A tarnished silver letter opener peeked from under a pile of faded parchment full of sums. It wasn’t a dagger, but the point was still sharp. The sound of a lock being turned had her fumbling with the ties of her reticule. She stuffed the opener inside just in time.
The door swung open, and Bishop stood on the threshold. He flicked a narrowed glance toward the open desk and scattered papers but only gestured for her to follow him. Releasing her held breath, she touched the outline of the letter opener and considered stabbing Bishop in the back.
But what if he was merely earning a living to support a family? Before she could wrestle her conscience into submission, the dark corridor widened to accommodate a set of stairs. He led her up them and opened a plain door with a brass handle at the top to reveal an opulent hallway lined with rooms. Two men in conversation at the far end turned to cast them curious glances. Bishop ignored them.
The buzz of masculine conversation muffled through doors pulsed around her, giving the impression she was the only woman on the premises. Was she in the hallowed halls of a gentleman’s club? Not White’s obviously, but one of the lesser known clubs?
Bishop rapped on the door directly across from the servants’ hallway and waited. It cracked open and revealed her stepfather, his face wreathed in a smile and his eyes glassy with too much drink. He pushed the door wide upon seeing her.
“Here she is, gents.” Goforth gripped her arm and dragged her to the front. A cheer went up among the two dozen men gathered. Bishop departed, closing the door in his wake. Was it locked?
In a half panic, she scanned the room. Was there anyone who would intervene and help her? Sir Benedict Pennington was sitting front and center, his smile friendly enough, but his gaze oily. The rest were the cits she’d met at the theater, including Mr. McKelvey. He was not leering or cheering, but staring intently from the far corner. She shuddered and averted her face.
“Do a turn around the room, Jessica. Let the men see what they’re buying.” Goforth tried to maneuver her toward the scrum of men.
She slapped his hands away. Anger flashed across his face. An anger she recognized. Unfortunately, she didn’t duck quickly enough. His palm found her cheek in a slap that silenced the laughter. She cupped a hand over her throbbing cheek. His handprint would remain for hours.
He smirked and turned to the men. “She is as feisty as a wild mare. Who will be the lucky man to break her?”
The feeling in the room shifted to something darker as the men murmured to one another, their smiles turning to leers. The moment took on a nightmare-like quality. Surely she would wake at any moment.
But no, her senses cataloged the scent of cheroots and brandy, the taste of her own blood where the inside of her cheek had cut along her teeth at the slap, and of course the pulse of pain from the blow.
“How closely can we inspect the goods, Goforth?” a man called out.
Humiliation swamped her. She kept her gaze focused over the men’s heads and on a watercolor of the sea and cliffs. It was hardly a masterpiece and had been hanging in the room long enough to become discolored from smoke. If only she could walk through the frame and be gone from this place.
The men circled like a pack of wolves readying for a kill. She hated being the defenseless doe in the tableau. She clutched her reticule, the hard length of the letter opener giving her a welcome measure of courage.
The last wolf to circle her was Mr. McKelvey. There could be no doubt he was the alpha. If he wanted her, he would win her. The thought turned her knees to water. He slipped a finger under her chin and forced her to meet his gaze.
“Will you come willingly to my bed, sweeting?” His voice held a gravelly quality that was strangely soothing. Did he use it to lure unsuspecting prey closer?
“No.” She intended the word to come out as cutting as a knife, but it wavered on a faint whisper.
“Good.” The man’s silver eyes were arresting, and it took all her power to break their hold. Jessica’s only hope was the man did not have the coin to keep up with the well-heeled cits in the room.
But he more than kept up, he bettered every bid. Finally, the last man standing, Sir Benedict, bowed out with a disgruntled curse. Her honor had been sold for one hundred pounds. A fortune for some, but it felt miserly knowing it would cost her her soul.
McKelvey rose from where he’d been negligently sprawled in his corner seat with a brandy.
