Secrets of a Gentleman Escort

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘I prefer suspect. He doesn’t know it’s me, not for sure,’ Nicholas amended.

  Channing cocked an eyebrow in disbelief. ‘You’re deluding yourself. With limericks like “Nick the Prick” and drawings labelled “In the Nick of Time” floating around London like so much flotsam?’ Channing had a point there. ‘Besides, I don’t think Alicia Burroughs wins any awards for secret keeping.’

  Another point in Channing’s favour. A rather valid one, too, given tonight’s display. ‘The agency won’t be implicated,’ Nick put in, hoping to soothe Channing’s feathers.

  ‘My worry is not for the agency alone. I worry for you, too, Nick. I don’t want there to be a duel.’ Channing opened a drawer and pulled out a folder. He pushed it across the desk. ‘That’s why I have a new assignment for you.’

  Nick scanned the document inside with a frown. ‘Five nights of pleasure? In the countryside? Is such a thing even possible? It sounds like a unlikely juxtaposition to me.’ Nicholas D’Arcy pushed the letter back across the polished surface of the desk with obvious disdain, his dark brow arched in sceptical disapproval of such a proposition. He was a London man. The city was his preferred environ with its refined women. There was nothing quite as fascinating as a city woman with her fashions and perfumes, her sharply honed repartee on a myriad of cutting-edge subjects and her bold overtures. In sum, a London woman was someone who knew what she wanted on all accounts. But a country woman? Lord spare him. ‘It’s really not my speciality, Channing.’

  Behind the desk, Channing quirked a blond brow in answer to his darker one. ‘And provoking duels with cuckolded husbands is not mine. If I may remind you, the league’s mission is a woman’s pleasure without the attendant scandal. Duels, my friend, do not fit our code of discretion. You need to get out of town and let the rumours settle. You know how London is this time of year. There will be another scandal within the fortnight to retire this one, but not if you’re here reminding everyone with your presence. Until then, I have no wish to see you on the receiving end of a jealous husband’s pistol.’

  ‘Nothing will come of it, I promise,’ Nicholas protested. ‘Burroughs has no proof.’ It had been a near-run thing though, getting out the window in time. ‘He couldn’t have seen more than a shadow.’

  Channing played with a letter opener. ‘Yes, well, what he’d like to do to that shadow is all over London. Was anything left behind? A shirt stud? A boot? Anything that could link you to the scene?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Nicholas replied vehemently. ‘I never leave anything behind. It was a clean getaway, I swear.’ A getaway that involved kissing the dowager countess. Still, it had been clean in the end and that was all that mattered.

  Channing gave a short laugh. ‘You and I have somewhat different interpretations of “clean getaway”.’

  Nicholas put a dramatic hand to his heart in mock play. ‘You wound me.’ In truth, he was a bit insulted Channing even had to ask. He was one of the best Channing had when it came to the more carnal pursuits of their organisation. Not every woman came to them looking for physical pleasure—some came simply looking to make a splash in society, perhaps raise a little decent notoriety for themselves to win back a husband who had strayed too far or taken them for granted too long. But there were those who did come looking for the intimate pleasures that had eluded them thus far in life. That’s where he came in. Nick hoped Channing would overlook that aspect of the letter.

  ‘The potential scandal notwithstanding, I’d still send you.’ Channing set down the letter opener and fixed with him a stern blue-eyed stare. ‘The woman in question is looking for physical fulfilment and that is indeed your speciality.’ So much for overlooking it.

  ‘But not in the country,’ Nicholas argued. He was losing this fight and he knew it. He could feel his grounds for refusal slipping away. ‘It’s a poor time for me to be gone from the league.’ He gestured to the date on the letter. ‘Almost a whole week in the middle of June? That’s the height of the Season. We already have more requests than we can handle.’ It would absolutely kill him to miss the entertainments: the Marlborough Ball, the midsummer masquerade at Lady Hyde’s Richmond mansion, which was that week, to say nothing of the summer nights at Vauxhall with its fireworks.

