by Deb Marlowe
He was hailed a hero—but shrugged it off—and if he spoke a little too loudly for the rest of the evening, no one mentioned it.
That scene came to her sometimes, when she was slipping off to sleep, or working on her ledgers, or sliding down into the bath. Physical prowess. Casual heroism. It gave her a thrill every time she thought about it. It made her shiver a little. And it calmed her somehow, made her feel good about the fact that such a man existed out there in the world.
She pushed the image away now, as she reached the bottom of the stairs. The noise from the parlor had changed. The girls had an audience. She paused to listen and peek around the corner.
Isaac would have left Stoneacre in the formal parlor, but the earl hadn’t stayed there, of course. He’d wandered across the wide entry hall to the similarly sized room on the other side—a spot far more cluttered and perpetually busy. The project parlor, Hestia called it in her own mind.
Tonight Jesse had pushed two tables together to form a makeshift counter. The girl had lost a beau recently, when the butcher’s son turned out to be a traitorous lout who’d succumbed to Marstoke’s bribery, but now Jesse had more than made up for the loss. The owner of the notions shop just a few streets away had begun courting her. Jesse was coaching the girls on sales techniques, hoping to bring at least one along as a shop girl when she married.
“You’ll have gentlemen customers, will you not?” Stoneacre asked her as she presided over her stock of gathered and borrowed items.
“Certainly, sir.”
“Then allow me to help, won’t you? I’ll be the customer and you can take turns waiting upon me.”
Jesse looked uncertain, but Molly pushed forward. “What have you come looking for, sir?” The girl’s tone had gone husky and Hestia sighed.
He scanned the items. “Stockings,” he said decisively.
A round of giggles went through the room. Cook, sitting and knitting in the corner, snorted.
“Well, then.” Molly sashayed around to face him across the counter and picked up the pair of woolen stockings, letting them drape all along her arm. “Can I help you, my lord? Perhaps you need the item modeled?”
“Molly!” Jesse protested. “You cannot talk to customers like that!”
“I think I know how to make a sale,” Molly sniffed.
“It’s a notions shop, not Mother Sally’s!”
“She’s right,” Stoneacre told the girl. “You must think about your customer. Here I am, a gentleman come to purchase ladies stockings. It’s not a gift I would take home to my mother or sister, is it?”
“I wouldn’t think so, but you never know about the quality,” Molly said with a frown.
Still lurking on the stairs and peering around the corner at them, Hestia bit back laughter.
“Well, I would not do so,” he said and she heard the amusement in his voice, too. “And if that is the case, then I must have come into the shop with a woman already on my mind. Trying to tempt me with your charms isn’t the best idea, then, is it?”
Molly looked ready to argue the case.
“It’s not good form,” Stoneacre hastened to add. “Even though your own charms are considerable, I’m sure.”
She giggled.
“So. I’ll be the shop girl now,” he declared, taking up the stockings and spreading them out along the table. “Use this,” he said, reaching across and tapping her temple. “Think about why the gentleman is here.”
He waited a moment and all of the girls grew quiet. He smiled, then, at Molly and ran a finger along the length of the stockings. “This pair is made from some of the finest silk to be found in the city, sir, and it goes on so softly against the skin. The embroidered primroses are popular, too, and if you are interested, we have the matching garters to tie them with. So dainty and feminine, are they not? Such a pretty picture altogether.” He gave the girl a crooked smile. “And it does make a girl happy to wear something fine and special beneath her skirts, even if she’s the only one to know it is there.”
“Your lordship!” Jesse gasped, sounding scandalized.
He laughed. “Yes, it was a tad naughty, wasn’t it? But I was thinking of the gentleman who might be making this purchase and painting the sort of picture he would want to see.”
“It worked a treat,” Molly said, fanning herself.
“It hardly seems fair,” another girl said.
Stoneacre pursed his lips. “Tell me, ladies . . . Have you heard much of me? Gossip? Tittle-tattle?”