Goforth did not seem pleased, but he hesitated less than a heartbeat before sticking out a hand for a bargain-sealing shake.
The man tapped his lips, regarding her but addressing her stepfather. “What if I wish to keep her longer?”
“What do you mean?”
Jessica stared at Goforth, but he ignored her as if she were a piece of furniture.
“Let me have her for a week. She—and you—would be well compensated, I assure you.” The man flicked a gaze over the men drinking away their failure. “I assume you plan to offer her again once I’m done with her.”
Goforth licked his lips. “It would cost you more.”
“I’ll double my offer.”
“That would buy you three days. And nights. No more.” Although Goforth attempted to sound firm, his excitement vibrated.
“Three days then. I’ll begin teaching her what pleases me immediately.” Even the man’s smile was wolfish.
His confident aggression stamped out any protest her conscience might attempt. She would bide her time and seek the opportunity to escape through fair means or foul.
“Take her then, but bring her back unmarked.” Goforth turned away. His dismissal stung more than she’d anticipated.
“That’s all you have to say?” she called after him.
He spun back around. “Would you have me speak words of love and good wishes? Very well then. Good luck to you in this man’s bed.”
“What about Blake?”
“Your brother is an earl. You are a fallen woman, and consorting with you would be beyond the pale. The boy is gullible and will swallow whatever Banbury tale I concoct.” Goforth offered her a chilling half smile. “I will toughen him and make sure he understands his responsibilities to me and to his station.”
What terrors would he wreak on Blake? She couldn’t allow it to happen, but she could do nothing to save her brother until she saved herself.
McKelvey led her out of the room with a firm hand on her elbow. When she tried to tug free, his grip tightened. “Let’s not, shall we?” he murmured.
They exited the way she’d come in, through the servants’ door across the hallway. Once they were descending the narrow stairway, he whispered, “Listen to me, miss, I’ve been—”
“What’s this then?” Bishop stood at the bottom, arms akimbo, voice affronted.
“I apologize, Bishop, but I didn’t want to feed the gossipmongers by taking the lady out the front. Could you see my horse brought around, if you please?”
Bishop’s mouth was pinched, but he snapped for a young boy to do as requested.
The man guided her outside and around to the street where a handsome bay horse was led up by the young boy. Jessica looked around for a carriage but saw none waiting for her. “Do you expect me to ride? With you?”
“Indeed I do. Now quit quibbling.” He mounted and took the reins from the boy who cupped his hands to help her mount.
“Are you quite mad?”
“Mad, bad, and dangerous. Now come on. We must be gone as quickly as possible.” He held out a hand.
Taking surreptitious glances up and down the street. She had no idea where they were, and the sparse lanterns did little to enlighten her. The buildings lining the narrow lane were well maintained although narrower than their counterparts closer to fashionable Mayfair. Light and noise spilled from the windows of the establishment they’d left.
What if she ran? Could she evade the man on the horse long enough to seek help from another quarter? She had no coin for a hack, but she was hardy and enjoyed walking the hills
and woods around Penhaven Manor. Except this wasn’t the country, and she was in slippers and an evening dress in an unknown area of town.
“Don’t even think it.” His gaze seemed to chisel straight to her thoughts.
“Think what, sir?” Even as she asked, she knew her bluff would fail.
“I would ride you down in less than a dozen steps. I promise you won’t regret accompanying me.”
She didn’t see of a way out. Not yet.
With help from the boy, she mounted in front of him and held herself as stiff as a board. His hand settled on her waist, and she jerked around ready to slap him.
“Whoa,” he said with an equanimity she couldn’t claim. He got them moving at a fast walk. “Trust me, everything will be fine.”
“Trust you? Ha!” Her voice was bitter with derision. “How did you hear about my stepfather’s plans?”
“A business associate.” It was clear she wasn’t going to get useful information out of him. Did it really matter who he was or why he had paid an exorbitant amount for three nights with her?
