Sexual Hunger

by Melissa MacNeal

  Polinsky was different. Unsettlingly so.

  Yes, my friends, she continued to write, the arrival of one Yosef Polinsky, most likely of Russian descent, will shake our society to the core. Or he will at least startle and enlighten those who seek his counsel.

  She paused again. Was she making too much of this man, to the detriment of her brother’s livelihood? Or would her column bring Lord Fenwick’s guest so much notoriety—so many clients—he’d be too busy to challenge Rubio Palladino? Rubio, of course, would continue to enlighten those who came to him, but his behavior tonight, the wrath that had so quickly consumed him, warned her he might become his own worst enemy. Such anger was an announcement of a fear so primal few men dared admit to it, or to see it for what it was.

  Fear did not suit Rubio Palladino. Nor did it serve him.

  Mark my words! I predict—for, like our beloved Palladino, I possess an uncommon intuition—that very soon, prominent citizens will either benefit or suffer immensely from the appearance of this star on our horizon.

  Had she overestimated him? Overstated an arrogance that masqueraded as ability, until Polinsky proved himself? Or did the fear radiating from Rubio echo in her own soul?

  Something about Polinsky struck a discord. Maria hoped her own prejudices—her love for her brother—didn’t determine how she would deal with this new player on London’s social stage. The way Yosef had gazed into her eyes, had studied the butterfly pendant, and had then announced Jason’s predicament to a desperate Dora Darington. It seemed too uncanny to be true.

  Was she becoming as overly dramatic as her future mother-in-law? She did believe Jason was alive and that he would return to her. She was afraid not to believe those things.

  Maria quickly folded her pages, aware of the late hour. All this pondering of the credibility beneath Polinsky’s showmanship had kept her awake far into the night.

  As always, she donned a cloak the color of midnight, listened at her door, and then slipped away from the town house. Her active imagination brought the shadows to life, even though she’d walked this same path many times on her mission as Miss Crimson. Maria laughed harshly at herself. She was letting her imagination run away with her, much as those ladies at Lord Fenwick’s gathering had fancied themselves in Polinsky’s inner circle. Poor dears, their lives seemed limited without their men. Yosef Polinsky offered new opportunities for contact not only with other realms but with flesh and blood manhood. Manhood that reveled in its effect on their shining eyes and fluttering hearts. And their purse strings, no doubt.

  What else would they surrender to this man? And what advantage would he take of them?

  Maria paused in the shadow of the building across the street from the Inquirer office. Everything looked the same in the dimness, yet she sensed something different. Something afoot. Perhaps someone watching her every move.

  It’s your runaway imagination, she chided herself. You’re wound so tightly that if you were a clock, your spring would snap.

  It was true: her breath came in short, quick bursts and the tattoo of her pulse warned her of Polinsky’s power. Power she was allowing him by letting her mind dwell on him. Better to deliver her column and get back to the town house before anyone discovered her absence.

  Maria quickly crossed the narrow street, the hairs at her nape prickling. She’d been aware of the potential danger of walking these back ways at night yet had never experienced this extreme uneasiness, which tensed her entire body.

  Seeing no one, she slipped her column through the mail slot of the Inquirer’s door, and then strode toward the dim light of the next streetlamp. If someone were going to accost her, she wanted to see his face—

  “Miss Crimson, you should not be out alone at this hour.”

  Her pulse galloped crazily and every fiber of her body froze despite her urge to run the other way. Miss Crimson, he’d called her! If this interloper knew who she was, and he killed her here in the street, what a story that would make! Had Yosef Polinsky gazed into her eyes and known her secret, and realized she would then write about him, so he was stopping her before—

  “Miss Palladino, I did not intend to frighten you,” the man behind her stated. “But my appearance here is a case in point. I’ve been following you, and I could have been anyone. And you could be lying lifeless in an alley now, if I’d had any such inclinations.”

  That voice…vaguely familiar. She turned as Quentin McCallum stepped from the deepest shadow alongside the building.

