She could not save them all; however, she tried to provide a decent life for the few that she could.
There was a heavy fist pounding on the door. Without waiting for her permission to enter, the hinges groaned and Abram’s face appeared through the opening. “Madame V, there is a man at the servants’ door. He is requesting an audience.”
She and Finney exchanged knowing glances. Of course there was a problem. There always was.
“Do you want me to handle it?” Finney asked. The thirty-five-year-old man had once worked as a prostitute in Mrs. Sweete’s brothel, servicing both males and females. He also possessed an uncanny talent for numbers.
When Madame Venna sold the old brothel, she asked Finney to be the Golden Pearl’s steward, and the man accepted. Occasionally, he spent his evenings upstairs with a male guest, but the decision was his. As far as she was concerned, Mrs. Sweete had been blind to the man’s true skills.
“No, you finish up here.”
“Then you will need this, love.” Finney plucked up her discarded half-mask. Velvet and lace. It was rather mundane compared with her other more elaborate ones. To Abram, she said, “Did the man give you his name?”
“No, Madame,” came the low baritone reply. “He told me this was his calling card.” Abram handed her a folded piece of paper.
Baffled, Madame Venna accepted the paper. “Did you open it?”
“No point. I’ve never had much luck with letters.”
Madame Venna parted the edges of the paper and read the name scrawled across its surface.
Catherine Deverall.
The man demanding an audience was from her past.
* * *
“Lady Cockrell, this is an unexpected honor,” Saint said, observing that his mother had not even bothered to sit. “How long has it been since our last visit? Two years?”
“Sainthill.”
If he had expected some small sign of affection from the woman who had given birth to him, he would have been disappointed. She did, however, recall her manners. The viscountess’s curtsy lacked the grace he had come to expect. Her face was averted, and he studied her with a critical eye. There were shadows under her eyes hinting that her nights were restless. A few weeks ago, he had heard that his mother had recently celebrated her fiftieth birthday. Lord Cockrell had held a ball in her honor, though no one had sent Saint an invitation.
“My apologies for intruding. I would not have insisted on an audience if it was not important.”
“A fact I am well aware of, Lady Cockrell.” Saint gestured for her to be seated. “What brings you to my door?”
She inhaled deeply as if she was already bracing for his rejection. “Your sister.” His mother sat down in one of the chairs.
“My sister?” he asked, tasting the word as he contemplated its palatability. “Forgive me, madam, but I distinctly recall being told that my sire perished while astride his favorite mistress when I was six years old.”
She closed her eyes. “Half,” she snapped. “You know very well that Lord Cockrell and I have a son and two daughters.”
Yes, he was aware that his mother had other children. A year after his father’s death, his mother had married the older, and rather staid, Lord Cockrell. Not long after the quiet wedding, Saint had been unceremoniously bundled off to school and forgotten.
Not that Saint blamed her—not anymore at any rate. As a boy, he did not understand what he had done wrong to lose her love. Later, he came to understand the why of things, even if he did not agree with it. In truth, his father had never been discreet about his philandering ways, and his extraordinary demise had elevated his nefarious deeds to the stuff of legends. The scandal and ridicule had humiliated her. Cockrell had represented a new start for her, and her firstborn would always be a reminder of his mother’s old life. She eschewed all things tied to Sainthill, and that included his heir.
Instead of sitting, he braced his forearms against the high back of one of the chairs. “And how does your brood concern me?” Saint mildly inquired. He had never been introduced to them. His mother kept her precious children away from the likes of him.
Lady Cockrell faltered at the question. For the first time since she’d entered his residence, she appeared uncertain on how to proceed. “As you know, our Becky was fortunate enough to make a good match two years ago.”
“I know nothing of the sort since I have never been introduced to the chit.”
Of course he did not bother admitting that he had seen the girl on several occasions during her first season. She had brown hair like her father and a face that reminded Saint of a younger version of her mother. He had made certain his friends kept their distance, in particular Vane and Frost. Vane’s mother, Lady Netherley, had been playing matchmaker that year, and Lord Cockrell’s pretty daughter likely would have caught the older woman’s eye. As for Frost, the gent had trouble with boundaries when it came to something he wanted. Sin had learned this firsthand a few years ago.
Lady Cockrell’s level stare might have shriveled his hairy bollocks if he were a child, but the lady would have to be a little more creative if she thought her disapproval would intimidate him now.
“Becky is married to Lord Perry. Mayhap you have encountered the gentleman?”
The name instantly conjured in his mind the image of a fresh-faced young man with auburn hair and rust-colored freckles. The last time he’d seen the man, he was casting up his accounts on some poor fellow’s boots.
“I am as familiar with Perry as I am with your Becky,” he said drily. “Is there a reason why I should care?”
Lady Cockrell’s mouth tightened. “They are your family, Sainthill. As such, they are your responsibility—”
“Wrong, madam,” he said, cutting over what sounded like the beginnings of a lecture. “They are your husband’s. He is the head of your family. If he has a spine, he will not appreciate you coming to me with your woeful tale.”
Saint straightened. “Now if you will excuse me. I have work to do.”
