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The interview with the madam had not gone well. The woman had the gall to threaten Morgana with violence if she ever darkened her door again. Mrs Rice, as the abbess of the establishment was named, believed Morgana to be setting up a fancy house of her own. How appalling! Mrs Rice, furthermore, went into high dudgeon at the prospect of competition. She also accused Morgana of stealing her newest referral, Lucy. After such a disagreeable interview, Morgana had feared Mrs Rice would make good her threat and send some hulking footpad after them.
When Sloane appeared, her fears fled. She knew she could trust him to see to their safe return and to not speak a word to anyone of the incident.
‘He’s that man from the park, that’s who he is. Isn’t he, miss?’
‘Yes, are we not lucky he has rescued us a second time?’
Lucy nodded in agreement. If the maid wondered why Morgana knew his name, she did not let on.
Sloane did not keep them waiting long. A black hackney pulled up in front of them, and he hopped down to assist them inside.
When they were seated on the hack’s cracked leather seats, Sloane rapped on the roof and the coach lurched into motion.
He faced Morgana, Lucy seated at her side.
‘I thank you again for coming to our assistance,’ Morgana said, sounding more genuine in her gratitude this time.
He peered at her from beneath the rim of his beaver hat. ‘It is becoming a habit of mine.’
She could not help but smile, but quickly wiped it off her face when his expression remained grim.
He leaned forward. ‘Do you have any idea what risk you took for your mysterious errand?’ His gaze shifted momentarily to Lucy, who shrank to the corner of the vehicle.
‘I protected my identity,’ Morgana protested.
He lifted the netting away from her face. ‘See how easy it is to expose you?’
She pulled it back in place and pretended to gaze out of the window at the passing parade of street hawkers and carriages.
She felt him shift position. ‘If you are into some havey-cavey business, Miss Hart, I wish to know of it.’ He gave a pause. ‘Since we are to be neighbours.’
Her gaze flew back to him. Even Lucy straightened in her seat. ‘Neighbours?’
He gave her the slow, lazy grin that made her heart do a flip. ‘I have purchased the property next to yours.’
Morgana stifled a gasp. So it was true. Seeing Sloane’s secretary two days in a row had raised her concerns—or was that her hopes?—that Sloane would move next door.
His eyes glittered with anger. ‘I will be taking residence within a day or two.’
So soon? Could he not wait for renovations or something equally time-consuming? No, he probably was in a rush to have a house to show off to a prospective young bride. Perhaps he would promise Hannah the pleasure of redecorating to her own tastes. Morgana closed her eyes and saw a horror of patterns, fringe and frills that no doubt her cousin would insist was all the rage.
She opened her eyes and gave a stiff smile. ‘How splendid for you.’
He laughed—not the pleasant, open laugh of the opera, but a mysterious one. He leaned forward so there was no more than an inch between their faces. His voice turned very low. ‘Does the prospect so displease you?’
Morgana’s heart accelerated. ‘I am certain you will make a tolerable neighbour.’ She meant it as a jest, but the words came out stiff and prim. Why could she not possess her cousin’s natural ability to bat eyes and to utter flirtatious nonsense?
His eyes became slits as he leaned back again. ‘I will refrain from orgies and other rakish activities—will that prove tolerable enough?’
She opened her mouth to respond, but he continued, ‘I merely ask the same of you. I would not much relish being blamed for whatever mischief you are planning in the future.’
Lucy gave a pained squeak.
‘You be blamed?’ Morgana cried. ‘I assure you my affairs do not involve you.’
One of his eyebrows rose. ‘Indeed? And is this not the second time I have pulled you out of a scrape?’
Morgana felt her face grow hot. At least he could not see her blush through the netting.
He gave her a level stare. ‘When there is trouble around me, I am usually blamed for it. I would not much relish being blamed for whatever wild scheme you are hatching at the moment.’
Morgana resented his low opinion of her, even as she conceded the truth in it. She gave him her frostiest glare, although he would be unable to see it through the netting of her hat. ‘I shall endeavour to please you, sir.’
That lazy smile slowly reappeared, and her heart lurched in spite of herself. ‘See that you do please me, Miss Hart,’ he murmured, his voice so low she felt it more than heard it.
She glanced towards Lucy, who was eyeing them both with a shocked expression. Morgana did not trouble herself to speak with him further, but she was aware of each breath he took, each move of his muscles.
When the hack pulled up to her town house, he jumped out to assist them from the vehicle. Lucy descended, mumbled, ‘Thank you, sir’, and hurried to the servants’ entrance below, leaving Morgana momentarily alone with Sloane.