A chorus of nods and agreements was his answer.
“What have you heard?”
The answers rang out. “That you brought down a Cornish smuggling ring all by yourself.”
“That you can shoot a pig’s eye at fifty paces.”
“That you can charm the warts right off a toad.”
He laughed at the variety of attributes offered up, but pointed at Peggy, who had mentioned the toads. “Yes, although I am unacquainted with any specific toads, I am reputed to be charming, or so my mother informs me. Would you all like to know the secret to charm?”
Her girls were nothing but enthusiastic, Hestia thought, when they all loudly agreed that they would, indeed, like to know the secret.
“It’s easy—but it must be real. True.” He placed a fist on his chest. “Heartfelt.” He looked at each one of them. “You must get to know another person. Even if it’s just a little, it has to come from true interest and caring. You cannot fake it just for your own gain. Insincerity is obvious and unattractive.” He shrugged. “Just show a bit of real interest. Put yourself in someone else’s shoes. Say something to brighten their day.”
“I doubt it is that easy,” Jesse said sourly.
“It is. I swear it. Use your head. Engage your heart. It works in the ballroom. It will work in the shop.” He lifted a ribbon and leaned in to hold it next to Jesse’s face. “Oh, you need something to hold your bonnet, Miss Smith? Not the pink. This ribbon will do the trick—and the lavender color will bring out the green in your eyes so that every gentleman in Hyde Park will take notice.”
He stepped over to bow before Cook. “It will work in the market place, too. I’ve heard your sweet buns are known far and wide, madam. These currants are so fresh and plump and fine, they can only add to your reputation.” He stepped back. “Now, you try.”
The girls started to chatter and Hestia leaned her head back against the stairway wall. Why? Why? Why? She banged her head gently with each reiteration.
Lingering thoughts about the earl’s big hands, powerful thighs and changeable eyes were one thing. But why must he act so kindly and generously toward her charges? That was the sort of thing bound to crawl under her skin and emerge at the most inconvenient time.
Laughter rang out again and she straightened. Time to get to business. She rounded the last step, pulling on gloves as she went. “Good evening, everyone.” She looked around at the happy girls. “Stay in tonight, my dears, and watch carefully. Keep each other safe.” She cocked her head at the earl. “Lord Stoneacre, I believe we have some work to do?”
Chapter 3
But, no. Here is where I diverge from your expectations. I am going to tell you a different story entirely. A story about a monster, more than a man. Or rather, many stories. The unspoken tales of those who have suffered at his hand.
--from the Journal of the Infamous Miss Hestia Wright
* * *
Stoneacre stared. None of the young women blinked an eye, but the change in Hestia Wright’s appearance struck him sharp, an elbow to the gut. She still looked beautiful, of course. And with her fair skin, she absolutely convinced as a redhead. But she’d lost some of that famous, ethereal, blonde aloofness, somehow. She looked more human. More approachable.
Earthy.
Exactly the wrong thought to strike upon as he handed her into the carriage. Even through gloves he felt a frisson of excitement at her touch. And though she might look different, she still smelled the same—and how did a woman
contrive to smell like . . . spring, in any case? Not floral, not exactly. But yes, floral. And fresh and sweet and faintly herbal. And just like a passing breeze of spring air, the scent filled him with eagerness and anticipation and . . . craving.
He continued to stare as the carriage set off, taking advantage of the streetlights as they turned onto the Strand. “I know there are very many fine wigs available, of course, but I confess—I’m wildly curious to know what you’ve done with your eyebrows.”
Hestia gave a little laugh, but she didn’t reach up and touch her brows as one might expect. Her hands stayed very correctly folded in her lap. “Oh, it’s just a bit of powder with clay dust mixed in. It washes right out, but it does look convincing, does it not?”
“Utterly.” He couldn’t look away, even on those stretches when he could scarcely see her. “Are you often a redhead?”
