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‘Well…!’ Cowdlin began, but he looked down at his desk and fussed with his papers.
‘Let me speak plainly, sir,’ Sloane said. ‘You are a man in need of money, with a daughter in need of a husband. I have the wealth you desire and am an eligible suitor. Can you afford to earn my dislike?’
To his credit, Lord Cowdlin met Sloane’s gaze. ‘Are you making an offer for my daughter?’
It was the perfect time to do so. Sloane had only to form the words.
He could not. ‘I will make a formal offer if and when I choose to do so. But if you intend to refuse me, it would suit me well enough to be told now.’
Cowdlin averted his eyes. ‘I do not refuse such an offer at this time.’
Sloane stepped back from the desk. ‘Very well. With your permission I will then keep my appointment with your daughter and her friend to drive through the park.’
Cowdlin nodded.
Sloane bowed and strode out of the room.
He was more quickly admitted into the drawing room where Lady Cowdlin and her daughter received callers. Lady Cowdlin sat with Lady Poltrop on a sofa, the two ladies engaged in a whispering conversation, most likely the latest gossip of which lady of their acquaintance was sleeping with which gentleman. Lady Hannah and Miss Poltrop also had their heads together, watching David play at cup-and-ball. When Sloane was announced, Hannah looked over and waved happily. He paid his respects to the mothers and walked over to the younger group.
David gave an embarrassed laugh and set the child’s toy on the table. Sloane felt suddenly very old.
‘Are you ladies ready for a turn in the park?’ he asked.
Hannah clutched at his arm excitedly. ‘Oh, yes. It is such a fine day.’ She batted her eyes coquettishly at David. ‘It is a pity there is not room for you, too, Mr Sloane.’
David smiled. ‘I would have been delighted for the company, but I must take my leave.’ He bowed to each of the young ladies and then to Sloane. ‘Good day to you, Uncle.’
After a long drive through the park, crowded with vehicles of all kinds, as well as riders and pedestrians, Sloane delivered Miss Poltrop to her door. As his tiger jumped on the back of the curricle and he and Lady Hannah started off again, the young lady exclaimed, ‘I cannot believe you will be living immediately next door to my cousin!’
Sloane had imparted this information to the young ladies during the ride, eliciting happy squeals and exclamations.
‘Do let us drive by your new house!’ Hannah begged.
It was only a small detour, so Sloane turned down Park Street and was again on Culross Street. Lights blazed in the house next to Morgana Hart’s; through the windows, Sloane spied servants hard at work dusting and polishing.
What would those servants think if they had seen some of the places he’d lived over the years? Would they be so fastidious? Sloane had slept in dingy rooms listening to mice scurrying and scratching within the walls. He’d even slept on the streets of Rome, when, as a young man, he had temporarily run out of funds during his wanderings.
‘I think it will be lovely!’ cried Hannah. ‘Why, we might run into each other when I call upon my cousin. Would that not be a treat?’
‘Indeed,’ he said, keeping up the conversation. ‘Do you call upon Miss Hart often?’
Lady Hannah gave a deep laugh and wrapped her fingers around his arm. ‘I shall now,’ she murmured.
When she allowed such a peek at the woman she was bound to become, Sloane wondered what was keeping him from formally proposing marriage to her. Her girlish giggles would eventually disappear, and then this hint of a woman would truly flower.
He slowed the curricle in front of his new home. In the window of the house next door, a face appeared.
‘Oh, look! There is Morgana!’ Hannah waved energetically.
Miss Hart’s returning wave was less exuberant, and she peered at them with a puzzled expression.
Well, Sloane thought, she would know soon enough why his curricle had paused in front of her house.
Morgana stepped back from the window. No longer visible from the street, she still could see her cousin, blooming like a spring rose, seated next to the tall Cyprian Sloane, his fingers confidently holding the horse’s ribbons.
How could a person feel such a combination of thrill and dejection? She simply must get over this tendency to moon over Mr Sloane and to flame with jealousy every time her cousin put her arm through his.
He was a man spoken for, even if he was the most interesting man she’d ever met. It would be ill mannered in the extreme to place herself in competition with Hannah. Morgana had enough difficulty maintaining the docile, agreeable manners prized by society. She would not be judged a man-snatcher as well.
She gave an audible groan.
As if a man like Mr Sloane would want her to snatch him. Hannah was the sort men wished to marry, all delicate and biddable. Not a harridan who scrapped with men in the park. Or who all too often spoke her mind. Or one who must be asked to dance out of pity.
Morgana watched the curricle pull away, experiencing more conflicting emotions, this time relief and disappointment. For a few heart-pounding moments, she thought her cousin and Mr Sloane might call upon her.
‘Stop all this foolishness,’ she said aloud to herself.
She resolved again to tuck Cyprian Sloane away in her mind as merely a man with whom to engage in interesting conversation, a man she was bound to see often in her cousin’s company. When he made his offer to Hannah, as Hannah insisted he would, Morgana would wish them very happy.
That was settled. She gave a firm nod and turned her thoughts to her most pressing problem. How to find someone to tutor Lucy in the skills of a courtesan. It was not as if such a person would advertise in the Morning Post. Where were they to be found?