He gave his hand, still as strong and firm as before. He gripped her fingers, but let go as soon as her feet touched the pavement, stepping back as he did so.
Morgana took a quick breath and composed her disordered emotions. No matter what he might think of her, he had been her rescuer once again.
She looked up at him, his face shaded by his hat and the waning light. ‘Thank you again, Mr Sloane,’ she said softly. ‘I am truly grateful for your assistance.’
He gave her a quizzical look, but eventually touched his hand to the brim of his hat and climbed back in the hackney coach.
Two days later Sloane stood at the door of the grey brick house, its exterior looking identical to those on either side. By God, he’d better not arrive home too addled from drink. He was liable to enter the wrong house. It would not help the awkward situation of living next to Morgana Hart if he barged into her home drunk as an emperor.
He glanced at her front door and pursed his lips, imagining stumbling up her stairway and flopping into her bed by mistake. No chance of that. He had long mastered control of vices such as gambling, womanising and drink. He might get foxed, but it would be in the privacy of his own home.
His own home. Now that made him feel like dancing a jig.
He wondered if the Earl had been informed that his scapegrace son had moved into Mayfair, his neighbourhood. Sloane wished he could have seen the Earl’s face when told of it. Perhaps David had given his grandfather the information. Sloane hoped the boy would not be so foolish.
The more Sloane saw of his nephew, the more he liked him. He and David had engaged in a pleasant conversation the previous night at Lady Beltingham’s rout, where Lady Hannah and her parents had also been in attendance. And Miss Hart.
He and Miss Hart had been civil to each other. She appeared to have conversed comfortably with other gentlemen. What might those men think if they knew she’d been parading near St James’s Street?
She took too many risks. And she was brushing against elements of the underworld that could turn even nastier than they had already. The company of pimps and Paphians could become violent. And if she were on a quest of reformation, even merely the reformation of her maid, she was not likely to succeed. Once the underworld took hold, it was near impossible to escape. He ought to know.
He started towards his door, when her front door opened and she appeared. On Miss Hart’s arm was an ancient-looking woman, all wrinkles and bones.
Miss Hart saw him immediately. ‘Good morning to you, Mr Sloane.’
She looked as bright as the day’s sunshine in a yellow dress and with a smile on her face.
He lifted his hat and bowed. ‘Good morning.’
She continued in this friendly manner. ‘Allow me to make you known to my grandmother.’
The frail lady looked as if she would crumble like some antiquarian artefact as she came down the steps and hobbled towards him, and he quickly raced down his and ran over to her to save her the exertion.
As if they were in the Prince Regent’s drawing room, Miss Hart said, ‘Grandmama, may I present Mr Sloane, who is to be our neighbour soon.’
Miss Hart’s grandmother gave a toothy smile. ‘Oh, how lovely to see you, my dear. Is it not fine weather today?’
Miss Hart continued. ‘The dowager Lady Hart, sir.’
‘A pleasure, my lady.’ He bowed.
‘Hmm?’ Lady Hart she smiled again. ‘It was so nice of you to call. You must do so again.’ She looked up at Morgana. ‘We are off to the shops.’
Miss Hart must have seen a look of bewilderment on his face because she responded with amusement. ‘Yes, Grandmama. Off to the shops.’ She leaned towards Sloane and whispered, ‘We shall not make it further than the corner, you know.’
His brow cleared. The old lady must be a bit senile, that was it.
‘Are you visiting your house, Mr Sloane?’ Miss Hart asked. ‘You will be pleased, I think. I’ve never seen such a marshalling of mops and rags.’
He could not help but return her smile. ‘That is Mr Elliot’s doing, no doubt. I’m afraid he approaches all tasks with great efficiency.’ He gave her a careful look, so as not to miss her reaction. ‘But I do not merely look at the house. I am taking residence at this moment.’
Miss Hart gave a small sound in the back of her throat, but quickly recovered her manners. ‘How nice for you.’
He responded with a wink. ‘I hope I shall be a tolerable neighbour.’
Two spots of pink appeared on her cheeks, putting Sloane in mind of how she might look flushed with passion. Such thoughts were not going to make living next to her easier.
Her grandmother twisted to look at a curricle that had passed by in the street. When she turned back towards Sloane, her eyes lit up. ‘How delightful to have you call, dear. We are off to the shops.’
‘Yes.’ Miss Hart nodded shakily. ‘We must be off.’
She and Lady Hart made slow progress. They had barely reached the pavement in front of the next house when Sloane called back to her. ‘Miss Hart?’
Still holding her grandmother’s arm, she looked over her shoulder. ‘Yes?’
‘May I be so bold as to inquire who lives with you?’
