by Deb Marlowe
“Money, o’ course,” Joe Watts said. The boy shook his head as if incredulous at Aldmere’s ignorance. “The Love List is back and set to make a good number of people a better amount o’ money.” At his still blank look, he expelled an exasperated sigh. “”Tis a remake of the Harris List of old—and surely you’ve heard o’ that."
Tired of wandering around the same, dark conversational circles, Aldmere looked to Miss Wilmott for enlightenment.
“I had no knowledge of it, either, before this morning,” she said. Her tone had grown marginally more sympathetic. “Fully known as Harris’s List of Covent Garden Ladies, Mr. Watts informs me, it was an annual pamphlet. Each year it was newly published and listed an updated description of many of the . . . accommodating ladies of London.”
“Lightskirts,” Joe Watts clarified helpfully. “It was printed for nigh on to forty years, and eight thousand copies sold each year. No small profit, there. But it’s been a long time since it was put out. Likely it will have an even bigger run now, what with everyone so riled about it.”
“Now, hold a moment,” he protested. “Tru would not be involved in something like this for the profit . . .” He paused then, and glanced at the girl again. “Wait. You say that this is the project that the marquess pressed him into?” He frowned in disbelief. “Marstoke’s richer than Croesus. It’s not likely he would be interested in the paltry sum something like this would bring in.”
Joe Watts stiffened. “It’s no paltry sum to my master!”
“Mr. Watts is a printer’s apprentice,” Miss Wilmott said, shaking her head. The heat and weight of her gaze moved over him again. “And Marstoke isn’t engineering this for money,” she said darkly. “He’s doing it for revenge.”
Trying to channel his impatience, Aldmere stood and went to stand by the empty fireplace. “Explain,” he said shortly. He gripped the mantle hard with one hand.
She sighed. "We're talking in circles. Let me make it simple. Your brother is writing this new version of the Love List for Marstoke, and Marstoke means to use it to destroy both me and Hestia Wright."
"I understand it might be against Hestia Wright's principles, but how does the List impact her directly—and you?" he asked.
The boy had moved a few paces away. She beckoned him close again and nodded in his direction. “Tell the duke how we met this morning.”
Joe Watts bit his lip as his face flushed red. He ducked his chin and spoke to his loosely fitted vest. “I thought she were the virgin one.”
Miss Wilmott had gone a delicious shade of pink. Aldmere marveled that she could look so delicate. A grand illusion, but one that could never last. Again, she dragged up something rusty from inside of him. He rather liked her. He liked her stiff spine and her tightly braided coronet of dark hair. He liked the utter contradiction of towering spirit hid behind fey-touched fragility. He even liked that damned tempting kiss that called to him from her unsuspecting lips.
He transferred his gaze back to Joe Watts. “Do me a favor, and start at the beginning, Mr. Watts.”
The boy took him literally. “Well, after I had my porridge, I was sweeping the shop, like I always do. Mr. Rudd left to visit his mistress, like he does of a Friday morn.”
Aldmere kept a straight face and silently reached for patience. “And Mr. Rudd is a printer, and your master?”
“Aye—and I’m his first ranked apprentice.” His chest puffed with pride. “I can set type and pull a trial proof.”
“Very commendable.”
The boy grew shamefaced again. “You see,” he said in a rush, “I heard Rudd last night, whispering behind his office door, discussin’ the List with the toff what brung it. And this morning, when he were gone, I sneaked in for a peep at what the fuss was about.” He shrugged. “I tell you, yer honor, it got me blood up. I particularly liked the sound o’ the virgin one,” he repeated. “Or the one that says she’ can act like it, in any case.” His eyes burned as he glanced at the girl again. “And she sounds like her.”
Miss Wilmott had gone crimson now and she bit her words out, each one sharp as a tack. “So he informed me when I stepped outside this morning with the market basket.”
“And so I still say,” Joe Watts burst out. “You fit the description right down to the last. And it spells out how you lost your affianced nobleman and your position in society when you took to consorting about with a duke.” The boy went abruptly rigid. “No!” he breathed. His mouth open in shock, Joe Watts pierced Aldmere with a disapproving gaze. “Yer honor—never say it was you!”
