by Deb Marlowe
Miss Wilmott’s gossamer touch grew more insistent and Aldmere found himself being tugged further along the hall before she released him. “So many of the women here arrive with no hope, no choices for their future,” said Miss Wilmott. She kept her tone pitched low, but the fervor in her voice set off alarm bells in his head. “Most come just hoping for an escape, but Hestia gives them so much more.”
“French lessons?” He asked with a raised brow. He felt a hundred years old, suddenly. “Bound to come in useful for their Grand Tours.”
She ignored his sarcasm. “You don’t understand. Hestia listens.” Her tone rang earnest. Her desire to convince him was clear. And frighteningly familiar.
“She meddles, you mean,” he snapped. It was the echo of his own past passion that made him irritable. He’d been just like this once. Determined to change things, to save the world.
“She listens,” she repeated. “And they choose.” She shrugged. “They wish for a new life, sometimes, and Hestia does her best to make it happen.” Gesturing back toward the open door, she said, “Some knowledge of French is a remarkably valuable asset, useful to those who are interested in obtaining a position as a lady’s maid, as a dresser or with a modiste.”
“Or for those who have heard the stories about Hestia Wright’s legendary reign in Europe and hope to follow in her footsteps?” She didn’t deserve his snideness, but she’d set his gut to twisting.
“For those girls too,” she said resolutely. “But I can see that you don’t understand.” She shook her heard. “It’s easy to see why. A Duke of England must surely have more freedom than any other creature in the world. Perhaps you cannot see what a gift it is to be given a choice.”
Aldmere suppressed a wild snort. She couldn’t know how wrong she was, and for just a moment he was tempted to give her an education on just how damned little freedom came with his title.
She didn’t give him the chance. “In any case, Madame Folbert comes in several times a week to work with those who are interested,” she continued. “And I’ve been able to help a bit, too, these last weeks, practicing conversation outside of class.”
She paused just before they reached the last door and looked up at him, her expression a stiff mix of defiance and pride. “It’s wonderful work that Hestia does here. I’m proud to be a part of it, even for a short while.” She glanced back the way they had come, then lifted her hand in a gesture that included all of the house and the people in it. She met his gaze—and smiled.
He froze.
Backwards. Inverted. Inside out. He didn’t know this girl. Their acquaintance was incredibly brief and even more outlandish. The natural order of their knowledge of each other was completely offset. He knew how she looked when she was terrified and furious, annoyed and protective. What he did not know was the expression she wore when she was introduced to someone, how she looked when she felt relaxed and happy. This was it, the first time he’d experienced her in a more commonplace manner—and it came with a wash of feeling that utterly shocked him.
Transformative, that smile. It lit her from within like a burgeoning flame, starting small but climbing higher, warming her features, blending them into a perfect, gut-wrenching harmony.
Even more amazing was the effect it had on him. He was a child again, being offered a rare treat, an old man looking back at the privileged moments of his life. It was a gift, that smile, because with it she offered more than mere beauty, but part of her soul. Contained within was her belief in the good that was being done here and her gratification in being a part of it.
It was a gift that he could not accept—because he couldn’t share in it. Her idealism shattered him. His mind recoiled at the thought of all of these women, the trouble that they had left behind—or brought with them—and what they expected Hestia Wright to do about it. His heart sank.
“Good God, but you are young,” he whispered. Too young to understand how horrified he could feel at everything she took pride in, too inexperienced to contemplate all the many unforeseen circumstances that could come of meddling on such a large scale. “You cannot begin to understand what you are interfering in, let alone predict the consequences.”
Her smile faded. She stepped back.
“I know you mean well, that your intentions are good.” God, even to his own ears he sounded pompous, but for her sake it had to be said. “But I tell you this in the sincere wish that you learn from my mistakes. Interference like this can only lead to disaster—both for you and those you wish to help.”