  Channing remained unfazed by his line of reasoning. ‘We’ll manage.’

  Nicholas pressed onwards, running roughshod over the implied refusal. ‘You could send someone else. Jocelyn or Grahame? Miles or Amery? Didn’t DeHart say he enjoyed the country? He was an absolute hit at the last house party you sent him to.’ He was not going to the country. He avoided the country like a saint avoided sin.

  ‘Everyone is busy,’ Channing said with finality. ‘It has to be you.’ He gave a winning smile, the one that charmed men and women alike into doing whatever it was Channing required of them. ‘Don’t worry, Nicholas, the city will still be here when you get back.’

  What could he say to that without saying too much? There were things about his life even Channing didn’t know. Nicholas drew a breath. ‘The letter says she’ll pay handsomely. How much?’ He knew the question signalled his concurrence. Still, better to retreat the field with polite acquiescence than to be routed from it with a direct order.

  ‘A thousand pounds,’ Channing announced quietly.

  Nicholas gave a wry smile. He’d do just about anything for a thousand pounds. Even face his demons. There was no question of not going and they both knew it. That kind of money ensured his acceptance from the start. ‘Well, I guess that settles it.’ In a moment of insight, he appreciated Channing’s effort to at least let him think he could argue the situation.

  ‘I expect it does. Now, go pack your bags, I’ve arranged a post chaise for you. It leaves at eleven. You’ll be there in time for tea.’

  Lovely, Nick thought with inward sarcasm, but he could see Channing was set on this. There’d be no getting out of it, so he played that old mental game: it could always be worse, although he wasn’t sure how it could be. Well, he supposed it could have been for longer, it could have been for the entire month.

  Chapter Two

  Sussex, England

  Annorah Price-Ellis had a month to live. Really live. She could feel it in her bones and it wasn’t the first time. She’d been feeling it creep up on her since April and here at the last she was powerless to stop it. The inevitable was going to happen although for years she’d been in denial. Now it—even at this late point she couldn’t call it by its rightful name—stared her in the face, a big red date on her mental calendar.

  Of course, she’d sought help. The experts she’d consulted all concurred with the same diagnosis. There was nothing left for her to do but accept it. Such news had forced her to make concessions and, along with concessions, preparations as well, which was why she sat in her sunny drawing room at Hartshaven on this beautiful June afternoon, prettily dressed in a fashionable new gown of jonquil muslin, looking her best and waiting, an odd occupation for someone for whom time was running out.

  Annorah glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was nearly four. He would arrive any minute and her nerves were entirely on edge. She’d never done anything as daring or as final as this. As that damnable red date approached, she’d thought long and hard about what her final acts would be, what pleasures she wanted one last time. She was rich. She had piles of money. She could afford anything she desired: Paris, the Continent, beautiful clothes. In the end, all that wealth wouldn’t save her. She couldn’t take it with her without condemning her soul to a certain hell. So the question had loomed. What did she want? In her heart, it hadn’t been that difficult a question to answer.

  She was thirty-two, at least for another two weeks, and past her prime by at least a decade. She didn’t feel it. She hoped she didn’t look it. She had very little to show for the last ten years, at least not when it came to the things a woman should have at her age—a
husband and children. She’d been close a few times. Once, she’d managed to get her heart broken and another time she’d cried off, unwilling to risk a second heartbreak, or maybe it had been the lack of such a risk. After that, she’d retreated to Hartshaven, withdrawing from society a little more each year until it had been ages since she’d set foot in London and longer still since she’d taken an interest in anyone or anyone in her.

  It was a lonely way to live. What she did have, however, was a beautiful estate in the country and piles of money to keep her company. What she lacked in social currency, she more than made up for financially. In terms of creature comforts, she had everything a woman could want, except a man. That was about to change. In a few moments, a man was going to come down the drive. She’d ordered him from London much as one orders a gown, and if she had misgivings about such a process it was too late now.

  Annorah mentally went over the carefully drafted letter she’d sent one last time, every word committed to memory.

