by Emily Larkin
The earl entered the study.
Charlotte swallowed, made herself inhale, exhale. How would Albin behave? “Good morning, sir. How did your meeting with Miss Brown go?” Her voice sounded stilted, too high.
“What? Oh . . .” Cosgrove sat. He shuffled papers on his desk, not meeting her eyes. His cheeks reddened slightly. “It went well.”
Charlotte gazed at him—the strong brow, the strong nose, the strong jaw—waiting for awareness of him to surge through her. The tingle. The heat. The physical yearning.
It didn’t come.
Some of the tension she was holding in her shoulders eased. “What information did Miss Brown give you?” Her voice sounded more natural this time.
“The names of the men who set fire to the conservatory. Abel and Jeremiah Smith. Miss Brown believes she can arrange a meeting with them.”
“That’s excellent, sir!”
Cosgrove rubbed his forehead, as if trying to remove his frown, but it stayed there, a tight furrow between his eyebrows. “You’re to go to Chandlers Street this afternoon between two and four and wait for a message from her.”
“Yes, sir.” Charlotte hesitated a moment, turning the quill over in her fingers. “Was there nothing more?”
Cosgrove’s frown deepened, pulling at his mouth. He shuffled the papers on his desk again. “No.”
* * *
Scratch the itch and it usually goes away, the earl had said. And he’d been right. Last night’s intimacies had conquered her lust for him. When Cosgrove leaned over her shoulder to explain a set of figures she didn’t understand, when his hand accidentally brushed hers, she felt no flare of heat, no acute awareness of him. Her craving to touch him was gone, erased by the intense embarrassment of stripping in front of him, the intense embarrassment of lying down naked with him, erased by the pain of being bedded by him.
Relief bubbled inside her. Charlotte wanted to hum while she tallied the columns, to whistle under her breath as she wrote the totals neatly at the bottoms of the pages. She bit her tongue and stayed quiet, but still the relief bubbled in her chest.
Just before two o’clock, Charlotte closed the Somerset ledger. “I’ll go and wait for Miss Brown’s message, sir.”
Cosgrove glanced up from his speech. His frown deepened. He didn’t say anything, just nodded.
Charlotte almost skipped down the steps to Grosvenor Square. I did it. I conquered it. She made herself walk sedately. Once out of sight of the tall windows of Lord Cosgrove’s house, she hailed a hackney. “High Holborn Street. Is there an inn you can recommend? Something busy, but respectable.”
* * *
The Honest Sailor, where the hackney cab deposited her a quarter of an hour later, met her needs perfectly. Charlotte paid off the jarvey and went inside to negotiate the use of a private room tomorrow. Five minutes after that, she was back on the street. She changed her appearance while she adjusted the brim of her hat—broad face, brown hair—then waved down another hackney. “The Pig and Whistle, in Aldgate.”
* * *
The Pig and Whistle’s taproom was busier than it had been yesterday. The smell hadn’t changed. Charlotte hesitated in the doorway, breathing shallowly, tasting the stale air on her tongue.
Nervousness squeezed her ribcage. Were the Smiths here? Would she have to speak with them?
She forced herself to take a deep breath, forced herself to tread across the stained floor to the tap.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Westrup.”
“Afternoon, sir.” Mrs. Westrup mopped ale off the counter with the same filthy rag she’d used yesterday.
“Did you give the Smiths my message?”
“Indeed I did, sir.”
“And . . . ?”
“Abel and Jeremiah will be pleased to do business w’ you, sir.”
“Excellent.” Charlotte slid a shilling across the counter. “Are they here now?”
Mrs. Westrup snatched up the coin and shook her head. “If you was to come back tonight, sir, they’d be ’ere.”
Her ribcage stopped squeezing so tightly around her lungs. Breathing became easier. “Unfortunately I have an engagement tonight.” Charlotte reached into her pocket for another shilling. “Three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. At the Honest Sailor on High Holborn Street. Can you tell them that?”
“Tomorrer at three,” Mrs. Westrup said, her eyes on the coin. “The Honest Sailor.”