She looked shocked and confused, a puppy expecting a decent scratch and getting a kick instead. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“I know it’s not the well-mannered thing to say, but you should turn your thoughts to your own situation.” He made a sharp gesture that included the house and the many disasters within, teetering on their edges, waiting to come crashing down. “Hestia has taken on this burden. She’s hardened and canny. Let her carry it. You should thank her for her help, and move on.”
She turned away, disillusionment writ plain upon her face, and he marked the passing of the moment with regret. Potential—it had existed moments ago. But he railed against the moments ahead—and all of the inevitable pain that this girl had yet to encounter.
She brushed past him, moving close to reach the door, and almost against his will he inhaled the fresh, clean scent of her. The smell of laundry and fresh linens, he realized, and it took him forcibly back to a moment in his childhood, to his mother’s arms and her laughter in the sun as she took down the wash. He closed his eyes. A simpler life, honest labor and good intentions, that’s what Miss Wilmott smelled of. But he’d lost his simple life forever and he’d followed the hazardous path of good intentions once already—and it had led him straight into hell. One such experience in any man’s life was enough.
“Here we are,” she said flatly. She knocked on the door, and opened it in almost the same instant.
He’d have to put a stop to this then. Get the information he needed to find Tru and get out. Once his brother was safe, he would go back to his usual life. The thought caused a significant twinge. But better to endure endless days spent in pursuit of empty duty than to stand witness to disillusionment and loss of innocence. Jaw clenched in resolution, he followed her across the threshold.
* * *
Brynne reached desperately for control as she let the duke into Hestia’s sitting room. Lord, but what a fool she was, for letting herself get caught up in a maelstrom of nervous excitement and breathless anticipation. For allowing a simple touch to send her spiraling into pleasure-tinged confusion.
No matter. Aldmere had cleared that right up, had he not? She felt less inclined than ever to share her particular plans for the future with him. If he scoffed at the incontrovertible good that Hestia’s effort brought—and those right before his eyes—she could hardly imagine what he might say about her own charitable ideas.
She didn’t care what he might say. She was going to help. She was going to be of use. And she was going to do it on her own. The duke had just proven himself not only highhanded, but also abrupt and dismissive. Well Brynne wasn’t so large a fool. She hadn’t escaped from the clutches of two such men only to throw herself after another.
What did it matter to her that the rumors were true? That the duke held himself distant and aloof, above the concerns of commoners and nobility alike? Not a bit. She breathed deeply in an effort to slow her traitorously pounding heart. So what if he was as unseeing, uncaring as so many others? It was only that she’d thought she had reason to doubt the rumors. He’d come to her aid when they’d met, hadn’t he?
Inadvertently, whispered the cynical corner of her soul. And he had used her predicament to further his own ends with Marstoke. She sighed. His motives were not important. Nor was the burning urge to see his face light up with that lost smile—small, but growing stronger every time she met his stern, world-weary expression.
“There are many more women here than I might have exp
ected,” Aldmere said, prowling about the room like a bear amidst the delicate furniture. “Judging from some of the ribald looks I just received, I am forced to wonder if there might be more than a few of them who would not mind being placed on the Love List.”
She raised her chin. “There are prostitutes in this house, your Grace. Plenty of them. Some are women who have never known anything else and others have been forced by circumstance into it. Many come here eager to leave that life behind, others never do. But all are given aid.”
“That doesn’t give you leave to paint us all with the same brush,” Callie said from the doorway. “Many of us have troubles that are in no way related to prostitution.” She shot him a dark look. “Though most can be laid at the feet of men.”
Brynne knew a bit about the bitterness etched in Callie’s soul, and the effort it took for her to suppress it. She held out a hand and Callie crossed the room to take it.
“Letty will be right down,” Callie told her.
“Glad to hear it,” Aldmere snapped. “Because I am painting no one, nor making any judgments. I just want to question the girl and find my brother.”
Indignation flared. So like a man, to look at this complex situation and see only his own difficulties. “Not to worry, we share the same goal, your Grace,” Brynne assured him. “It’s your brother, after all, who is wielding the brush and painting us all as trollops with his blasted List.”