He barely heard him. He’d gone more than slightly stiff himself, with a sudden and unexpected surge of anger. “Do you mean to say that you are included on this Love List, Miss Wilmott?”
She fought a brief, visible battle to compose her expression, then settled for lifting her chin and compressing her lips. “I am. And I’m not alone, your Grace. Every girl in Hestia Wright’s home is included.”
Aldmere crossed back to his desk. Gingerly now, he lifted the sheaf of papers, rifled through until he found a page titled Brothel of Distinction and Disguise: H W’s Secret Whorehouse.
“Cor, that house has a whole section to itself.” Joe Watts waved a hand toward the papers on the desk. “They are going to be right popular in a week or two. That’s why I wanted to go early.”
He set the stack down again before he could glimpse what had been written about the girl before him.
“And Hestia,” Miss Wilmott’s voice cracked now as her composure had refused to do. “Good heavens, the filth they’ve written about Hestia. She’ll be ruined,” she whispered. “After all the good she’s done . . .”
He considered. It was a devastatingly brilliant maneuver, if it had been done with a mind for revenge. Society had been unable to make up its collective mind about Brynne Wilmott. Some merely assumed she was wicked. Some speculated that she had found herself in the family way and run to escape the wrath of her father and betrothed. But there had been those who had known the girl, who had quietly expressed disbelief and shock. It had led to more than a few glances askance at both of those men, and whispered questions wondering what about one or both of them would send a gently bred girl fleeing.
He looked at the stack of papers. This would bring an end to speculation, however. She would be reviled. Scorned more than she had been already. She’d spoken of plans? After this, her only plan should be how to escape to the Continent.
“It’s my fault,” she whispered again. She took a step back and sank down into the chair he’d motioned her toward earlier. “They are old and bitter rivals, Hestia and Marstoke. But I didn’t know! I humiliated him, and then I ran to his oldest enemy.” She bit her lip. “And now—look at what’s happened. He’s found a way to destroy us both in one fell swoop.” Color suffused her face. “It’s bad for me, of course, and terrible timing, but when I think of all that Hestia does, and how she might not be able to continue. . . .” She scowled and folded in on herself.
Was she truly worried more for Hestia Wright than for herself? He eyed her closely. It was uncomfortable—and incredibly affecting—seeing this girl with her eyes downcast and her shoulders slumped. He preferred her vibrantly defiant. “We’re talking of Hestia Wright,” he said bracingly. “Noted former courtesan? Queen of the demi-monde, both in England and abroad for years? I believe she knows a bit about weathering scandal.”
The older woman stood a better chance than this girl, at any rate. Hestia had supporters in England and abroad, in government, society and business. Some helped with donations, of course, others with influence, advice or opportunities for women who had none.
Brynne Wilmott, it seemed, had only Hestia Wright.
“You don’t understand. Marstoke has tried to destroy her for years. He’s spoken against her, belittled her efforts, bankrolled vandals, even had the house raided by constables. But this is on a different scale entirely, far more widespread, and with the weight of publication behind it. I just became the perfect w
eapon he can use to finally tear her down. If people believe that she is taking in girls, from the streets, from the hands of abusive pimps—and from the ranks of the ton—only to prostitute them for her own profit . . . the results will be devastating.”
Wearily, Aldmere moved again and dropped into his seat across from her. “I sincerely hope you are wrong. I assure you that I never said a word to Tru about the incidents in the Dalton’s library that night. And while I was unaware of what he was up to regarding this List, you can be sure I shall speak to him about it.”
“You’ll speak to him?” If one could be said to have incredulous eyebrows, they would look just like hers, lifted high and beautifully curved. “Did you think that I’d come carrying tales like a schoolgirl, your Grace? That I laid your brother’s sins out before you so that you could wave a ducal hand, smack your brother’s knuckles and make my troubles disappear?”