“My employer will be with me. He wishes to personally discuss the . . . er, task he has in mind for them. The room will be hired in his name. Mr. Black. Tell the Smiths they’ll be compensated for their time whether they decide to accept the offer of employment or not.”
She waited for Mrs. Westrup to nod before releasing the coin.
The shilling vanished into Mrs. Westrup’s apron.
“Thank you.” Charlotte turned away from the counter. The urge to skip was back again. I did it! I am as indomitable as Lord Cosgrove.
Chair legs scraped on the wooden floor. One of the patrons stood, a thickset man with a meaty, stubbled face. “Leavin’? After you just got ’ere?”
Charlotte’s heart gave a panicked leap in her chest.
“Leave ’im alone, Sid,” Mrs. Westrup called shrilly from the counter.
The man took a step towards Charlotte. “Too good for us, is you?”
I can become a bear if I have to. In the blink of an eye she’d be bigger than this man, stronger. He’d run screaming. Charlotte swallowed. She removed her hat and bowed politely. “Not at all, sir. This is a very fine establishment. It . . . it has a most pleasing ambience.”
“Don’t you be talking down t’ me.” The man lowered his head pugnaciously.
Charlotte clutched her hat tightly. Her hands were sweating. “I assure you, sir, I was not. I . . . I have a prior commitment, otherwise I would happily remain here.” If he took one more step, she’d change into a bear.
And Abel and Jeremiah Smith will hear of it; all of Aldgate will. And tomorrow’s meeting won’t take place.
She had to stay as she was. She had to fight.
Charlotte’s mind went blank with panic.
“I knows talkin’ down when I ’ears it.” The man cleared his throat and spat. “And I don’ like it.”
Charlotte’s mind jerked into motion and started working again. “I apologize if my manner has offended you.” She groped in her pocket and slapped a handful of coins on the nearest table. “A drink for you and every man in this room,” she said loudly.
There was a second of silence, and then noise surged in the taproom, chair legs scraping on the wooden floor as men scrambled to their feet.
Charlotte bowed to the man confronting her. “Good day, sir.” She stepped around him, heading for the door with fast strides. Behind her, a chair tipped over.
At the door, she glanced back. The patrons were jostling for their share of the coins, shoving each other.
Charlotte hurried outside. As the door swung shut, she heard the crash of a table overturning.
She ran across the street to where the hackney waited. “Chandlers Street,” she cried. “As fast as you can!”
* * *
Charlotte paid the jarvey with the last of her coins. She changed back to Albin and tried to recapture her exhilaration. She’d made contact with the Smiths, had arranged a meeting between them and Cosgrove tomorrow. But the exhilaration refused to come. In its place was horror, echoing hollowly in her chest.
She blew out a breath. It hung in the air in front of her face.
Very well. If not exhilaration, then at least she could be brisk, pleased, enthusiastic.
She strode back to Grosvenor Square, strode up the steps, strode along the corridor to Lord Cosgrove’s study. He looked up as she entered. “Well?”
“The Smiths will meet with us tomorrow,” she said, crossing to her desk and pulling out her chair. “Or rather, with a Mr. Black and his secretary. Three o’clock, at the Honest Sailor on High Holborn Street.”
“What?” Cosgrove laid down his quill abruptly. “She told you that?”
“Yes.” Charlotte stared at him. Why did he look displeased? “What’s wrong, sir?”
Cosgrove looked away. He shuffled the pages of his speech together, his movements almost agitated. “I had hoped to meet with her again.”
He had? “Why?” Charlotte asked cautiously.
“I wish to speak with her.” He stacked the pages jerkily, squaring the edges.
Charlotte looked down at the ledger on her desk and considered this reply. She didn’t want to have sex with Cosgrove again; it had been an interesting experience, but not one she cared to repeat.
But perhaps he was telling the truth? Perhaps all he wanted was to speak with Miss Brown?
She glanced at Cosgrove. He was a gentleman; he’d not force her into anything she didn’t want to do. She bit her lip, and then said, “Miss Brown did say that she’d be at the Earnoch Hotel tonight. If you had any questions for her.”