“The new Love List, do you mean?” Callie asked. “Is that what this is about?”
Brynne and the duke both paused to stare at her, mouths agape. “You know about the List?” they asked in unison.
Callie raised a brow. “Indeed. The streets have been filled with talk of it for weeks. Your brother’s charm made him rather a favorite among London’s lightskirts, your Grace. There’s been much vying for both his attention and for a mention in the List.”
“When did you last see him, then,” Aldmere pounced.
“I haven’t seen him at all. Haven’t I just finished telling you that I’m not a prostitute?” Callie sent an exasperated glance toward Brynne. “I’d thought that a duke would be brighter, didn’t you?”
She couldn’t share in the joke. “I can scarcely believe that you knew about the List. Does Hestia know? Does she know what’s been written about us?”
“More to the point, does she know where we can find this Hatch?” the duke interjected.
“Wait!” Callie interjected. “What was it you said—what’s been written of us? Who, exactly, is us?”
The duke huffed, but Brynne raised a hand. “Let’s catch her up, then we can discuss this without going in circles.”
She drew Callie to a group of chairs. Aldmere followed while she quickly summarized the morning’s revelations. For good measure, she told her friend the story of the duke’s intervention the night of her confrontation with Marstoke.
“Marstoke!” Callie’s color had faded. “The papers report him so busy hobnobbing with all the visiting foreign dignitaries these last weeks, I thought we might have a reprieve from his harassment.” She jumped to her feet. “Damn him!”
“Callie,” Brynne began gently.
“I know, I’m sorry!” her friend cried. She crossed to the window and back, one hand braced on her hip, the other covering her mouth. “But damn him to hell anyway.” She groaned. “Oh, what will Hestia say? He’s finally hit upon a way to do us serious damage.”
“About what am I to have something to say?” The door was open and Hestia stood on the threshold. Clad in a sophisticated day gown of yellow and white, she looked as beautiful as ever and resembled more a girl of twenty than a woman nearing one and thirty. “What damage?” she asked. She smiled in delight as Aldmere rose to his feet. “Your Grace. We met at the theater once, did we not? How lovely to see you again.” She glanced at Brynne’s face, and Callie’s. “At least, I think it is.”
Brynne pulled her mentor in. “We must talk,” she began. She made the explanations again while Callie and Aldmere waited, both impatient.
Hestia sat, somber, when she’d finished. “Marstoke,” she sighed. “And Hatch?” She frowned in concentration. “It doesn’t bode well. Hatch is yet a petty criminal, albeit a violent one—”
“I’m still not convinced that this pimp even has my brother,” the duke interrupted. “But so far this is the only lead we have to follow.” Aldmere’s lip curled. “I tell you now, though, if Tru’s been harmed, there will be hell to pay.” It was his turn to launch himself out of his chair and pace about the small room.
“We must move quickly to prevent it.” Callie’s sudden sympathy for the duke surprised Brynne.
“You did right to come here.” Hestia’s nod of approval eased a fraction of Brynne’s anxiety. “Letty is still firmly in thrall to Hatch. She’s our best bet of getting some questions answered.” She trailed off for a moment, frowning. “This sets my nerves on edge, though. Hatch’s reach is yet small, but thoroughly tight. Those in its grip are either too loyal or too frightened to contemplate betrayal.” She pursed her lips. “But still, taken alone Hatch would be easily dispatched by someone like you, sir.” She nodded to the duke. “But as lackey to the Marquess of Marstoke? We could be looking at a more serious situation altogether.”
Brynne frowned, but Aldmere shook his head.
“Surely you are overreacting,” he disagreed. “I knew Truitt was spending the last months in the soups and stews of the city, and I knew he was doing it at Marstoke’s behest. Now I know why—he was putting this List together. He’s done what he was asked. His debt is repaid. So why would Marstoke quibble? No, it makes more sense that he might have offended this pimp. Or perhaps incurred debts.”