Her eyebrows twitched and she paused a moment too long before speaking. ‘Lady Hart and her companion, Miss Moore.’
He continued. ‘And who chaperons you?’
She maintained a perfectly bland expression. ‘Why, my grandmother, of course.’ Without waiting to see his response, she turned back and proceeded down the street with all the speed of a lame snail.
Sloane watched her with sinking dismay. Not only would he be living next to a single female about whom he harboured lecherous thoughts, he would be living next to an unchaperoned one.
There had been no invitations for that night, so Morgana was forced to remain at home. Ordinarily that posed no difficulty at all—she was perfectly capable of entertaining herself—but this night it was nearly impossible to refrain from gazing out of the front window in the hope that she might glimpse her new neighbour. Would he go out? Or would he relish an evening at home in his new house?
And how long would it take for her to give him as little mind as she did the Viscount and Viscountess on the other side?
She had not yet seen him leave the premises, but the thought of him walking around the rooms on the other side of her wall was nearly as distracting as the window.
Her grandmother and Miss Moore had retired early, as was their habit, so she was alone. She brought her mending to the drawing room, but her eyes were too tired to focus on the stitches in the flickering light. She picked up a book instead, but found it equally tiresome. She wandered to the window and looked out. When she caught herself there, she whirled about and determinedly marched away.
She settled at the pianoforte and played the music she knew by heart. Morgana loved to play, loved the feeling that the action of her fingers brought out the melodies. She did not mind that her skills at the keyboard were passable at best. She enjoyed the music anyway.
She played every piece of music she knew, from common ballads to snatches of Mozart. Then she played them all over again, but she remained restless. She rose and found herself back at the window.
This time her vigil was at an end. She saw Sloane leave his house and walk briskly down the street. Even though he was no more than a shadow, she could not mistake that tall frame, that gait so smooth and graceful, yet infused with masculine power. He soon disappeared into the darkness as if the darkness were welcoming back a missing piece of itself.
She sighed. They had almost regained their friendly banter. It had been such a relief to converse pleasantly with him after their other recent cool encounters. In some ways it was easier to have him avoid her. But now that their relationship had regained some of its ease, she longed to be in his company again.
Voices sounded outside the drawing-room door, several female voices. There was a knock and Morgana swung around. ‘Come in.’
The door opened only a crack, and Lucy poked her head in. ‘Might I have a word with you, miss? If I am not disturbing you, I mean.’
Lucy actually wished to speak with her? This was puzzling behaviour indeed. ‘Certainly, Lucy. Come in and sit down with me.’
Lucy lifted a plain mahogany chair from against the wall and moved it next to the sofa where Morgana had settled herself. Lucy perched primly on the edge of the seat.
The pretty maid finally spoke. ‘Miss Hart, you remember how you said you would teach me to be a courtesan? And I would have a house and money of my own and pretty clothes?’
‘I have not forgotten, Lucy. I have been trying to work out what to do next. Did you look through my Ladies Monthly Museum and read the article on comportment?’
Lucy nodded. ‘Yes, miss, but—’
‘I promise I shall discover how we may learn the other lessons we need.’ Morgana held out a faint hope that she would have the opportunity to speak with Harriette Wilson. Miss Wilson could answer her prayers.
Lucy stood up suddenly. ‘Miss, I’ve something I must tell you.’
Morgana’s spirits plummeted, certain Lucy had decided to go to Mrs Rice after all. ‘What is it?’
Lucy held up one finger, gesturing for Morgana to wait. She hurried to the door and opened it. She leaned halfway out of the room for a moment, then stepped aside. Three young women entered.
They stood in a line in front of Morgana. All were strangers to her. Two wore brightly coloured dresses. One showed revealing décolletage, the other wrapped a shawl around her. Morgana could not decipher the expressions on their faces. Wary? Eager? Defiant?
‘Yes?’ she asked cautiously.
Lucy joined the line. ‘Miss Hart, these girls heard you talkin’ to that Mrs Rice. The lady in the glove shop? They want to be courtesans. They want you to teach them.’
Morgana felt her eyes widen. ‘But—’
Lucy gave her an imploring look. ‘Please, miss. They said Mrs Rice is not a nice lady. They don’t want to work for her no more. They want to be on their own, like you told me.’
What sort of Pandora’s box had she opened?
One of the girls swiped a lock of red hair off her forehead. ‘The shop ain’t no good place to be, miss, begging your pardon for speaking. Mrs Rice, she makes us see as many customers as come. Sometimes we have to do as many as—’
Morgana’s cheeks grew hot. ‘Yes, I quite understand.’