Cosgrove looked up sharply. “She did?”
Charlotte hesitated. He’s a gentleman. “Yes, sir. Seven o’clock.”
* * *
It was a different room tonight, but identical in its furnishings: bed, table, chairs, washstand.
Charlotte dressed in her own clothes, pinned her hair in a chignon, and sat down to wait. Nervousness took root as the minutes passed. She didn’t want to be a woman with Lord Cosgrove. I should have said no.
But the earl had wanted to speak with her.
At seven o’clock, a knock sounded on the door.
Charlotte stood, smoothed her skirts, and opened the door. “Lord Cosgrove.”
“Miss Brown.” He removed his hat, bowed, and stepped into the room.
They sat one on either side of the table. The ease she’d had today with him as Albin was gone. Last night’s embarrassment, last night’s awkwardness, came flooding back. She rushed into speech: “Did your secretary tell you? The Smiths have agreed to meet with you. Tomorrow at three o’clock, at the Honest Sailor in High Holborn Street. I bespoke a room for you in the name of Black.”
“Yes, he told me. Thank you. Er . . . would you like some form of payment?”
Was that what this was about? He felt the need to pay her? “No, thank you.”
The earl didn’t repeat his offer. He reached out and fidgeted with the brim of his hat, where it lay on the table.
An uncomfortable silence fell between them. Charlotte glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. When thirty seconds had ticked by, she stood. “Thank you for coming, Lord Cosgrove. I hope your meeting with the Smiths is successful.”
The earl didn’t stand. “Miss Brown . . . last night wasn’t a pleasurable experience for you.”
No, not pleasurable. But it had worked. It had obliterated her physical attraction to him. “I don’t mind,” Charlotte said. In fact, I’m deeply grateful to you.
“I do.” The earl remained seated. “I find that I mind a great deal.”
Charlotte had a vivid flash of memory: Cosgrove’s traveling carriage, dusk falling outside, the sound of the earl’s voice: A gentleman never hurts a woman he’s bedding, even if she’s a whore.
She understood, suddenly, what was bothering Cosgrove.
“I would be grateful if you would allow me to . . . er, to do it over again.”
Charlotte managed not to recoil. Again?
She admired Cosgrove, respected him, liked him—but she didn’t want to have sex with him again. She shook her head. “Truly, sir, it’s not necessary.”
“I hurt you.”
“I expected it to be painful.”
“That much?”
“Well, no, but . . . it doesn’t matter!”
Cosgrove fidgeted with the brim of his hat again. “Forgive me for asking, but do you intend to have intimacies with another man in the future?”
Charlotte shook her head. “No.”
“So, last night will be your only, er . . . sexual experience?”
“Yes.”
The earl stopped fiddling with the hat. He folded his hands on the table and looked at her directly. “Then please allow me to do it over. Without hurting you.”
Charlotte tried to make a joke of it: “It bothers you that much?”
“Yes.”
Charlotte bit her lip. Shame rose inside her. She took her seat and interlaced her fingers and looked down at them. I used him—and he feels guilty. “I’m sorry.”
Silence lengthened between them, while the candles flickered and the fire gnawed at lumps of coal in the grate. “Miss Brown,” Cosgrove said finally. “If thought of having sex with me again is abhorrent to you, I won’t press you—”
She shook her head. It wasn’t that it was abhorrent, it was that last night had been excruciatingly embarrassing, quite the hardest thing she’d ever done. Harder than leaving Westcote Hall. Harder than visiting Mrs. Henshaw’s brothel. Harder than venturing into Whitechapel alone. She wasn’t sure she could bear such acute embarrassment again.
He has already seen me naked. Will it be so mortifying a second time?
The tinderbox was on an angle. Charlotte straightened it, lining it up with the candleholder. Well?
She had used him. Cosgrove didn’t owe her redress; she owed him redress.
Charlotte took a deep breath, lifted her head, and met his eyes. “Very well.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The earl insisted on unbuttoning her gown. “I brought a sheath with me,” he said, his fingers working on the second to last button. “It’s . . . it looks odd, but it will prevent you becoming pregnant.”