Morgana needed a woman who could teach Lucy how to conduct the business, how to set prices and mode of payment. Morgana had no knowledge of such matters.
That lack of knowledge paled in comparison to her ignorance of how such women lured men in the first place. How did they display their ‘wares’? She could not send Lucy to promenade outside Covent Garden. That seemed as sordid as lounging in a brothel. And when a courtesan entertained gentlemen, what did she do? Morgana knew what a courtesan would do in general. She simply did not know specifically how one went about it.
She needed an expert, someone like Harriette Wilson, to teach these skills. If she knew where Miss Wilson resided or how else she might contrive to speak to the woman, Morgana would summon the pluck to ask her to be Lucy’s tutor. Such an opportunity might never come her way, however. She needed to do something now, or Lucy would lose faith in her and run off.
With sudden resolve, she marched from the drawing room in search of Lucy.
A few minutes later she and the maid were headed towards the shop where Lucy had made her contact with the world of the fashionably impure.
‘I cannot think it proper for you to be seen out and about at this hour, Miss Hart.’ Lucy needed to skip to keep up with Morgana’s determined stride. ‘A lady oughtn’t to walk to Bond Street in the afternoon.’
True, at this hour young dandies and bucks tended to loiter in the street, waiting to accost any female who walked by with their catcalls and pinches.
‘I think it the perfect time,’ said Morgana. ‘If we wait until the morning, think how many ladies will be in the shops. Do not concern yourself so. The veil of my hat quite obscures my face.’
‘But a lady should not even talk of these matters, miss,’ Lucy went on.
‘Nonsense,’ countered Morgana. ‘How else am I to discover the proper tutor for you? Besides, you have spoken to these people, why shouldn’t I?’
Lucy looked at her as if she were a doltish child. ‘Because you are a lady.’
Lucy had told Morgana that the source of her information about the madam with the brothel had been none other than Morgana’s modiste, the ton’s new darling of dressmaking. They hurried to Madame Emeraude’s shop, which, if they had any luck, would be deserted at this hour. The ladies who might patronise the latest rage in dressmakers would more likely be proudly showing off the new creations in Hyde Park. Morgana lifted the veil from her face as they entered Madame Emeraude’s shop. No other customers were present.
Madame Emeraude emerged from behind a curtain leading to the back. ‘Miss Hart?’ She gave her a quizzical look. ‘A pleasure to see you.’ The modiste next examined Morgana’s clothing. ‘You are wearing one of my dresses! I hope you have been satisfied. Is the fit acceptable? Did my dresses emerge as you imagined them?’
Morgana smiled at her. ‘Your gowns exceeded my expectations, Madame. I am now launched back into society with great success.’
Madame Emeraude beamed both with pride and relief, then she seemed to remember to be puzzled. ‘What may I do for you at this… unusual hour?’
Morgana glanced towards the doorway. Even if no tonnish ladies walked through that door, a gentleman might, one escorting another sort of female to be dressed in fine clothes. ‘May we speak in one of your private dressing rooms?’
The modiste gave her a puzzled expression. ‘But of course.’ She tossed a wary look when Lucy followed behind them.
Madame Emeraude led them to a room with brocade-covered chairs, the room where Madame Emeraude had previously shown her various fabrics and fashion plates, as well as some examples of her finely stitched creations.
‘We are private?’ Morgana asked as she sat.
‘Yes,’ the modiste replied. ‘I am alone except for the girls upstairs.’
Previously Morgana had assumed those ‘girls upstairs’ were merely hard at work sewing seams and tacking on lace. But now she wondered if those girls were sometimes required to perform other tasks, the sort of tasks Lucy was prepared to perform.
‘I will speak plainly, Madame,’ Morgana began. ‘You told Miss Jenkins here that you knew the madam of a brothel where Miss Jenkins might be welcome—’
Madame gasped and threw Lucy a venomous glare. ‘I did no such thing.’
Morgana gave an impatient shake of the head. ‘I am not here to give you a scold. I want to know how to speak to this madam. I may require her assistance.’
Madame Emeraude’s eyebrows nearly disappeared under her stylishly coiffed hair. ‘You, miss?’
‘I will not explain further, Madame, except to assure you my business with this person is not of her usual sort, nor will I bring trouble to her.’ Morgana spoke in a confident tone, one she learned as a young girl of seventeen when she first assumed the management of her father’s household. The appearance of confidence had been necessary to convince servants and tradesmen she knew what she was doing. Perhaps now it would convince Madame Emeraude—as well as Morgana herself.
She gave the madam a steady look. ‘May I remind you I have spent a great deal of money in this shop and I plan to spend a great deal more; however, I suspect the ladies who have flocked to your door would turn their backs upon a woman who referred their maids to a brothel.’ She paused to let her threat sink in. ‘If you provide me with the information I seek and your word you will not speak of it further, I will not speak of it either.’
Madame Emeraude’s eyes looked as if she were calculating sums. ‘She is on Jermyn Street.’