  “Quentin! You scared the living daylights out of me!”

  “Better to be living in daylight than lying cold as a cobblestone in the darkness, is it not?” He crooked his arm, offering it to her. Smiling smugly.

  He knew.

  She’d lived at the town house only days before her unfortunate wedding day, and a week since, and the butler had discovered her secret occupation. Knew when she stayed up late to write, and knew, from her schedule of late, that Miss Crimson’s column reflected it. “I should have you fired! For—”

  “For what, Miss Palladino? Doing the gallant, proper thing by following you into the night? To protect you?”

  “You have no right—it is not your place to—”

  “Your beloved Jason gave me strict orders to watch over you,” Quentin replied smoothly. “He warned me that you were an independent, rather…headstrong woman.” His features sharpened. He appeared craftier in the midnight mist, yet he’d made no threatening moves. Had merely performed what he considered the proper service, supposedly at Jason’s command.

  Maria glared at him anyway. “So you’ve eavesdropped on me? Watched the light under my door and listened for my footsteps late at night?”

  “The house has ears, Miss—”

  “So you and—and Ruthie are the Daringtons’ spies? I suppose you entertained yourselves royally on the eve of my wedding!”

  Quentin’s lips quirked. He glanced around them and steered her forward. “We shouldn’t tarry here, milady. I’ve wondered, since the first time I observed your nocturnal journeys, how you’ve remained unharmed for all the years you’ve written your column. At the very least you could’ve been smuggled into one of the nearby opium dens or brothels. Forced into slavery of a sort we don’t want to contemplate. Do we?”

  Was that a veiled threat? How did he know of such base establishments along this street, unless he frequented them himself?

  Stop it! There go your thoughts, running amok again!

  When they reached the next block, her escort slowed his pace. Maria jerked free. She whirled around to block his path, glaring at him. “How long have you known? And what do you intend to do about it?”

  With the mist swirling about his angular face, Quentin reminded her more than ever of Jemma’s pet ferret. He stood head and shoulders above her; possessed a corded strength his uniform camouflaged—yet he seemed more amused than menacing. He smiled like a boy who’d discovered the truth behind Saint Nicholas yet still believed the old elf would bring him gifts, if he behaved himself.

  This insight pierced Maria’s suspicions: he didn’t seem the type who would shout out Miss Crimson’s real identity from the rooftops. But she couldn’t let down her guard. Couldn’t assume he was more a young, enamored swain intrigued by her dual identity than a threat to her veiled occupation. For if Miss Crimson quit publishing, it would be all his fault that London had lost one of its most celebrated secrets, and that readers could no longer depend on the Inquirer for juicy tidbits about their friends.

  She crossed her arms, looking him square in the eye. “Again,” she insisted. “How long have you known about Miss Crimson?”

  The tightness around his eyes relaxed. They were within sight of the town house now, and he wanted to chat before they reentered Mrs. Booth’s domain. “Oh, all right,” he said with a half laugh. “While I wasn’t so surprised that your betrothed came for a conjugal visit before his bachelor party—”

  “We made enough noise that anyone would know what we wer
e doing,” she recalled with a sad sigh.

  “—I was a bit, shall we say…astounded? Amazed?” he continued in a hushed voice. “I had no idea Jude had the—the—”

  “Balls?”

  “Yes, I—my stars, Miss Palladino!” the butler murmured. Yet he was clearly more fascinated than offended by what he’d witnessed. “To think that you not only write London’s most popular column in the Inquirer, but you have two men in love with you! I stand in awe of—of your sheer allure! Your power over the male gender, and over the Darington twins in particular! Those lucky dogs!”

  Maria maintained her stern expression, chuckling inside. “I could have you fired for insinuating such a—”

  “Your secrets would be in far worse hands than mine, dear lady.”

  The little weasel had her there. Maria could no more tattle to Lord or Lady Darington about this presumptuous butler than she could admit she was bedding both their sons.