Once he had her behind lock and key, she would be at his mercy. Now was the time to act, but she would only have one chance.
“I want to trust you, I do, but this entire evening has been quite distressing.” It took embarrassingly little effort to squeeze tears to her eyes. She slumped into him, a bit intimidated at how muscular he felt. Pretending to fumble in her reticule for a handkerchief, she gripped the letter opener. The satin of her gloves made the hold precarious.
“There, there. You’ll be right as rain soon enough.” He shifted the reins in order to awkwardly pat her shoulder.
She felt almost bad. Almost. She drew the makeshift weapon from her reticule and stabbed him in the thigh with all her strength. The slide of metal into flesh made bile rise in her throat. Whether from pain or surprise, McKelvey dropped the reins and jerked away from her, his seat precarious.
Her original intent had been to leap from the horse and run, but without hesitation, she shoved him. He floundered for a long, heart-stopping second, his hand catching the neck of her dress. Fear careened through her, and she batted at his arm. The delicate fabric ripped, and the man plunged backward.
The horse tossed its head and slowed without guidance from a steady hand. One of McKelvey’s feet was stuck in the stirrup. It was his wounded leg, and he clutched at his thigh and cursed. Blood welled between his fingers, the opener still deeply embedded. The horse dragged him along, and she could only imagine how painful the position was.
She leaned over and shoved the toe of his boot free, nearly toppling on top of him. She groped for purchase, fisting her hand in the horse’s mane and righting herself. Her heart kicked into a gallop, but thankfully, the horse only walked a little faster now it was free of the man.
She took up the reins and swung her leg over to ride astride. Her slipper flew off, but she dared not retrieve it. McKelvey had pulled himself to standing. He took three steps toward her before stopping to probe at his wound.
Her skill on horseback was nearly but not completely nonexistent, thanks to Simon. Still, she would be lucky to avoid being tossed. The stirrups dangled several inches too low for her to use. Thankfully, the horse was well trained and docile and didn’t balk at her awkward handling of the reins or the tight grip of her legs. What now?
A chilly breeze rushed over her, but she had no cloak, and there was little she could do about her exposed limbs. The sleeve and seam along her flank had been rent, making the bodice gape indecently. She could only hope darkness cloaked her state of undress.
McKelvey had lost his investment and his horse and sustained an injury. What would the heights of his fury lead him to do? His first action would be to retrieve the bank notes he had given Goforth and demand recompense for his stolen horse.
Goforth would blame Jessica—rightly in this case. He would want to hurt her, but she wouldn’t be there. Would he begin an immediate search for her? Or would he retrieve Blake, knowing that would lure her home? At least Blake was out of his reach at Eton. For now. She had time to make a plan.
Jessica looked around, desperate for a landmark she recognized. Was she even headed in the right direction? What if she was riding toward the docks or into Seven Dials?
The street grew wider and the town houses larger and more prosperous-looking. Did the garden square she was passing look familiar? Had she seen the square on her way to a ball or rout or on her way home? Impossible to tell.
Exhaustion born of the late night and the stress of the evening swamped her. She slumped in the saddle, her legs trembling from trying to keep her from sliding off. Another more prosperous square came into view. The horse halted, stomping its feet and tossing its head, and she realized she’d tightened her hands on the reins.
Simon’s town house was on the other side of the square. Out of curiosity, she had directed the coachman to take her there her first week in London. It was grand and beautiful and intimidating. She had not exited the carriage but rapped on the door to tell the coachman to move on. And now she was faced with a decision.
He’d made it painfully clear he had moved on with Lady Herriot, but fate was intervening. Righteous indignation had her steering her mount toward his town house. When the horse plodded by the front without obeying her tug on the reins to stop, she panicked, tossed her leg over the saddle, and jumped to the ground.
Her legs buckled like rotten twigs. She went down on her hands and knees, tearing her gloves and bruising more than her pride. The horse nudged her shoulder and chuffed wetly against her neck.