  Dear Sirs,

  I am looking for a discreet association with a man of breeding and manners. Must be clean and well-kept, an informed conversationalist—in other words, educated—and enjoy the quiet of the countryside. Will pay handsomely for five nights of companionship.

  She’d taken three days to draft those few lines. It seemed like the letter should be longer for her efforts. She hoped the agency would know exactly what she meant. The small advertisement she’d seen in a magazine suggested the agency was very good at reading between the lines and knowing precisely what was required in any given situation. Still, those meagre four lines were the most audacious words she’d ever written.

  ‘It’s time, Annorah. Stop being such a goose.’ She felt her courage start to flag. If not now, when? She knew the answer to that. Never. If she wanted to know the mysteries of passion before it was too late, she had to take matters into her own hands. So here she was, waiting for her birthday present to arrive; the perfect man—one who wouldn’t break her heart, who wouldn’t pretend to love her for her money, one who would understand what she wanted was a temporary liaison in which she could experience the joys of the flesh without the regrets.

  Five nights of pleasure should be enough. Then she would reconcile herself to her fate, a fate the best of England’s legal minds had assured her she could not avoid: Marry by her thirty-third birthday and keep her estate and wealth intact, or should that fail and she remain single, the estate and much of her fortune was forfeit to the church and other charities. The house would become a school and she’d be left with a cottage and a comfortable portion to live simply, but not grandly. Gone would be the days of fine gowns and the option to do anything she wanted.

  Either way, she stood to lose her life the way she knew it. Marriage meant her fabulous wealth went to her husband. Remaining unwed meant it went to the church. Last time she checked, neither of those parties was her. In response to her demise, she’d gone shopping and purchased an outrageous number of dresses and all the necessary accessories, including a man to go with them.

  Gravel crunched on the drive and her pulse quickened. Out of the window, Annorah caught sight of a chaise pulling up in front of the steps before it was lost from view, blocked by the large semicircular stairs leading to the front door. One could only see the drive fully if one was standing at the window and Annorah did not want to be that obvious.

  Her butler, Plumsby, appeared at the doorway. ‘Miss, your guest is here. May I say he is quite handsome for a librarian?’ She’d not been able to admit the truth to her staff for fear of disappointing them. Instead, she’d professed a desire to catalogue the library one last time, an inventory list of sorts should she opt to leave everything to the school.

  ‘Thank you, Plumsby. I will be right out to meet him.’ Her pulse began to race, her thoughts latching on to Plumsby’s last words: He was handsome. She played out how she wanted to greet him in her mind. She would be modern and sophisticated. Annorah took a final look in the mirror on the wall to make sure her hair was in place, her face free of any errant smudges. She took a deep breath and stepped out into the hall, suddenly feeling overly bright in her jonquil muslin against the muted blues and Italian marble of the hall. But there was no time to change now, no time to slip away on the backstairs unnoticed. He’d seen her.

  Annorah smiled and swept forwards. ‘You’re here. I trust you had a pleasant journey?’ She clasped her hands tightly at her waist, hoping to hide her nerves, but she could feel a blush creeping up her cheeks. Handsome didn’t even begin to cover it and she was already at a loss for words. He’d think she was a bumbling idiot. One minute into their association and her power of speech had failed her.

  Tea! Her mind grabbed the idea. ‘Plumbsby, have tea brought to the drawing room. I can see to our guest from here.’ As soon as the words left her mouth, she knew she had erred. ‘Forgive me, I’m getting ahead of myself. Here I am ordering tea before we’ve even had introductions. I’m Annorah Price-Ellis.’

  She stuck her hand out for him to shake in a businesslike manner, but he took that hand and bent over it instead, lips skimming knuckles, eyes holding hers as he took her gesture and turned it into something more than a greeting. Under his touch it became a prologue, a promise. ‘Nicholas D’Arcy at your service.’