  Best to remain businesslike; to use that allure to her advantage. She softened her voice. Lowered her hood so her face would be clearly visible. “So what do you want, Quentin?”

  Recognizing a shift—an opportunity—McCallum stood tall. “We are in a similar situation, you and I.”

  “How do you mean?” She raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to spell it out.

  “We both retain our positions at the whim of the Daringtons, which depends upon Jason’s homecoming. He put old Hettrick out to pasture so a younger man—myself—might be his personal servant when he took up residence at the town house,” Quentin explained. “If he doesn’t come home, God love us, both you and I could be”—he gestured at the shadowed streets around them—“out on our backsides. Not a leg to stand on.”

  “We pray for Jason’s return,” Maria agreed. “But when he does come home, your occupation remains a great deal more secure than mine if Jason learns I write as Miss Crimson. You’ve heard how Dora and Jemma would have me dismembered!”

  He smiled slyly. Waiting for her reaction, damn him.

  “Does Jason know about Miss Crimson?” she blurted.

  “No, milady. Nor does Mrs. Booth, specifically.” He glanced toward the town house, contemplating what he would reveal. “She thinks you write in your diary at nights, heartsick after a wedding gone wrong. A social pariah. Alone and without…a family.”

  Maria considered this, relieved that the busybody housekeeper wouldn’t betray her to Lord or Lady Darington—unless this crafty man decided to share his secret. “Then what do you really want?”

  Quentin McCallum was no idiot: they’d reached the place in the conversation he’d been awaiting. Yet again, she sensed no cruel intent, for his smile waxed almost adolescent. “It’s more a question of whom, Miss Palladino. You see, to Jemma Darington I’m quite invisible: as functional as window glass, yet no one really notices until I make a misstep or—”

  “Or until the glass needs washing.”

  “Precisely. People of their ilk curse the dirt rather than appreciating how a window lets in the sun while keeping out foul weather. As long as I perform as expected, I remain unseen—”

  “But you want Jemma to notice you?”

  “Oh, Miss Palladino, I worship the ground she treads!” he gushed. “Isn’t she the most beautiful—the most spirited—young woman you’ve ever met?”

  Well, there was a revelation! The ground was far more stable and reliable than the girl herself, but of course she couldn’t say that while bargaining for her own security. “There’s no one quite like Jemma,” Maria affirmed carefully.

  “But she’s so far above me, I don’t stand a chance unless—unless you might provide opportunities to be of assistance to her. I would do anything to be near—”

  “You would keep my secrets. All of them.”

  “Yes! Yes! I adore your secrets, Miss Palladino!” The butler clasped her hands between his, beseeching her with his shining eyes. “I feel quite honored to serve in your household! And I sincerely pray it will remain your household even if—”

  “Then you must look after my welfare as well, Quentin! Promise me you’ll do everything in your power to keep a roof over my head!” Maria stood taller, pressing every advantage she could think of. Deadly serious now, she lowered her voice. “If the Daringtons see me for my dirt—my soiled literary reputation, or the triangular arrangement I have with their sons—I’ll not only be out of a home, I’ll be out of an income. More at the mercy of their whims than you are! A woman left alone at the altar has nothing but loneliness and destitution in her future, Quentin.”

  “Oh, I would never forgive myself—or Lord and Lady Darington—if you were left destitute, Miss Palladino! Miss Crimson is my idol!”

  “Excellent! We have an understanding!”

  They stood nearly nose to nose. Then Quentin coughed to cover his chuckle. “I should tell you something about the house that will ensure your privacy. Or at least delay Mrs. Booth’s discovery of your other identity.”

  Maria raised her eyebrows. “She knows of Jude’s physical affections for—”

  “When I saw him slipping in through the service entrance, and then coming from the wine cellar, I…I distracted Ruthie with, well—sex,” he confessed. “So she wouldn’t notice any unseemly noises coming from your room. She makes plenty of her own.”

  Maria blinked. It was still inconceivable that Ruthie and this young man would—but what could she say? Quentin had just covered her bare ass!