A sheath? Dried sheep’s intestines? Charlotte managed not to pull a face. “That won’t be necessary, sir. The sponge . . .”
“You’re still protected?”
“Yes.” She bit the tip of her tongue. Liar. But it was only partly a falsehood; her magic would prevent her becoming pregnant.
The last button came free. Cosgrove retreated to the other side of the table.
Charlotte stepped out of her gown. She concentrated on folding it so it wouldn’t crease. She was aware of the rustle of fabric as Cosgrove removed his clothes. Her embarrassment grew with each second that passed. It was quite as bad as last night—the tightness of her chest, the knot in her stomach, the heat in her cheeks, the icy prickling of her skin. She’d not realized until yesterday that embarrassment could be hot and cold at the same time.
Her fingers fumbled as she unlaced her stays. Her cheeks became hotter. I don’t want to do this.
“It is embarrassing, is it not, to undress in front of a stranger?”
Charlotte gave a choked laugh. “Yes.” She risked a glance at him.
Cosgrove met her eyes, smiled at her. He had stripped to his shirt and breeches. “It’s only natural.”
“Yes,” Charlotte said again, recognizing that he felt uncomfortable too, that he was trying to put her at ease.
She unlaced the stays and put them aside. Only her chemise remained. She stole another glance at the earl. He was naked except for his drawers.
Charlotte’s throat tightened. Did he realize how magnificent he was? The strong shoulders, the muscled arms, the long, powerful thighs. She looked hastily away and started pulling out the pins that anchored her chignon.
Cosgrove came to stand behind her. For such a large man, he moved almost soundlessly.
Charlotte’s fingers became clumsy. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the hairpins.
“May I touch you?” he asked.
Charlotte opened her eyes. Her heart beat faster. She swallowed. “Yes.”
She expected him to take over the task of removing the hairpins. He didn’t. He stepped closer, his arms circling her, his hands coming to lightly rest just below her breasts.
Charlotte froze with her arms upraised. Her throat closed, making breathing impossible. Even her heart seemed to stop beating. Cosgrove’s hands burned through the thin linen of the chemise. She felt his thumbs, one on the ou
ter curve of each breast.
Her heart began to beat again, a fast, fluttery rhythm, but her fingers were still frozen. She was acutely aware of his body pressed against her, his hands resting on her ribcage, his heat.
His thumbs moved, a light, stroking caress.
Charlotte closed her eyes tightly. She struggled to breathe, struggled to take out the last three hairpins.
Cosgrove’s hands rose to lightly cup her breasts. “Need help with your hair?”
Charlotte swallowed. “No,” she whispered, groping for the final hairpin.
He bent his head. She felt warm breath against the nape of her neck. Lips touched her skin and then teeth lightly nipped, sparking heat inside her. Charlotte squeezed her eyes more tightly shut. Her breath was shallow, her heartbeat rapid. She found the last hairpin and pulled it out. The chignon slowly uncurled, but there was no space for it to fall, not with him pressed against her. Cosgrove’s hands moved, learning the shape of her breasts. His lips parted against her nape. She felt his tongue, tasting her.
Coherent thought fled. She was trembling, awash with heat.
Cosgrove lifted his head. “Finished?” His voice was low and intimate in her ear.
Charlotte nodded, unable to find the word Yes. The hairpins fell unheeded from her fingers.
He stepped back, releasing her.
Charlotte opened her eyes. She felt light-headed, feverish, burning inside.
Cosgrove took her hand and led her to the bed, three short steps, while her hair uncoiled down her back. “We can dispense with this, don’t you think?” He touched the sleeve of her chemise.
Charlotte nodded again.
Cosgrove released her hand. He stripped off his drawers. His pego jutted from the black curls of hair at his groin.
Charlotte’s throat tightened. She was unable to breathe again. Cock, she reminded herself dazedly. He calls it his cock.
Phillip Langford, naked, had been grotesque and disgusting. Cosgrove was anything but. The sight of his cock triggered a clenching sensation low in her belly. It wasn’t fear, wasn’t dread. I want him. The craving was deep and visceral.
