Beauty Tempts the Beast

by Lorraine Heath

  “I can do it.” Taking the cup, she was surprised by how her fingers shook. She closed both hands around the delicate fine china, inhaled the rich aroma, took a sip, and nearly groaned from the delicious flavor of it. If she could get herself steady, she could leave before the surgeon arrived. But if she stood up now, she’d probably fall flat on her face, and she refused to display that weakness in front of him. Once again she glanced around. “Is this a . . . a brothel?”

  Jewel’s throaty laughter echoed around her. “It is indeed a bawdy house.”

  Narrowing her eyes in suspicion, she returned her attention to Beast, wondering if his earlier proposition had involved her working here rather than just tending to him personally. He may have been issuing a worse insult than she’d originally surmised. “You manage a brothel?”

  “Jewel manages it. I simply live here.”

  She furrowed her brow in confusion. “You’re a”—what would the word be?—“a male trollop?”

  It still wasn’t a smile he gave her, but the corners of his mouth eased up more than she’d ever seen them. “No.”

  “Not for want of ladies making offers,” Jewel said. “I’ve told him he could earn handsomely if he’d make himself available.”

  “Jewel, why don’t you see to the customers who are awaiting their turn?” His tone implied he was giving an order not offering a suggestion.

  As the woman rose from her place on the sofa, Althea was surprised by how tall and substantial she was. Her red silk gown hugged her close, left little doubt she had ample attributes to offer a man. “You might want to move her upstairs. The gents aren’t going to be happy standing about in the foyer for long. I think you terrified a couple of them when you shouted at them all to get out after you barged in here like a madman with her in your arms.”

  “Give them a free tumble. I’ll cover the cost.”

  With a wink and a smile, she comfortingly patted Althea’s shoulder. “Finish your tea. The brandy will do you some good.”

  Brandy. No wonder it tasted lovely and warmed so thoroughly. She took another sip, peering over the lip of the cup at Beast, who had yet to move so much as his little finger. She wished his nose would itch so he would engage in some movement instead of steadfastly watching each of hers. She’d never known anyone who could remain so still for so long.

  Finally, he said, “We’ve never been properly introduced. They call me Beast.”

  “I know. Polly told me.”

  “Then you have me at a disadvantage, as I don’t know your name.”

  She recalled how he’d referred to her in the alleyway, the desperation in his tone, the roughness of his voice. Beauty. “Althea Stanwick.”

  “What are you doing here, Miss Stanwick?”

  “You brought me here.”

  He shook his head. “I’m asking the same question I asked last night. Why are you in Whitechapel, working at my sister’s tavern, putting your life at risk wandering the streets alone at night?”

  “I wasn’t supposed to be alone.” She set the teacup aside. “I have to leave. As I’ve already mentioned, my brother will be worried.” Probably frantic by now. According to the clock on the mantel, it was past two.

  “The surgeon—”

  “I’m not seeing a surgeon.” Gingerly, she rose to her feet, grateful when she didn’t sway. “Where’s my cloak?”

  “This is unwise on your part.”

  “I don’t see how it’s really any of your concern. My cloak, please, sir. Now.”

  Uncrossing his arms, he strode over to a plush chair, snatched up her cloak, and what appeared to be his coat. “I’ll accompany you home.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  His glare could have stopped an invading army in its tracks. “Did you learn nothing tonight?”

  She was an independent, stubborn little minx, the top of her head barely reaching the center of his chest. She projected such confidence at the tavern that it was easy to view her as taller. More challenging when she walked beside him. With the hood of her cloak covering her head, she gave the appearance of being huddled inside the velvet, her slender shoulders slightly hunched, not that he blamed her. It was cold enough to create fog when one breathed, and ice was forming in the dampness. He brought up the collar on his own woolen greatcoat.

  She refused to hold on to his arm for support, but her steps were smaller, slower than they’d been earlier when he’d been following her.

