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‘Is something amiss, sir?’ Elliot blinked, clearly baffled.
Sloane shook his head. ‘No. No.’
Nothing amiss. He was merely moving next door to a single lady, the cousin of the woman he intended to marry. What could be amiss? Only that someone was certain to attribute some lascivious meaning to the event and spread gossip. Why could Elliot not have put him next to some widowed viscountess or some such?
‘You gave me authority to make this decision,’ Elliot added defensively.
‘Yes, yes.’ Sloane rubbed his face and straightened in his chair. ‘Well, it is settled and I am sure you have done well. We did not foresee this peculiar circumstance.’
‘I have met the lady, sir, and she is perfectly respectable, I assure you.’
‘You met her?’
‘Quite by chance. I could not see any difficulty there.’
No, but Sloane could. He ought to have been wise enough to warn Elliot not to place him in any close proximity to a single lady of any age. But the cousin of his intended? Miss Hart, of all ladies.
Nothing could be done. He leaned back in his chair, balancing it on its back legs. ‘When do I take possession?’
Elliot brightened. ‘Today, if you like. The papers will be here for you to sign this morning.’
The chair nearly slipped out from under him. ‘Give me a day or so. You may take possession today, however, and make sure all is in order for me.’ Sloane needed a few days, if for nothing else, to alert the Cowdlins of his move. Would Lady Hannah dislike him living nearly in the pocket of her cousin? He was certain her father would.
‘Come with me, Lucy.’ Morgana practically had to drag the maid out of doors into the fine spring weather. She’d invented the excuse of desiring a walk in the park and needing a companion. Though it was not the fashionable hour, the park would be busy with other townspeople this fine day. A lady walking with her maid would not be remarked upon.
In some ways Morgana felt more kinship with her servants than with the few family members she possessed. The Cowdlins, including Hannah and Varney, treated her more as an obligation than a beloved relation, and her grandmother, the dear lady, could not even remember who Morgana was. It had not been much different growing up with her father. Baron Hart was always much too busy with some diplomatic crisis or another to attend to a little girl. As a result, Morgana had always formed attachments to the others around her, servants and governesses, short-lived as they were with her father’s frequent moves. It seemed natural for Morgana to consider Lucy’s problems as her own. She hoped to brighten the girl’s mood and encourage her to stay.
But Lucy tied the ribbons of her bonnet with a desultory air. Determined to be cheerful, Morgana led the girl to the pavement. As they neared the corner of the street, a gentleman approached.
He tipped his hat. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Hart.’
It was Mr Sloane’s secretary. ‘How do you do, Mr Elliot. How nice to see you again.’
Mr Elliot’s eyes wandered to Lucy, and she, in turn, regarded him shyly from beneath her long lashes. Morgana did so like this young man. His expression towards the maid held nothing but kindness.
‘My maid and I are going for a walk in the park.’
He touched the brim of his hat again. ‘I will not detain you.’
Lucy lagged behind Morgana as they crossed the street and turned towards one of the park entrances. As Morgana had anticipated, there were plenty of people enjoying the fine day. Governesses letting their charges run about while they passed time flirting with young men. Shopgirls and workmen eyeing each other with interest. There was even the occasional curricle and cavalryman exercising his horse.
They walked in silence for a very long time. As they reached the Serpentine and stood gazing at the water, Lucy spoke. ‘I think I’ll be leaving your house, miss.’
Morgana turned to her. ‘Oh, no, Lucy!’
The girl kept her gaze on the water. ‘I cannot stay. I’ve been thinking about it all the time. I must go.’
‘You cannot.’ She felt like grabbing Lucy and shaking sense into her. ‘The life you seek is no life for any girl.’
Lucy lifted a hand to her brow. ‘Lots of girls is in it, miss. I heard of a madam who treats her girls fair well.’
A madam. Morgana cringed at the thought of Lucy in such an establishment, where men came to pay for favours. Neither love nor the creation of children would enter into the transaction. Why, Lucy might catch a disease, one that could kill her.
Morgana had learned about such things when she kept her father’s house in Spain. She’d overheard plenty from the men who called upon her father and from servants’ talk. And, of course, the memory of the Portuguese girl always hovered in the recesses of her mind.
She wanted to spare Lucy such a life, but what did she have to offer her in exchange? A life of hard work, no matter how kind she was as an employer?
‘Lucy, what if I could procure some other sort of work for you?’
‘Like what, miss?’ Lucy asked, with little interest.
