Into the Hall of Vice

by Anabelle Bryant

  The halting stop of the rented hack caused her to abandon good intentions and she paid the driver and wisely placed her reticule inside her skirt pocket to avoid the problem she’d encountered the first time she visited. A smile teased her mouth at her naiveté, but that lesson was learned. Thank heavens for the honest chivalry of Mr Goodworth.

  She kept her eyes focused on her path in an effort to avoid the wrong type of character though the street was not nearly as crowded as it had been during her previous visit. She strode with purpose down the walkway towards Miss Devonshire’s address and, with a leap of relief, saw two people standing on the steps. A gentleman who placed a quick kiss to a woman’s cheek before he turned from the stoop and made to leave. It was Mr Goodworth. How peculiar. Apparently, he and Miss Devonshire were acquainted. He hadn’t mentioned that upon their previous meeting although they’d become distracted by the scamp who’d stolen her purse.

  She drew closer as Mr Goodworth reached the end of the property, although Miss Devonshire had already returned indoors.

  ‘Mr Goodworth, this is a surprise.’ She smiled in his direction with the greeting.

  ‘Is it?’

  He looked well put together for the most part with a clean linen shirt tucked into beige trousers. His hair, darker than soot, was combed away from his face and his spectacles caught the sunlight as he moved.

  ‘I see you have the good sense not to leave any dangling bait for the less than honest.’

  His teasing reference to her stolen reticule pleased and she nodded in the affirmative. ‘I’ve returned to see Miss Devonshire. I’m relieved she’s at home today.’

  His expression turned quizzical as if he considered his words with great care. ‘Shall I introduce you?’

  ‘Is she your wife?’

  For the briefest of moments his eyes appeared troubled. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Then I’d rather you didn’t. My interest is of a personal nature.’ The less explaining she had to do, the better. When he did not readily reply, she continued, ‘Pardon me for rushing away but I must talk to Miss Devonshire and I cannot risk the chance of losing the opportunity.’ She smiled with genuine gladness. Mr Goodworth was a very likeable man. If Miss Devonshire was not his beloved, then Gemma hoped he had someone who cared for him. He seemed the kind of man who would treasure his wife above all else. It was a ridiculous notion, but something about the man almost felt familiar. Perhaps it was his eyes.

  ‘Then I bid you good day.’ He smiled briefly and stepped away as Gemma headed straight for Miss Devonshire’s door.

  Deuces, he could think of no reason Lady Amberson would seek out Maggie. They didn’t exactly rub elbows in social circles and Maggie befriended no one in the gentry, her passion against the upper class and their thoughtless regard for the less fortunate too volatile to allow for courtesy. They’d shared many conversations, much to his chagrin, where she’d expressed her abhorrence for the uppers’ wasteful gambling habits and outright dismissal of those down on their luck.

  He glanced over his shoulder in wonderment before a sharp whistle brought a hackney to the curb. He needed to return home, bathe and catch an hour of sleep before he worked this evening at the Underworld, yet it was difficult to leave knowing Maggie and Gemma were speaking inside. What could the lady possibly wish to know?

  Lady Amberson was a tiny thing, petite and slim as a gentile woman should be, he supposed. No wonder she believed she could pass as a lad when she’d shown at the hell, but only a fool would mistake the curves, the arch of her neck, the slope of her bosom. He sincerely hoped she had a kind gentleman in her life to treat her properly. Blast, where the devil had that thought come from?

  On to more important things. What was this visit about? How were these instances connected? Gemma had seemed insistent on speaking to Maggie and then appeared the other evening at his hell. Maggie had no ties to the Underworld. No connection could be drawn between the two locations. Indeed, it seemed he was the sole commonality. And yet aside from a definite physical attraction, for there was no denying Lady Amberson’s delicate charms, he’d never met her previously. It seemed unlikely the occurrences were coincidence.

  Perhaps it was time he discovered more of Lady Amberson. He’d pushed the idea away, knowing nothing could come of his interest, but the decision seemed foolish and premature. Blinded by her brilliant smile and lovely eyes, he’d forgotten there could be any number of reasons she’d arrived at Maggie’s, and if even one proved hurtful or harmful to those sheltered at Second Chances, he owed it to all involved to investigate the matter.

  Boarding the hackney, he snapped out his address and leaned against the worn seat. Time to change from one man into another and, more importantly, time to discover what Lady Amberson was all about.