  Knowing she had a protector—refusing to acknowledge the relief he’d experienced to discover he was a brother and not a husband—he didn’t understand why he’d lingered outside the Mermaid. Perhaps because her escort had been tardy the night before. Or perhaps because he’d had a sense that tonight trouble was afoot.

  He’d learned to trust his instincts and be cautious when he was eighteen and a lass had lured him into an alley where Three-Fingered Bill had introduced him to the ease with which a knife could slide into flesh and the pain it wrought while doing so and afterward. It seemed Bill had not taken kindly to his loss in income. What he hadn’t counted on was that Beast wouldn’t go down easily. When Beast was done fighting for his life, Bill had lost his.

  In spite of his victory, he had nearly died that night from the wound the gang boss and pimp so expertly delivered. Fortunately, a surgeon more skilled with a scalpel had seen him spared from dancing with the devil at such a tender age. Rapping on Death’s door was not an experience he cared to repeat before his black hair turned silver. Some were still about who took exception to his prowling the streets to ensure none took advantage of those in need or preyed on the weak and disadvantaged. His fists had served many who hadn’t the strength themselves to ward off the miscreants.

  Tonight they’d served her. He’d never been more grateful that his size gave him the advantage in a fight, that he had the skills to protect, that he’d been there when she’d needed him.

  He was relieved when he spotted a hansom cab and was able to hail it down because he hadn’t wanted her trudging all the way back to her residence, had decided if her steps slowed any further, he’d carry her. Although she’d no doubt protest.

  She didn’t say anything as he assisted her inside the buggy, and he wondered if she needed all her energy to simply move. He should have insisted she wait for the surgeon. Instead, he’d directed a footman to inform the man his services weren’t needed after sending one saying they were. He’d send a generous payment round to the surgeon in the morning for the inconvenience of disturbing his slumber. Knowing Dr. Graves as he did, he suspected he’d probably donate it to a charitable hospital.

  He gave the driver her address. She’d shared it with him earlier, because she’d been unfamiliar with her surroundings. New to Whitechapel, she didn’t know her way around all the warrens and alleyways that made up the rookeries. Whereas he was familiar with every nook and cranny, knew she lived in one of the less reputable areas. His mum’s home was on the outskirts of Whitechapel, but as they’d grown up, he and his siblings had spent a good bit of time on these streets because they offered adventure. Often adventure fraught with danger, but excitement all the same.

  He didn’t think Althea was searching for adventure, didn’t think she’d be here if she didn’t have to be. She wasn’t here because she’d married a commoner as he’d originally thought.

  The cab drew to a halt in front of a residence that had seen better days. He handed up the fare through the opening in the roof. The driver took it and the locked doors sprung open. Beast leapt out and handed her down.

  “Thank you.” With a gasp, she widened her eyes, pointed toward the street. “There goes your cab. Why didn’t you stop him? You’re unlikely to find another near here.”

  “I’ll walk, once I’ve seen you safely inside.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “The windows are pitch-black. Allow me to go inside and light a lamp for you, ensure all is well.”

  With a sigh, no doubt too tired to argue with him, s
he walked to the door, removed a key from a hidden pocket at her waist, and inserted it into the lock. He heard the scrape, a little clank, before she shoved open the door.

  Following her inside, with the dim light from the streetlamps easing in through the windows, he could make out the shape of a lamp on the table. Removing the match safe from his waistcoat pocket, he struck a match, lifted the glass covering, and lit the wick of the oil lamp. The light revealed the only furniture to be the square oaken table and two straight-backed wooden chairs. “It doesn’t appear your brother is here.”

  “He could be asleep in his chamber. Thank you for escorting me home.”

  “I’ll wait until you’ve checked.”

  With a sigh, she picked up the lamp. “You’re quite irritating.”

  She wandered toward the hallway. He followed. It was short, hardly a hallway at all. She knocked on the door at one end. “Griffith?”