Morgana thought for a moment. It would be difficult to convince anyone to hire a maid to do another sort of job, but she could at least try. ‘In a shop, perhaps.’
‘And stand on my feet all day? I could not do it.’ Lucy shook her head.
Morgana racked her brain to think of other jobs. For every one, Lucy gave an excuse.
A nurse? Lucy hated sick people.
A governess? Worse than a maid, Lucy vowed. Besides she was not good at learning.
A seamstress? It would ruin her eyes.
‘What if I set you up in a business, like a shop of some sort?’ Morgana was grasping at straws, but she could probably get her father to release enough money for a little shop.
‘I cannot do sums, Miss Hart,’ Lucy said. ‘Besides, m’mind’s made up on the matter. I’m going to go to the bawdy house.’
Morgana took Lucy’s hands in hers and made the girl face her. ‘I believe you are making a very bad mistake, Lucy.’ She spoke in a calm but firm voice. ‘It is not too late to live a virtuous life. I am happy to employ you and keep you as part of my household. I will not make you work too hard. In time you will meet a young man who will want to marry you—’
‘No!’ Lucy wrenched out of her grasp. ‘There is no marriage for a girl like me. I want to go to the madam. She pays her girls well, I heard. That is what I want, Miss Hart. I want money and pretty dresses.’
It was no use. Morgana stared at Lucy for a long time, but could think of nothing else to say. Finally, she turned back in the direction they had come. ‘Let us make our way home.’
They returned to the path. Walking silently a few steps in front of Lucy, Morgana waited while a carriage rumbled past.
Through the carriage window she spied the auburn-haired woman she’d seen at the opera. Harriette Wilson. The woman laughed gaily and happened to turn towards Morgana, giving her a smile of recognition and of something else—something rather smug and defiant, Morgana thought.
Next to Miss Wilson, Morgana spied a gentleman, but she could not see who it was. The carriage, however, was an expensive one, and the horses, matched bays, were very fine indeed.
After the carriage passed, Morgana could not make herself move. She was frozen by a thought flying through her head.
‘Miss Hart?’ Lucy asked uncertainly.
Morgana swung around and grabbed the girl by the upper arms. ‘Lucy, I have an idea. A much better idea than you running off to that bawdy house!’
Lucy tried to pull away. ‘I’m not staying, miss. My mind is made up.’
‘Oh, yes! You will stay! For a while at least.’ Morgana knew this idea was mad, but rather than consign Lucy to a life akin to slavery, she could set the girl free.
‘You do not have to be beholden to a madam or a procurer or any of those sordid persons. You can be like that woman who just drove by!’
Lucy gaped at her as if she were indeed bound for Bedlam. ‘I cannot be like her, miss! She was a lady.’
Morgana laughed. ‘No, Lucy, that’s the thing! She was not a lady. She was a courtesan!’
Lucy regarded her with a blank expression.
Morgana explained what a courtesan was. For the rest of the walk home, she talked about how handsomely gentlemen paid for the favours of such women. How courtesans could own property and fine clothes and jewels. She explained that a courtesan did not have to obey the dictates of a brothel madam. She did not have to take just any man into her bed. A courtesan could choose her gentlemen, and no one could tell her what to do. A courtesan could look gay and carefree like Harriette Wilson, not empty and hopeless like the Portuguese girl.
‘But I do not know how to be a courtesan!’ Lucy protested.
‘I shall teach you,’ Morgana said, her excitement building.
‘You, miss?’ Lucy cried in horrified tones.
‘Well, I cannot teach you all of it,’ Morgana admitted. ‘But I know how to teach you to walk and talk and dress. We shall find tutors for the rest.’ This was the right course, Morgana knew. How to precisely bring it all about was less certain, but she was determined to save Lucy from the bleak existence of a common whore. If she could not convince the girl to live a virtuous life, at least she could train her to be as gay and free and flush with funds as Harriette Wilson.
They had reached the house and Morgana stopped before the front door. ‘What say you, Lucy?’
Lucy stared down at the pavement. As Cripps opened the door for them, she looked up at Morgana. ‘I will do it, Miss Hart.’
Morgana grasped her hand and squeezed it, then she led the maid into the house past the butler, who, Morgana suspected, did not approve of her friendly manner towards a lower servant.
Sloane sounded the knocker to the Cowdlin town house. When he gained entrance, he handed his hat, gloves and stick to the butler.
‘Shall I announce you, sir? Lady Cowdlin is receiving callers in the drawing room,’ the butler said.