  At her service. Annorah swallowed hard. He was here and he was gorgeous! Dark-blue eyes looked up at her over her hand, riveting and intense in their regard; black hair roguishly pulled back to reveal high-set cheekbones and the most perfect mouth she’d ever seen on a man; a thin, strong upper lip, a slightly fuller lower lip, full enough to invoke a certain sensual quality, full enough to make a woman want to trace that mouth with her finger.

  Good lord, her thoughts were running fast! They’d barely met and she was already tracing his mouth in her mind. Annorah recalled her manners soon enough to fumble through an awkward curtsy, only to wonder if that was the correct response. Did one curtsy to such a man? But that was just it. What sort of man was he? A gentleman down on his luck or a bounder in fine clothing merely apeing his betters? Perhaps she should curtsy simply to preserve the façade and why not? This was her fantasy. She could play it any way she wanted.

  What she couldn’t do was stand around the hall, staring like a looby. Years of good breeding finally caught up with her in a single thought: now she could get them in to tea and everything would resolve itself. Tea would take some of the edge off her nerves. There would be a natural progression of questions to ask: Did he take cream? Did he prefer sugar? Would he like a cake or a sandwich? It would ease the transition into conversation and give her a sense of starting to know him.

  Annorah gestured towards the wide doorway on her left and said in what she hoped were sophisticated tones, even if the message was slightly repetitious, ‘Plumsby will have tea set up for us in the drawing room. You can take refreshment and we can discuss business.’ Surely that was the appropriate next step. It would be best to get the particulars out of the way before things progressed much further.

  Nicholas D’Arcy’s blue eyes twinkled, the edges crinkling up delightfully as he smiled. He leaned in with a conspiratorial air, his body close enough for her to catch the scent of him—the sweet hay of a fougère mixed with the tang of lemons, quintessential summer. ‘This is business?’

  Suddenly it was hard to think. She was vaguely aware she was rambling on about clients and contractors and negotiating the parameters of association for both their sakes. A gentle finger pressed against her lips.

  ‘There’s a lovely summer day waiting for us outside, Annorah. Why don’t you show me the gardens? We can talk while we stroll.’

  ‘Will it be private enough?’ Annorah hedged politely. Talk about their arrangement outside where they might be overheard? She hadn’t exactly been truthful with the staff when she’d told them about her visitor.

  ‘We’ll put our heads together and whispe
r.’ His eyes were laughing again as he offered her his arm, a very firm arm encased in blue superfine, another reminder that his clothes and bearing were immaculate. His dark head lowered to hers until they were almost touching, his voice quiet at her ear. ‘Besides, I find the risk of discovery adds a certain spice to even the most mundane of outings, don’t you?’

  ‘I will have to take your word for that, Mr D’Arcy.’ A delicious tremor shivered through her at the very notion, tempered only slightly by the reality that the man dressed in expensive blue superfine, fashionable buff breeches and highly polished boots was definitely not a gentleman at all.

  ‘Please, call me Nicholas. My father was always Mr D’Arcy. Shall we?’

  How quickly she’d lost control of the conversation. It was something of a marvel, really, how smoothly he’d taken over. He’d been standing in her hall for a handful of minutes and already he was assuming command. He didn’t even know where the gardens were and yet they were heading out of the bank of French doors as if he’d lived here his entire life. She’d not expected him to show such ease. She’d expected to have the upper hand. This arrangement was to be conducted entirely on her grounds, literally and figuratively. When she’d sent her letter, she’d assumed a modicum of security in knowing he was the guest and she the host. But now it was clear those roles could easily become blurred.

  * * *

  The gardens restored her sense of balance. He asked questions, pausing now and again at certain flowers to comment on their blooms, and she answered, feeling more in control, once more the host.

  Nicholas halted at one flower. ‘Ah, this one is very rare indeed. A rainforest iris, if I’m not mistaken? Very wicked, is it not, with its stamen jutting straight up from the bloom?’

  Annorah blushed furiously at his less-than-veiled reference to a man’s phallus. ‘All flowers have stamen, Mr D’Arcy.’