“I see what you are saying,” Brynne leapt in, nodding at Hestia. “On the surface it doesn’t make sense that Marstoke would be behind this abduction. But remember what your brother’s servant said. What if Lord Truitt resisted including something in the List that Marstoke wanted tacked on? It could be that your brother had no wish to slander me or Hestia or this house. Perhaps Marstoke intended to force the issue and merely needed him out of the way until the publication is complete.”
“You might be right,” Aldmere mused.
“Or the both of you might be naïve—and I didn’t expect it of you, Brynne, of all people.” Callie folded her arms belligerently. “You are the one who said Marstoke views all of this as a game. Well, this smacks of a serious move against us.”
“It does, Callie,” Hestia agreed. “The real problem is, though that Marstoke never plays just one game at a time.”
Brynne saw the duke’s brow furrow.
“I’ve battled the man for a very long time and I can tell you that there are no isolated incidents in Marstoke’s world. Everything is connected. In all that he’s done to us over the years—rumors and vandals and constables and raids—there have always been layers upon layers to his actions. Social maneuverings, political bribes, influence of one kind or another. He never makes two moves when one will do.”
“Marstoke takes a swing and many reel from the blow,” the duke mused.
“Exactly. And he always has more than one game in play.”
Brynne shivered suddenly, all the hairs on her forearm rising in dread.
“All I ask is that you keep your mind open that there might be even deeper play going on here.”
Nerves fluttered in Brynne’s belly. “It is true that Marstoke’s fellow players are usually men of power and influence, not pimps and bawd.”
All of the events of the past, of this morning and the implications for the future whirled in her head. She shut her eyes, sifting, looking for a pattern, an answer. Her eyes widened as one detail bobbed to the surface. “Hestia, you had not heard of our inclusion on the List?”
“No,” her mentor answered firmly. “I’ve known about the List. The talk has been rampant.” Her mouth tightened. “But that little tidbit must have been a very closely guarded secret.” She glanced sadly at Brynne. “I wo
uld never have kept such a secret from you.”
Callie’s eyes widened suddenly. “Oh, Brynne,” she groaned. “You know what this will do to all of your plans!”
‘I know.” Brynne cut her off with a warning glance. The duke been so callous regarding Hestia’s charitable work, she had no wish to hear him sneer at her own ideas for the future. She addressed him directly. “Remember, your Grace, that Joe Watts was also unaware that Marstoke stood behind this reincarnation of the Love List.” She watched him, looming large in the feminine room, so appealingly broad-shouldered, his snug trousers travelling a long road down to the tops of his gleaming boots, and more than nerves fluttered in her belly. “In fact, I would never have been able to connect the two had I not eavesdropped on your conversation with Marstoke that evening.”
Arrested, he froze in place. “So most everyone appears to be aware of Tru’s place in all of this, but only we know of Marstoke’s involvement?” Sinister darkness flashed behind his eyes before he gave Callie a stiff nod. “I apologize for my earlier condescension. I begin to like the sound of this less and less.”
Brynne jumped as the door opened. Isaac entered. He had a firm hold of Letty with one hand and the other carried a stuffed, hastily packed portmanteau.
“Oh, Letty,” Callie said on a sigh.
The girl glared back, defiant. “I’m allowed to leave anytime I wish, Callie Grant.” She pointed at Hestia. “That’s Miss Hestia’s rule, and she won’t hold with you keeping me here against my will.”
“You’re right,” Hestia answered her. “But neither will I allow you to walk into mortal danger.”
Letty stiffened. “It ain’t danger I’m going to.”
“Come and sit a moment, my dear.” Callie dismissed Isaac with a nod and guided the reluctant girl to her own vacated seat. “We only wish to ask a few questions. And we’ve news you’d better hear before you go anywhere.”
Letty trailed along, but shot a nervous glance at Aldmere. He had focused keenly on her and the dark intensity of his attention clearly unsettled the girl.