Sloane turned the corner of Jermyn Street on his way to return the curricle and horses to the stable he’d rented. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two women climb down from a hack. One looked suspiciously like the girl Miss Hart had been rescuing in the park, the one who had worn the red dress. He twisted around, but only the women’s backs were visible as they walked into a glove shop. Calling to his tiger, he pulled the horses to a halt. His tiger hopped off and ran to hold the horses’ heads.
‘Take them, Tommy.’ He handed the ribbons to the tiger and jumped down from his seat. ‘See them stabled. That will be all I require of you at present.’
‘As y’wish, sir,’ his tiger replied.
Sloane, hands resting on his hips, stood on the pavement and directed his gaze at the glove shop door as Tommy drove the curricle away, the horses’ hooves clattering on the cobbles.
He was a damned fool.
It was folly to believe the girl he’d only glimpsed had been Miss Hart’s red-dressed companion. And more folly indeed to think it his responsibility to ensure the girl was not up to more mischief.
He walked slowly to the shop, swinging his swordstick, and slanting his gaze to peek through the window. Through the display of gloves of various lengths and colours, he glimpsed several ladies in the shop. One gestured angrily to the two who had arrived. He could faintly hear her raised voice. He sauntered past the shop and paused by a lamppost pretending to search his pockets.
The subterfuge came naturally to him. Many were the times during the war he’d had to watch and listen without anyone being suspicious of his presence. He used those same skills now and appeared to go unnoticed by the one or two men who walked by.
This was no innocent ladies’ shop, he figured, but one that had rooms abovestairs with pretty mollies willing to entertain. Miss Hart’s girl was up to the same larks, it appeared, though he still did not know why he bothered with the business.
He peered into a nearby wine merchant’s shop, pretending to examine its wares, but keeping an eye on the glove-shop door.
The door opened, and the same two women came out, female screeches from the inside ringing behind them. They glanced around the street as if uncertain what to do.
Sloane approached. ‘Pardon me, miss. Do you require assistance?’
He directed this question to the young woman he’d recognised correctly—Lucy was her name, he recalled. She did not answer him.
From behind a great deal of netting attached to the hat of the other female came a familiar voice.
‘Mr Sloane!’
Chapter Five
‘Miss Hart!’ Sloane’s stick slipped on the pavement, but the lady stood very composed while Lucy hid behind her and peeked about furtively. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’
She lifted her chin. ‘We were on an errand.’
He could barely make out her features through the haze of net. ‘Are you mad? What errand would bring you to this street at this hour of the day? To this place?’ He pointed to the glove shop.
‘It is an errand of a private nature, sir.’ Her tone of voice was excessively dignified. ‘If you truly wish to be of assistance, you might procure a hackney coach for us. I do not see one about.’
He gave her a very stern stare. ‘You would be lucky indeed to find one here. There will be an abundance of them on St James’s, however, but that would require walking down that street past White’s and Brooks’s.’
Any respectable lady put her reputation in jeopardy by walking in this part of town at this hour. What the devil had she been thinking of?
Sloane leaned closer to her and spoke in a smooth, ironic voice. ‘Miss Hart, are you merely buffleheaded or must I consider you a fast woman?’
To her credit, she did not flinch from this query. If she blushed, it was obscured in gauze.
‘Why I am here is, as I have explained, a private matter. If I must walk down St James’s unescorted and unprotected, I will.’ She pointedly shifted her gaze from him to her companion, ‘Come, Lucy. Let us find a hack.’
With head held high, she strode off towards St James’s Street. Sloane hesitated a moment. It was not his responsibility to extricate Morgana Hart from every foolhardy bramble she trod into. Let her suffer the catcalls and whistles of the young dandies lounging on the corners. Let her identity be exposed when one of those young bucks mistook her for a fancy piece and pulled off her hat. He started off in the other direction, but took no more than two steps before he turned around.
Even with his long legs, he nearly had to run to catch up with her. ‘Miss Hart!’
She stopped and whirled around as if to confront an annoying pest.
He reached her side and pulled her by the arm to a doorway of a shop whose curtains were drawn. ‘Wait here, speak to no one, and I will procure the hack.’
‘Thank you, Mr Sloane,’ she said with exaggerated politeness. ‘That is very gentlemanly of you, but I do wish you would not call out my name in the street.’
He winced and looked about, fearing he’d exposed her, the very circumstance he hoped to prevent. Good fortune was with them. There was no one in sight.
‘I will be but a moment.’ He hurried off to where Jermyn Street met St James’s.
Morgana leaned against the locked shop door and moaned as Lucy took a peek out of their hiding place.
Lucy tucked herself back in the doorway. ‘I have caused you more trouble, haven’t I, Miss Hart? You should not have come here.’
Lucy need not blame herself for Morgana’s foolishness. Morgana patted the girl’s arm reassuringly. ‘Mr Sloane has saved us from trouble, hasn’t he? He will find us transport and we shall be home directly.’
Morgana resisted the impulse to lean out of the doorway to watch him striding towards the corner. She ought to be mortified that he had discovered her in this part of town. What must he think of her now? First her skirmish in the park. Now this—this parading where no respectable woman would dare set foot in the afternoon. But frankly, she had been so relieved to see him.