  After another knock, she opened the door and lifted the lamp higher to reveal blankets and clothing strewn over the floor. No furniture at all. How did someone like her come to this?

  Turning, she came up short at the sight of him standing there, the slight jerking of her head causing her to grimace with obvious discomfort. “He’s not here. He’s probably out searching for me. Unaware I’ve returned home, he could be gone for ages.” She paled. “Unless something horrible has happened to him, and that’s the reason he didn’t come for me tonight.”

  In Whitechapel, something horrible happening was always a possibility, but her brother carried himself with the confidence of someone fully capable of taking care of himself. It was the reason he hadn’t continued to follow her when the man had shown the night before. “I know you’ve taken a dislike to me, but if you’ll let me tend to your wound, I’ll go out and find him.”

  Her delicate brow pleated. “How will you manage that?”

  “If he’s searching for you, he’ll be on the path between here and the tavern. I daresay he won’t stray far from it, even if he decides to explore alleyways and mews. If another reason is preventing him from being here, I can enlist the help of others to locate him.”

  “Then go find him.”

  “After I’ve tended to you.”

  “It’s not that bad. My head barely hurts.”

  “Against my better judgment I allowed you to leave without seeing the surgeon. I’m not going to dismiss my concerns when it comes to tending to your wound.”

  “Very well, but be quick about it.” She marched into the kitchen with a little more vigor to her step, which relieved some of his worry.

  When she started to pump water into a bowl, he took over. “Have you some scraps of linen about?”

  While she went to fetch them, he finished with the task, set the bowl of icy water on the hearth, and crouched. Her footsteps signaled her return.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Preparing a fire.”

  “It’s not that cold.”

  He twisted around on the balls of his feet and looked up at her, could see the small stack of folded linens she’d placed on the table. “Ice has formed outside.”

  She wrung her hands. “We save the coal for when it’s truly needed.”

  “You might not be cold, but I am. In the morning I’ll send over coal to replace what I use. Besides, I need to heat this water up a bit.” He wasn’t cold, but he wanted her warm and comfortable when he left. He took satisfaction from her moving a chair nearer to the hearth in anticipation of the warmth he was going to provide. Normally, he wanted no appreciation from those he assisted, didn’t know why he wanted a grain of it from her. Perhaps because he saw it as a signal that she was coming down from Mount Olympus. He went to work.

  “When we moved here, my brother didn’t even know how to lay a fire,” she said quietly. “We always had servants to do it.”

  Naturally, she’d had servants. “Laid my first fire when I was eight. It was my chore every fourth morning.”

  “You rotated it with your brothers.”

  He wasn’t surprised she’d deduced that, or that she knew he had three brothers. Of late, the details of his family were on a good many gossips’ tongues and taking up an unfathomable amount of ink in the gossip rags.

  The fire began licking greedily at the coal. Simply wanting to get the chill off the water, he held the bowl as close to the flames as he could without burning himself. He was in no rush to leave, intended to take his time tending to her in order to reassure himself that she wasn’t in need of the surgeon before he went in search of her brother.

  “Did you kill him?” she asked with no emotion reflected in her voice. “The man in the alleyway.”

  “No. Smashed his jaw.” Not that he hadn’t considered inflicting far worse damage, but he’d needed to get to her as quickly as possible. He’d arrived in the alley in time to see the man fling her against the wall and to hear the thud of skull against brick. Knowing the damage an injury to the head could cause, he’d very nearly panicked. She might be a blueblood, but she didn’t deserve death at such a tender age. She warranted having her hair turn silver and her face wrinkle.

  “I thought I heard bone crunching.”

  “If a man with a broken jaw comes into the Mermaid, have Mac send for a constable. Then for me. I can identify him, ensure charges are brought.”

  “Do you think I might have served him at the tavern?”

  “Possibly.” The scapegrace had seen her at least one other night, knew her routine. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been there, ready to pounce. “I do think he was waiting for you.”