Jessica fought the urge to throw her arms around the beast. At least someone seemed to care about her. Using a stirrup strap, she rose and hung on to the saddle until she was reasonably sure she could walk without falling on her face.
Her knees were weak from more than just the ride. Would anyone answer at this time of night? Would Simon turn her away? No, he wouldn’t. He might not love her, but he would help her. She had to believe that much at least.
The steps were a challenge for her knocking knees, but she made it to the top and rang the bell pull. She didn’t have to wait long. Locks turned on the other side of the door. She held her bodice together as best she could and raised her chin.
An older, dignified man stood in the threshold in a dressing gown. “Yes?”
“I’m a friend of the duke’s. Is he home?” Her question landed like a shovelful of horse dung.
The butler’s gaze flicked down her person. She didn’t follow it, knowing she must look a fright. She curled the toes of her bare foot and tried to tuck it under her hem, but the butler had seen. He seemed a man who missed nothing.
“His Grace does not receive friends such as yourself at this house, madam.” His imperiousness would have done a king proud.
Desperation trumped her gauche embarrassment. “My name is Miss Jessica Tremaine. Please, may I see the duke?”
“He does not receive visitors at this late an hour.” The butler stepped back and the door swung closed.
Jessica grabbed the edge and pushed it back open. The butler stumbled backward to keep his balance. Her boldness surprised them both. “I must see His Grace.”
“He is not receiving.”
Jessica took a shaky breath. “I realize I’m dressed oddly to pay a call at such an inopportune time, but His Grace will most certainly want to see me. In fact, he will be most upset if he learns you have turned me away. Now go wake him.”
The butler pursed his lips as if weighing the consequences. “I was not telling a polite untruth, madam. The duke is not at home. What would you have me do?”
Her head swam with the implication. She knew exactly where Simon was spending his evening. Lady Herriot’s bed. What should she do now? She’d seen no hacks about this late in the evening, and she had no idea where Lord and Lady Drummond lived, even if she wanted to try her luck back on the horse. Not that she would be able to mount on her own.
“I will wait for his
return in the drawing room.” Her pride barely put up a fight. She had nowhere else to go.
“But, madam—”
“Miss Tremaine, if you please.” If she couldn’t appeal to the butler’s better nature, she would bluster through, using her position as precarious as it might be. “If you could send a groom to care for my horse, I would be most appreciative.”
“You… You can’t wait here for the master’s return. It would be unseemly.” While he might not have a hair out of place, his dignity was decidedly rumpled.
Jessica bypassed him and picked a random door. A sitting room opened to her. The opulence struck her dumb, but for all its beauty, the room was cold both in temperature and temperament. It was not a well-loved or well-used room.
“I will wait here for the duke’s return.” Doing her best to mimic Lady Drummond’s imperiousness, she glided to a settee covered in cream-and-blue striped silk and lowered herself to the edge.
The butler winced, probably as worried as she was about her leaving a grimy outline on the fine upholstery. “I’ll not wake the maid to start the fire. Or bring tea,” he said with defiance.
“I’m content to wait without either.” The sense of safety was enough.
The butler harrumphed and exited the room, softly closing the door behind him. Not even the undignified arrival of a fallen woman could ruffle him enough to slam it. She stifled a laugh twined with relief and hysteria.
Jessica rose and meandered across the thick rug to the window, her nerves unspooling to exhaustion. The room faced the street. The butler’s reluctance to extend hospitality to her thankfully did not extend to her horse. Well, not her horse, but best not inform the butler of that fact or he’d bring Bow Street down on her head. A young groom was leading the horse away while patting its neck.
Even though Simon might toss her on the streets, for the moment, she could breathe without the crushing fear. She settled on the settee and found herself listing to the side. Surrendering, she lay down and curled in on herself to ward off the chill of the room. For once, it wasn’t Goforth but the hard-looking man who’d bought her and fear of his impending revenge that stalked her dreams.
A Daring Deception Page 24
