his secretary. ‘How many servants do we employ?’
Elliot placed the Register right after that for 1815. ‘There is Sparrow, your butler. Mrs Wells, the housekeeper. Cook.’ He counted on his fingers. ‘Cook’s assistant. A scullery maid. Two upstairs maids. Two footmen. And your valet, of course. That makes ten.’
‘Ten?’ Sloane almost laughed. There was a time when even one maid of all work would have been woefully out of reach.
‘Unless you wish me to include your coachman and groom, and Tommy.’
He held up his palm. ‘Ten,’ he repeated. ‘Tell me, do they employ so many next door?’
If Elliot thought this an odd question, he made no sign of it. He looked to be calculating in his head. ‘I believe they have the same number. One more lady’s maid, but no assistant to the cook.’
Sloane might marvel at how Elliot came by this information, but not much surprised him about the young man’s ability.
‘I see.’ Sloane’s brow furrowed. Either all the maids were gathered in the library at once, or there were more people in Morgana Hart’s house than Elliot knew of.
Sloane contemplated a return to his hiding place near the mews. If he watched long enough, he suspected he would be able to count the different faces, but he would be no closer to knowing why so many were there.
‘Did you wish to go through the invitations?’ Elliot asked.
An impressive stack of invitations had arrived. Sloane received more each day, a measure of the increase in members of the ton who accepted him. Though Sloane was impatient to find a way to speak to Morgana, he dutifully sat down and discussed with Elliot which to accept and which to reject.
Another delay came that afternoon when Sloane received his first caller. His nephew David came to congratulate him on his purchase of the town house. Sloane received him in the drawing room, sending for some port.
He poured them each a glass. ‘Your grandfather will not like you visiting me.’
David took a sip. ‘Grandfather will most probably not ask, but, if he does, I shall admit to calling upon you.’
Foolish boy. It would be wiser to lie.
Sloane peered in his glass. ‘You’d do better to cut me.’
David regarded him with a very serious expression. ‘I know the circumstances of your birth, Uncle, but I cannot see why you have been made to suffer for it.’
David knew? This made the young man’s friendliness even more remarkable.
But Sloane had no intention of discussing his place in the family—or lack of it. Instead, he asked David about his life. The boy’s course had been similar to his own. Sent to Eton at age nine, then on to Oxford. David continued at Oxford, reading law, whereas Sloane had escaped at eighteen, using his meagre inheritance from his mother to lose himself on the Continent. The similarities ended there.
After another glass of port, David said, ‘I thought it would be polite to call upon Miss Hart while I am in the neighbourhood, or at least leave my card if she is not receiving.’
Brilliant idea. Why had Sloane not thought of it?
Actually he had thought of it, but concluded it would cause talk if anyone saw him enter her house alone. With David it would not be remarked upon, however.
‘Perhaps I will join you,’ Sloane said.