Tears brightened the older woman’s gaze. “My husband cannot assist in this matter. He has no connections to the unsavory world of—”
Finally, her meaning was as clear as glass. “Ah, you mean like I do. Let me guess … Perry has gotten himself into a spot of trouble, eh?”
Misery flowed like tears down her cheeks. She blindly reached for her reticule and retrieved a handkerchief. Belatedly, Saint realized that he should have offered her one from his own pocket.
“Yes.” She nodded as she sniffled into the piece of linen. “According to Becky, her husband has taken up with some new friends, Ravenshaw, Newton, and a few others I cannot recall. These friendships have wrought changes in my son-in-law’s character. A concerned friend confided to my daughter that her husband has been patronizing an establishment of ill repute. A place, if the rumors are true, you are quite familiar with.”
Hell. Ravenshaw was Reign’s brother-in-law. The man was also an arse. Saint glared at his mother. He had a bad feeling he was intimately acquainted with the brothel, too. “Let me guess. The Golden Pearl.”
“Lord Perry did not come home last evening. His friends claim they do not know his whereabouts. However, someone hinted that Perry sometimes keeps a room at the broth—at that place. And a certain woman may be the reason for it.”
Perry gave up his secrets as easily as he did his wine, Saint thought, but he kept his opinion to himself. “What do you expect me to do?”
Lady Cockrell eagerly leaned forward. “Retrieve him from the Golden Pearl and bring him home. He belongs with his family.”
Unlike Saint.
He took a deep breath. “Have you considered that Perry might not want to be rescued? He might be quite content to remain in his lover’s bed.”
“My son-in-law has lost his way. His so-called friends are dragging him deeper into the filth they’re buried in, and he recently learned that his wife is with child. He is needed at home.”
“Get someone
else,” Saint said abruptly, moving away. “There must be someone else who can handle your little problem for you.”
“Do not dismiss me as if I were your servant.” Lady Cockrell stood up and followed him to the other side of the drawing room. “You are your father’s son. I have no doubt that you know some of these men and the places they frequent.”
Her bringing up his father felt like a stinging slap. “No doubt.”
Lady Cockrell came up behind him. “I also know that you are an honorable man when it pleases you to behave thusly. Your family asks very little of you, but in this, I must insist. We need your help.”
“Very well. If Perry means so much to you, I shall retrieve him and return him to the loving bosom of his family.” Saint cleared his throat. “Thomas will see you out.” He opened the door and walked away, knowing that his butler would see to his mother.
He did not notice that Lady Cockrell followed only as far as the entryway of the drawing room, then watched her son retreat as swiftly as if he was trying to put as much distance as he could between them.
Chapter Eleven
Per her instructions, her uninvited visitor was waiting for her in one of the small anterooms adjacent to the front hall. Madame Venna adjusted her half-mask and pasted a polite smile on her face. Whoever was on the other side of the door wanted something from her. She had a feeling that she knew who that man was. A single glance of him from the back confirmed it. She recognized the man from her nightmares.
Martin Royles.
He was one the reasons why she had run away to London to seek her fortune. If she had remained under his brutal care, all that would have been left of her were moldering bones in a shallow grave.
Madame Venna glanced behind her to make certain no one was listening, and then she closed the door. “Such boldness indicates that you are either drunk or desperate,” she said, the sultry accented tones she employed to complete her guise melted away.
“Mayhap a little of both.” The man pinched his fingers together, squinting as he tried to line the two digits together. “Now, Catherine, that’s no way to greet your father. Give us a proper kiss, eh?”
“You are not my father, Martin Royles.”
She visibly struggled with her temper. Anger was what he wanted from her. As a child, whenever she disobeyed or raised her voice in anger, she was punished. Royles used whatever was within reach to whip her soundly for her defiance. Later, when she was showing signs of becoming a grown woman, he preferred to use his hands on her.
She shuddered.
“Always a spitfire,” her companion said, giving her a knowing appraisal from head to toe. Despite the drink, his gray eyes were clear. “Though I wager you have to be sweeter to your betters, poppet. The only fire those fancy fops want from a whore is the one they make betwixt your pale legs.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to insult the useless flesh in his trousers, but such remarks were an invitation to use his fists on her. Madame Venna smothered a plume of fear spreading in her belly. She refused to allow him to reduce her to the young, frightened girl that she once was.
“Why have you returned, Royles?” she said bluntly. “We had a bargain.”
“I know,” he said as he removed his hat and scratched the top of his head. His hair had grayed and thinned, and he had fattened around his middle, but he had the arms of a blacksmith. “Say, I was thinking of hiring one of your girls.”
“No.” She refused to allow him to sully anything that belonged to her. Her hands tightened into fists at her sides. It was then that she noticed she was still clutching the paper Royles had given Abram. She dropped the crumpled note on the small table.
“Are you offering to see to me personally?” he asked, the lecherous gleam in his eyes souring her stomach.