“I play whatever role is necessary to get the work done, sir. As you do yourself, or so I hear.”
He grinned. “It’s true. I’ve acted a sea captain and a housebreaker, an art thief, an auctioneer, and an attaché to the Duke of Wellington. My work for the Privy Council is interesting and varied.”
“And all done for the good of England.”
“So far,” he said with satisfaction. “As is yours. Speaking of which, I hope I didn’t overstep my bounds with the young women tonight.”
In the light of a passing street lamp, he saw her face soften. “Not at all. Anyone who advises them to use their heads and their hearts can only earn my gratitude. So, I thank you.”
He didn’t want her gratitude, damn it. He wanted . . . a bit of her. The real woman behind all of the polite calm. He knew there were deep waters below that placid surface. Fathoms of wit and energy and intelligence. He wanted to see it, experience it all.
And he damned well wanted her to see him, too. As flesh and blood and someone with more than a little of his own wit and insight. As a man. Not just another weapon to aim at Marstoke.
But pushing her was a damned sure way to not get either of those things. So he ignored how those red eyebrows and the faint smell of rosemary and . . . something that made his skin feel too tight . . . and he opened his mouth to change the subject.
She beat him to it.
“Were you listening to my interview with the Prince Regent?”
“I came in at the end,” he confessed—and he couldn’t hide his amusement. “The things you said to him! I could tell they were surpassed only by the things you wanted to say.”
Was that a twitch at the corner of her mouth? “You heard the things I didn’t say, did you?”
“I did.” He leaned forward suddenly. “And so did he, you may rest assured. Our Prince Regent is vain and self-indulgent, but he’s not stupid.”
“Good. Then he will have the wisdom to heed my warnings. You know I am right—about someone in his inner circle talking to Marstoke?”
He sighed. “I assume you spoke to Miss Smythe, then?”
“We were thrust together for days of travel which nearly ended in captivity. Did you think I would not get her whole story? She’s always known the truth about her parentage, and she’s always understood what it would mean to the monarchy if the truth came out. She’s kept their secret. She doesn’t use any of the names that might allow others to track her down and use her as a weapon. Nor does she ask for special treatment. But she’s been alone for years now. At the last, she was out of funds and short on opportunities. She needed help. She sent the Regent a letter asking for it—the first time she’d done so, I might add. Not long after, men showed up, asking questions about her. She was smart enough to realize they were not the Prince’s men—and that’s when she hid away and sent for me.”
Outside, the street lamps were no more, as they traveled through the outskirts of the city. Out of the darkness, he heard her tone grow tense. “They were Marstoke’s men and obviously the marquess has somehow infiltrated the Prince’s inner circle. Do you have any idea who the culprit might be?”
“I have suspicions.”
“Might it be a man under your charge?”
He stiffened. “Absolutely not. I have only a handful of men working directly with me—and I trust them all with my life.”
Even in the dim light, he could see her nod of approval. “It is the same with me. But there is another possibility to consider. Marstoke found Miss Smythe and me, after I went to fetch her, because he bribed the butcher’s boy who was courting one of the girls at Half Moon House. The boy had access to the house and somehow managed to discover Isaac’s arrangements for us.” She shook her head. “Today I saw the considerable work still ongoing at Carlton House. With all of that endless renovation, the marquess could easily bribe a plasterer or a carpenter—or disguise one of his own men to look like one. It could be anyone, do you see?”
He did. “Damn.”
“Yes. It makes our work infinitely harder if we do not know where Marstoke is getting his information. I propose, then, that we keep this mission close. Between you and me, when we can. Enlisting our trusted few when we must.”
“If we do not, there’s a good chance he’ll always be one step ahead of us.”
“Precisely. You agree, then? We’ll keep most of this enterprise between the two of us?”
“Yes.” He’d only been dreaming of something perilously close to that notion for months. “Of course. But Hestia?”
“Yes?”