That’s exactly what he’d thought. Though he wouldn’t for the life of him admit it now. “Did you come only to lay charges of my broken word at my feet, perhaps?”
“Partly, not only.”
“Why then?” he asked with a sigh.
“I came because I refuse to be used as a weapon. Because your brother’s actions are harming my friends. Because what he has done is likely to kill my dreams.”
He made the mistake of raising his own eyebrows in surprise. She immediately arched in her chair, as indignant as the kitchen cat when you rubbed its fur the wrong way.
“Do you object, your Grace, to me having plans for my life? Are you like the rest of society, who believes that I—having lost their good graces—might as well lie down in a ditch?”
He shook his head.
“Good. Because I want the chance to tell your brother just what he’s done. I want him to look in the face of at least one of the innocent women whose life he’s trying to ruin. And I want to ask him to reconsider.”
“I think that is exactly what you should do.” Not that he held out any hope of Tru going along with her. Aldmere knew his brother—and this was not in his usual style at all. It must be a damned powerful hold Marstoke possessed, to force his participation in something like this List.
Yet it was damned courageous of Miss Wilmott to try. And damned foolish, likely. “But, again, it begs the question, why are you here, Miss Wilmott?”
She smiled. “Because it is a simple matter to find you, your Grace. One can ask anyone in the street where the Duke of Aldmere might be found. Your brother, on the other hand, is not so easily located.”
A discreet knock sounded on the door, and it swung open before he could respond. “Your Grace.” Billings was having a difficult afternoon and it showed in his strained expression. “You have another visitor. And I’m afraid he insists on being seen right away.”
The other two turned as a familiar figure, gnarled and as tough as boot leather, followed on the butler’s heels. Aldmere stood. Miss Wilmott’s last words echoed in his head as foreboding settled in his gut. “Gorman. What is it?”
His brother’s servant paused just inside the doorway. “It’s Lord Truitt, sir. I’m afraid he’s gone missing.”
Four
“Bath will be an excellent trial run,” my father told me. A practical and somewhat cynical man, he had waited in vain for a son. What he got was me—merely a girl, but with beauty, at least. He saw me well-educated, well-mannered and well-dressed—and he meant to get a return on his investment. A titled husband would be best, but connections with another wealthy family would be acceptable as well. So at sixteen I was off to Bath, to polish my manners and make what useful connections I could . . .
from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright.
“Missing?” Aldmere barked. He jumped to his feet again. “For how long?”
“Two nights and as many days.” Gorman hovered at the far end of the room. “This is the start of the third full day.”
The answer pulled him up short at the corner of his desk. “That’s all?” He frowned at the servant. “Good God, man. Tru’s wallowed longer than that in the bed of a new mistress.”
The man’s head bobbed in agreement. “I do know it, sir. And normally I wouldn’t a worried, or come to you at all. It’s just that in these past months Lord Truitt hasn’t had a spare moment to spend pursuing a regular, uh, lady. And on top of that, he’s been a bit nervous of late.”
Aldmere lifted a brow. And he waited.
“Aye.” Gorman nodded again as if the brow had been a question spoken out loud. He swallowed and met his eye. “Your brother thought someone were followin’ him, sir. He’s experienced a bit of trouble, in the past weeks.”
“For God’s sake, man, I’m not going to bite you. Come over here. And don’t make me drag this out of you bit by bit. Spill the rest of it.”
The servant approached gingerly and stood at the far corner of the desk. “Ah, it may sound foolish, sir, as I’ve no hard facts, but there’s no denying that my lord has had several run-ins lately as he was about and about, pursuing his . . . tasks.” He cast a nervous look in Miss Wilmott’s direction. “And just days ago, right afore he went missing, someone come to his rooms. A gentleman. They had a spit-fired argument, too.”
“About what, man?”
“T’weren’t my place to listen, sir.” He ducked his head. “But they was loud—and I did hear that it pertained to his . . . work.”
Miss Wilmott spoke up. “I’m more than uncomfortably aware of the List and the nature of Lord Truitt’s work, sir. Please don’t mince words to spare my sensibilities.”