  “I doubt you’re aware of the whispering tubes.”

  Whispering tubes? Many large homes had been constructed with a system for communicating with the help, wherever they happened to be. But in her room, she’d never noticed…

  Quentin cleared his throat, smiling. “Knowing you were to occupy that chamber, Jemma and Lady Darington cleverly concealed those holes in the walls with a decorative piece that hangs beside your door. Therefore, anyone who cares to can—theoretically—eavesdrop on the activities in your room.”

  “Which means the holes have been open since I moved in?” she demanded. The nerve of those meddling women! “And Dora and Jemma informed Mrs. Booth of this?”

  “Of course. Because they cannot always be present themselves. Jason was most insistent that his mother and sister not intrude upon his newlywed state.”

  She exhaled slowly, considering her options. “But if I cover those holes, Mrs. Booth will know I’ve discovered their little ploy to—”

  He grinned engagingly. “Miss Crimson is resourceful enough to use such knowledge when it’s in her best interest.”

  Maria snickered. Wasn’t it fine to be privy to a Darington secret, thanks to this confederate? He’d done her a huge favor—and oddly enough, she trusted him. She slipped her arm through Quentin’s again and they walked toward the house that was their home, yet wasn’t, really. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  “My pleasure, milady. Nothing I want more than to see Jason return for you. And to see more of Jemma, of course. Much, much more.”

  Ah, puppy love. She had to smile at his eagerness. “Miss Crimson can be very resourceful. I won’t guarantee Miss Darington’s devotion, but I can certainly…arrange things.”

  10

  A few days later, Maria stepped inside the door and listened, as she always did. Except for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the vestibule, the town house seemed unusually quiet for the middle of the afternoon.

  Perfect. She hurried up the stairs as the clock began the sonorous chiming that announced the hour, letting the stately bong…bong…bong mask her arrival. The muslin pockets hidden beneath her skirt bulged with Miss Crimson’s mail, and she hoped to spend the afternoon answering correspondence—composing future columns. Closing the door to her room, she smirked at the biblical needlepoint sampler hanging beside it: A GOOD WIFE WHO CAN FIND? SHE IS FAR MORE PRECIOUS THAN JEWELS, it declared in pink satin stitches. Maria lifted its bottom edge and stuck out her tongue at the three holes: whispering tubes that would carry any messages to the kitchen,
the laundry area, or to Mrs. Booth’s quarters on the third floor.

  “Oh, Quentin, you mustn’t lick me there! You mustn’t! What if His Grace returns and catches us in the throes of our passion?”

  Maria blinked. Quentin? His Grace?

  “Ah, but you know how I cannot resist you, sweetling! Your nectar drives me wild for more! His Grace be damned!”

  She covered her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. That was indeed Quentin’s voice, although he sounded like a bit player reading from a badly written script. Where might he and Ruthie be playing out their little melodrama? And why had she never heard their voices before?

  Maria considered this while impassioned moans drifted into her room. Had Quentin turned the tables on Mrs. Booth? Had he opened the speaking tubes on their end, so Maria could eavesdrop? While the idea of the housekeeper seducing the young butler still seemed ludicrous, something about their game intrigued her. And who knew how useful such information might be in the future?

  She slipped out of the cumbersome inner skirt containing her mail, removed her shoes, and then crept noiselessly up the service stairway. She paused to study the third-floor hallway, where she’d never ventured: Mrs. Booth could not catch her spying! Maria crept carefully past the two closed doors of the servants’ quarters, thinking it quite convenient that all the help was housed on this level. When she entered the small ballroom, the balustrade of another stairway assured her she had an escape route, if she needed one.

  Tingling with curiosity—for wasn’t it Miss Crimson’s mission to seek out newsworthy behavior?—Maria tiptoed toward the hallway again. The shifting of furniture on a plank floor told her their little charade was being played out in the room nearest the service stairs. Holding her breath, she leaned down to peer through the keyhole.