Madame Venna silently weighed her options. She could shout for Abram. He was undoubtedly just beyond the hall, waiting for her summons. One word from her, and Martin Royles would be begging for his life as her servant began snapping finger bones one by one. It was a tempting thought, but it left her with the dilemma that had placed her in the position to be blackmailed. Royles could ruin everything she had built—all of her carefully laid plans. While she had an arrangement with the key officials who had the magistrate’s ear, money bought her only so much. A scandal might provoke her good friends to toss her to the wolves. She might even end up in prison.
Not if Royles is dead.
How often had she envisioned the horrid man dead? In her dreams, the deed had been committed by her own hand. For her many sins, she discovered that she was incapable of adding murder to the list, even if the man deserved to die for his crimes.
Think, Catherine.
This was not the hour to lose her head. She had gotten rid of the man once. He would disappear again with the right incentive dangled in front of him.
“You know very well that I would prefer to slash my own throat than permit you to touch me,” she said sweetly as she imagined putting the blade to his thick neck. “Nor are you truly interested in me. I have something else that you value more.”
His eyebrows lifted, wrinkling his forehead. “And what is that, Catherine, darling?”
“Wealth and a certain amount of influence.” She strolled away from the door, turning her back on her only means of escape. “I assume you have gambled away the money I gave you three months ago?”
She already knew the answer.
“Aye, it is a sad tale—”
Madame Venna held up a hand to silence him. “I do not care to hear the details. Suffice to say, you are not the first man I have encountered who cannot hold on to his blunt or his liquor.”
Quick as an adder, one of his beefy hands shot out and seized her. She struggled as he pulled her against him and they staggered backward into a small table, knocking it over.
“Let go of me, you foul-breathed miscreant!” she hissed.
“Careful, poppet, you will hurt my feelings with that sort of talk,” he said, laughing. He twirled her about as if they were dancing. “Or maybe you were just hoping I’d get mad enough to put my hands on you.”
“Never!” She tugged hard to free her right arm, and promptly slapped him across the face. “Release me at once, or—”
“Or what, darling?”
Her nose wrinkled at the smell of beer and sour flesh. “Or a fisherman will be pulling your bloated corpse from the Thames.”
His cheeks reddened as he brought them to a sudden halt. “Aw, now, Catherine. There’s no call for threats when I’ve come to make you a reasonable offer.”
“Corner me, Royles, and I will have nothing to lose,” she said, slightly breathless.
“You’ll risk prison? Bring harm to innocents?” He shook his head. “That is not the Catherine I know.”
Madame Venna placed her palms on his chest and shoved him hard enough to make him stagger back a few steps. “Catherine no longer exists.” She gave him a level look. “You do not want to trifle with the woman who replaced her.”
“I just want my fair sh-h—”
A knock at the door silenced Royles.
Madame Venna glared her companion, and then at the door. Neither one of them moved to open it. “What is it?” she demanded, her annoyance resulting in her accent being thicker than she intended.
Instead of replying, the person on the other side simply opened the door. She gasped as Saint strolled into the room. His eyes were sharp as they slid from her disheveled appearance to Martin Royles.
“Have I interrupted another business meeting, Madame V?” He did not seem particularly upset about it. “It’s becoming a rather bad habit of mine, is it not?”
* * *
It appeared to be fortuitous that Saint had decided to arrive early at the Golden Pearl. He had hoped to speak privately with Madame Venna, and satisfy Lady Cockrell’s concerns about her wayward son-in-law. However, it was apparent that he had interrupted something rather unpleasant. Whatever had transpired between Madame Venna and
her companion, he was certain nothing good could come of it. Although their angry words had been muffled, the woman’s distress fired every nerve in his body like a lightning strike.
“Do not fret, monsieur le marquis,” she said cheerfully. Her hand was unsteady as she reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “My—friend was just leaving.”
Her rough-looking companion was not pleased with her declaration, but Saint’s presence had put an end to their argument. He shook his head. “And what’s to be done about our unfinished business, darling? Would it be too much to hope that your gentleman friend could wait for you in another room?”
Saint leaned over to pick up the toppled table. Next to it, he noticed a crumpled piece of paper. He placed his hand over it, his fingers curling around it as he dealt with the table. “Yes, it is,” Saint said, displaying plenty of teeth.
“Aye, I see it is.”
The man glanced at Madame Venna, and the silence in the room was palpable. “Well then, you can’t blame a fellow for trying.” He touched the brim of his hat, nodding respectfully to Saint.
“Wait,” she said, following the older man to the door. “I’ll accept the old terms with certain conditions added to our agreement.”
The man’s face brightened with pleasure. “I’m a reasonable man. Same place and time?”
“Oui.” She glanced warily at Saint. “In two days.”
“Good … good.” He walked over the threshold and stopped. “And, poppet? Since we’re negotiating, I might have an item or two to discuss.”
Madame Venna stared vacantly at the empty doorway, seemingly lost in thought. Saint was beginning to wonder if she had forgotten that she was not alone when she turned her head and met his gaze.
“Why have you come?”
He grinned at her surly tone. “Come now, I deserve a better greeting than that after rescuing you from that old man. By the by, who was he?”
She was startled by the question, but quickly recovered. “No one important. Is this the reason for your visit? To distract me from my work with meaningless questions?”
All Afternoon with a Scandalous Marquess Page 7