Gorman nodded and edged away without looking at her. “It were about something my lord didn’t wish to include on that damned List, sir. Something he said he wouldn’t have a hand in writing. They fought something fierce over it, too.”
The girl gaped. “It must be something truly horrid, for him to hesitate so.”
Gorman bristled and the girl’s hackles rose right along with his. “I’ve seen the slanderous lies he was willing to print,” she said defensively, getting to her feet. “I can only imagine the horror of what he might actually balk at.”
Now Aldmere was irritated as well. “Surely this is an irrelevant argument in any case. The List is already complete and delivered to the printer.” He gestured toward Joe Watts. “It’s illogical, then, to assume Tru’s disappearance—if that is what this is—is related to its content.”
“I don’t know about all that, your Grace. I don’t know if Lord Truitt left of his own accord or someone else’s. I do know that he’s gone—and so is the extra copy of the manuscript that he kept hidden.”
“And, er, yer honor?” Joe Watts had raised his hand like his was in a schoolroom. “I honestly can’t tell whether it’s important or not—but that List ain’t finished.”
Silence reigned as everyone stared at him.
“Well, it ain’t!” the boy blustered. “The toff that delivered it said he was in a spankin’ hurry to see it done. He gave us most of it, so’s we could start with the typesettin’ and all, but there’s still the last bit of the manuscript to come.”
An irregular pounding started up inside Aldmere’s head. Was it only an hour ago that he’d begun to feel as if there was nothing new under the sun? Well it appeared that fate had not done having a laugh at his expense. He stared at the unlikely trio that had invaded his office; the wary servant, a callow youth and the misleadingly fragile young woman who’d come to confront him head-on a second time, and again refused to ask for his help.
“Gorman, you said my brother had been experiencing some trouble as he went about his . . . work.” He pressed hard against his temple once more. “Do you know any particulars? What sort of trouble or with whom?”
“Aye,” the man answered in his graveled voice. “It’s the talk of the taverns and low places, and beyond too. I heard about it at the Silver Spoon, where those in service to the fancy gather for a pint.” He drew a deep breath. “It were said he had trouble with a particular pimp.
This one’s known for being mean—and smart. Story’s going around as to how the pimp’s best doxy tried to make up to your brother, but Lord Truitt caught her adding somethin’ to his drink. And this dastard keeps some right nasty bullyboys. My lord was sure that a couple o’ them were followin’ him.”
He pushed away from his desk. “I’ll send some footmen to canvas taverns and brothels—”
“I done looked and asked everywhere, your Grace. No one’s seen a hair of him.”
He sighed. “Then we will start with this . . . character you mentioned. What was the name?”
“Hatch, sir.”
Miss Wilmott gasped audibly and straightened to impressively taut, bright-eyed attention. “Hatch?!”
“Aye,” Gorman grumbled.
“Do you know this person, Miss Wilmott?” Aldmere asked delicately.
“No.” She said it with such triumph that it left him briefly confused. “But I know someone who does.”
* * *
Traffic thickened and slowed as it reached Charing Cross. An accident ahead, most likely. Brynne’s gaze fixed on the scene outside the carriage window, but without truly registering the growing press of horse and vehicle, donkey and cart. It was all of a parcel, really, and fitting that the snarl in the street should so accurately reflect the tangle of emotions inspired by the man across from her.
If she’d been asked last night, she would have said that she would be more likely to cut off her own arm than to ever ask for help from the Duke of Aldmere. She was walking in Hestia Wright’s footsteps, watching and learning how to live independently, how to see to her own happiness, and maybe even, with hard work and good luck, to help others find theirs.
But this morning . . . this morning she’d discovered that Marstoke—damned, evil, manipulative, lying Marstoke—had made good on his word. He’d found a way to turn her into a weapon. And this time he’d aimed her squarely and set her up to destroy both her new friends and her new hopes. And suddenly, asking Aldmere for a bit of information seemed the least of what she would do to prevent that from happening.