‘Is Lord Cowdlin at home? If so, I would request a few moments of his time.’
Sloane was engaged to drive Lady Hannah and her insipid friend, Miss Poltrop, in the park. He’d deliberately arrived early to see Lord Cowdlin.
The butler bowed and made his dignified way up the stairs. Sloane cooled his heels. While he waited, a footman answered another knock.
His nephew stepped into the hall and handed the footman his card. ‘Lady Cowdlin, if she is receiving callers.’
Sloane would have wagered his new home it was not the mother David had come to see.
The young man looked over and noticed him. ‘Oh, Uncle. Good to see you.’ He strode over and extended his hand.
Sloane accepted the handshake, but with an ironic twist to his mouth. ‘Calling upon Lady Cowdlin, I hear?’
David responded with an abashed expression. ‘I thought I might. And you?’
Sloane glanced towards the stairway. It was taking a devil of a long time for the butler to return with Lord Cowdlin’s response. ‘Lord Cowdlin first, I hope.’
David’s brows shot up. ‘Are you making an offer, Uncle Cyprian?’
‘Not at the moment,’ he replied. That ought to be his errand, but Sloane, who usually acted with dispatch over important matters, continued to drag his feet on this one. He told himself he hesitated only to give Lord Cowdlin time to accommodate to the idea.
A sudden thought occurred to him. He peered at his nephew. ‘Are you making an offer?’
David shook his head. ‘I cannot make an offer to any woman. At the moment, I have nothing but an allowance and prospects. It will be another three years before my trust provides me the means to support a wife.’
How like the Earl to have control of the boy’s money for as long as he could. ‘I see,’ was all Sloane said.
The footman came for David long before the butler reappeared for Sloane. ‘His lordship will see you now.’
Sloane followed the butler to Lord Cowdlin’s library. He barely looked up from the papers at the desk in front of him. It was a rudeness Sloane would not let pass.
When the butler bowed himself out, Sloane approached the desk. ‘You make no secret of your dislike, sir.’ Sloane made certain he spoke these words in a casual manner.
Lord Cowdlin shot to attention. ‘What? What?’
Sloane gave him a knowing smile. ‘You do not rise to greet me. I assure you, sir, if you are so busy, you ought not to have received me.’
Cowdlin glared at him. ‘Well, what do you want?’
Sloane made the man wait, but he stared at him until Cowdlin squirmed in his leather chair.
Cowdlin was no match for him. Sloane had sat across a card table from many a man just like Cowdlin, men who fancied themselves gamesters but who only had the skill to drive themselves into dun territory. Sloane would play his hand with Cowdlin with cunning and resolve. He would comport himself as a gentleman. ‘I wish to do you the honour of informing you of my purchase of a property in Mayfair.’
‘That is it? You waste my precious time to tell me you bought a house?’ Cowdlin huffed with indignity.
‘I came to tell you, before someone else bandied the story about, that I have purchased the town house next door to your wife’s niece.’
Cowdlin stood. ‘What? What nefarious plans are you hatching, sir?’
Sloane gave him a level gaze. ‘My secretary was charged with securing a property for me. He did as I’d wished and found precisely the place I required at the right price. The bargain was secured before he knew I was acquainted with Miss Hart.’
‘You expect me to believe this?’ Cowdlin barked.
Sloane slid into an ironic smile. ‘No, I do not expect you to believe it. But it is the truth, and because of your connection to the young lady, I bring you the news first.’
‘If I hear of any of your mischief towards my niece—’
‘What sort of mischief, Cowdlin?’ Sloane broke in. ‘I am desirous to know.’
The short, round man stood and raised himself to his full height. ‘You know very well what your reputation is, sir.’
‘Ah…’ Sloane pretended to relax. He strolled over to the library window and back again to Cowdlin’s desk. ‘The thing is, I do not know. What is my reputation, sir?’
‘Why… why… why… that of a womaniser. And a bounder.’ A bit of spittle dripped from Cowdlin’s lip.
‘Precisely what have I done? I am not aware of ill using any female, though I confess to having a man’s needs. The ladies involved generally have not complained.’
‘Well, there is how you made your money during the war. Smuggling. Bah! Answer that, will you?’
Sloane had no intention of breaking his word of silence about his war activities, not for this foolish fellow. He leaned casually on the desk, bringing his face closer to Cowdlin’s. ‘And, you, sir, did you forgo your brandy during the conflict? Did Lady Cowdlin or Lady Hannah never wish for French silk? How did you come by such items?’