  “Like you were.”

  How could three small words bludgeon so effectively?

  He touched a finger to the water. Warm enough. Unfolding his body, he set the bowl on the table, met and held her gaze. “Do you truly think I’m anything at all like him?”

  She didn’t. Not for a single minute. She didn’t know why she’d implied she did, except that she wanted to keep distance between them. She hadn’t taken a dislike to him. Far from it.

  But the fact he’d thought so little of her as to make her a proposition that no doubt involved him having his way with her—it had hurt and never would have happened when her father was alive. She’d been treated with respect, admired simply by virtue of the fact she was the daughter of a duke. But of late, men were always seeking to take advantage of her.

  “Can we get on with this? I’m worried about my brother.”

  He scraped the other chair over the floor, set it behind her, dropped into it, and began removing the pins from her untidy coiffure.

  “Is that really necessary?”

  “You have so much hair, it’ll be easier to get to your wound if I’m not having to go through piles of it as I did before.” His actions were slow, gentle. “I’ve never felt anything so soft.”

  He cleared his throat, and she wondered if he’d not meant to say the last aloud, or at least meant not to say it as though he were awed.

  “Why no furniture?” Clipped. Crisp.

  “We haven’t lived here long and haven’t gotten around to purchasing things.” And they hadn’t the coins for purchasing things. “Why a brothel?”

  Equally clipped, equally crisp.

  “It began as a favor to a friend. Grew from there.”

  Her hair began to tumble down and he caught it as though he feared the weight of it falling would cause her discomfort, would pull on her injury. Tenderly, he loosened it down her back.

  “So you might not manage it, but you own it.”

  “I own the building. I take no payment from the women who work there, so I’m not a pimp if that’s what you’re thinking.” He dipped the edge of a piece of linen into the water. “This might sting.”

  It did, even though his touch was light, tender, cautious. She sucked in her breath.

  “I’m sorry. There are bits of debris embedded in the wound that need to be removed to lessen the chance of infection. I’ll strive to be gentle.”

/>   “Serves me right. My brother’s hands are raw from his work on the docks, and I insist upon tending them—even when he’d rather I didn’t. He’s probably grown weary of the sting, would like to avoid it occasionally. I placed the jar of healing salve by the linens if you want to use it.”

  “I do. I will. Have you any alcohol or whisky that I can use to torment you further once I’ve cleaned it?”

  “I think my brother has a bottle of whisky in the pantry.” She started to rise.

  He lightly touched her shoulder. “I’ll get it.”

  She was amazed by the grace and silence with which he moved. She suspected the fellow in the alley hadn’t known of Beast Trewlove’s arrival until he’d felt the pain of his jaw shattering. All the different distinctive sounds had come so quickly, one right after the other.

  When he returned, he set not only a bottle on the table but also a glass holding a small portion of clear liquid. “Gin, not whisky, but you might find drinking a bit will lessen the hurt.”

  Taking a sip, staring at the fire, she was fully aware that she needed to distract herself, not so much from the discomfort, but from the touch of his large hands against her hair, her scalp, as he carefully worked to clean her wound. She couldn’t seem to stop herself from envisioning those capable hands caressing and healing other aspects of her: her battered soul, her shattered heart.

  “How did you come to be in Mrs. Trewlove’s care?” That her children were others’ by-blows whom she’d taken in and raised as her own had been frantically whispered behind gloved hands and elegant fans after Mick Trewlove had taken Lady Aslyn Hastings to wife.

  “My mother left me with her shortly after I was born.”

  If he was upset or bothered by her question, his touch against her scalp certainly didn’t betray him.

  “You know who your mother is, then?”

  “No. She didn’t provide her name. Promised to return for me, but obviously . . .”

  She hadn’t.

  He’d have been too young to remember her leaving him, so he would have had to have been told. “How old were you when you learned all that?”