“I assume this means we will be working together. A partnership. Sharing information and ideas?”
“Of course.” Her tone was at its coolest and most civil.
“Then perhaps you might tell me just where the devil we are going right now?”
“Oh!” A surprised laugh burst out of her. “Yes. Apologies. We are not going far.” She leaned toward the window, straining to see ahead. “In fact, see for yourself.”
She sat back and he took her place, ignoring the soft scent that still lingered. They were at the outlying bits of the city now, and it was difficult to see much, but ahead lay a blazing beacon of light.
“What is it?” He could see a big structure, brightly lit and surrounded by a contrasting sea of darkness.
“It’s a brothel. A particularly vile one. It is also one that pays a tithe to Marstoke.”
“And how, exactly, do you know that?”
Out of the darkness came the sudden gleam of her smile. “Never ask a woman to reveal her secrets, Stoneacre.”
He sat back. “I can’t stop myself. I’m all wrought up at the thought of learning your secrets, Hestia.”
She did not reply. But he could almost hear the metaphorical slam as she closed herself off again.
“I’m not talking about the secrets of your past.” He waved a hand, even though she likely couldn’t see it. “Keep them. Sell them to the newspapers. Forget them entirely, whatever you wish. I want to know the interesting things about you.” He leaned in again. “What is your favorite color? The food that you miss from your childhood? What song runs through your head as you brush your hair or work on your accounts? What do you hate that everyone else loves? Love that everyone hates?” He shrugged and gave a little laugh. “You know. The really important things.”
For several long moments, she didn’t respond at all. Then she cleared her throat. “Perhaps you’ll learn some of those things. Perhaps not.” Her tone grew stern. “But I will tell you that there are fewer of those brothels making payments to Marstoke than there used to be.”
His interest sharpened. “How have you managed that?”
“Very carefully. I do not have the heft of the government behind me as I work,” she said ruefully. “It’s best if these things are not attributed to me. But you take a house like Mother Sally’s. A horrible place, where the girls were mistreated and the men who frequented the place were routinely fleeced and occasionally drugged and blackmailed. I shut it down with a quiet word to the papers about the latter and a few delicately placed rumors of pox amongst her girls.�
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“Well done,” he said, all admiration.
“It doesn’t stick, though,” she said with a sigh. “Sally has already reinvented herself and opened Molly Beck’s.”
“Like insects,” he murmured. “Step on one and find ten more.”
“Or a hydra,” she agreed. “The best thing we can do is to strike at the top and work our way down.”
“We have to find Marstoke first,” he sighed.
“And so we will. And here is where we start.” She looked out at the inky night. “Let me do the talking when we arrive. You must trust me. Go along with whatever I say—even if it seems outrageous, or if it changes.” She gripped his arm as the coach slowed. “Can you do that?”
He deliberately did not look at her hand, even though her touch sent a shiver through him, as sharp and taut as the plucked string of a harp. “I can,” he said, deliberately provoking her.
Her grip tightened.
“And I will,” he relented. “I trust you, Hestia. Can you trust me?” His word choice was deliberate.
They were drawing near to the big house. A bit of light came in the window, illuminating her determined expression. “I’ll do my best.”
A servant met their coach a little distance before the house, forcing them to walk in the dark along a crumbly pavement for a few feet before they reached the stairs. Stoneacre had to admit, it was damned good strategy, forcing the customer to climb from the Stygian dark up to the big, white, brightly lit building. If making a chap feel like he was rising from the depths of hell to the shining gate of heaven was the effect they were going for, then they’d done a grand job of it.
A footman in livery met them at the door, enforcing Stoneacre’s impression that this was an establishment that catered to the wealthy, higher end of Society. The servant’s slack-jawed surprise at seeing Hestia step into the marble entry hall told him they were not expected.
Stoneacre kept a step behind Hestia, as she’d instructed. The footman shot him a glance of obvious dismay.