  Gemma knocked on the wooden door where Miss Devonshire had disappeared and waited for a response. She knew there would be no servant on the other side to whom she’d present her calling card. Instead she hoped Miss Devonshire would peek out of the window and notice she was nothing more than a kind lady come to call. She preferred the absence of formality actually. Once people knew she was the sister to Hugh Amberson, the Duke of Kent, pretence overrode friendship. Sophie and a few other ladies were genuine, and of course Rosalind was her dearest confidante; but relationships beyond a most private circle were difficult. It would be lovely to have a true conversation where one didn’t care if she circulated through the richest ballrooms or worked as a governess. Her brother’s title hampered many of her efforts, but thenm without it, she would not enjoy the lifestyle to which she was accustomed.

  She noted the faded whitewashed shutters on Miss Devonshire’s house and the simple appeal. Gemma could be happy with less than she had. Feelings and relationships were more important than material possessions. How her brother would grumble if he heard her; still, she refused to allow his strict censure to penetrate her efforts today.

  Growing impatient she leaned to the left and attempted to peer into the house. No one was there, yet she’d just watched the woman enter. Could it be she went straight to bed and ignored the knock on her door? With the hour, the conclusion seemed unlikely.

  Driven by a sense of desperation, she rapped much hardier this time. No one answered. What was she to do? Nan had refrained from pointed questions but Gemma suspected her odd behaviour of late was causing her maid worry. Unwilling to abandon the single clue she had to her father’s death, she would have to return one last time before Friday’s Loo game and Winton’s irrational demand. If only she could sort everything out before dealing with him. Sophie would be at the card party. Perhaps her friend could assist.

  Deflated and more than a little disappointed, Gemma left the porch and began a brisk walk towards the corner, but she did not lower her eyes or pretend not to see the surroundings. While this neighbourhood was better than the harsh rookeries her brother had described, she noticed the peeling paint and broken chimneys, the barefoot children who sat beside too many siblings and their mother on the stoop. She would not be a part of a society that pretended to be ignorant and blamed the fault of the lower class on sin and vice. Unlike her brother, her eyes were wide open.

  ‘There’s no need to expound. I’m aware Lady Amberson… Gemma… is the Duke of Kent’s sister.’ Maxwell might have been discussing Prinny taking a wife for the unlikelihood of that statement and the difference in their social spheres.

  ‘You seem irritated by the fact, but yes, Kent, my childhood friend, has two sisters. Gemma is the older of the two and he has another, younger, though I believe she is unwell. The family has recently put away their mourning blacks after their father’s unexpected death, so they haven’t socialised for some time.’ Max poured a brandy and took a seat behind his desk. ‘Kent is unusually protective, perhaps a little paranoid something could happen to his sisters. He hasn’t recovered yet from his father’s death and holds tightly to responsibility of his sisters.’

  Cole digested this informati
on while emotion overrode his brain with a solitary conclusion. I want her.

  ‘Why the scowl? It’s not like you want her.’ Max continued without pause. ‘And if you did, you need extinguish the thought. Women such as Lady Amberson are beyond our reach, so then what’s the cause for your curiosity? Have you heard something to imply peculiar behaviour? Do you remember when I asked you to keep your eyes open? Hugh approached me before my wedding, concerned his sister may have found trouble. I never heard a word worth sharing with him after that initial conversation. Marrying Vivienne and taking our subsequent travel, I admit I put the duke’s troubles aside temporarily.’

  ‘No. Nothing to share.’ Cole eyed the brandy decanter. It was one of the few times he wished he drank liquor, but a lifetime of watching gut-rot erode a person’s sanity kept him from ever partaking.

  Dammit to hell. Gemma was near royalty. A duke’s sister. Not that it mattered. She was fine china and he a tin cup. He swallowed in acceptance of the reality. What hope-filled foolishness had lurked in the recesses of his brain? ‘So Kent is overbearing, overprotective, and vigilant with his sisters.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you behave in the same manner? It could only have resolved since last I spoke to him. If what I read in the papers is correct, he’s embroiled in a heated debate within Parliament dissecting the current Poor Laws.’

  Cole’s groan snared Max’s attention, but with a knock at the office door they shifted their focus as Luke entered.

  ‘The hell is busy floor to ceiling. Just the way we like it on a Thursday evening. The weekend should be more than lucrative as the swells return to recoup their losses.’ Luke’s eye for the profits was always vigilant.

  ‘Attempt to recoup their losses.’ Max corrected. ‘Pour a brandy. How was your trip? Any news?’

  ‘No, nothing.’ Luke inhaled as if to draw strength before speaking. ‘I have no idea where my brother has hidden Nathaniel. I’m worse off with each passing day. For all I know, my son could be in America or right here under my nose. I’ve exhausted every possibility and in the process exhausted myself. It’s damnable frustrating to be helpless.’

  ‘Don’t lose hope.’ Cole approached Luke where he leaned against the wall, the depiction of surrender, though his jaw remained tight with determination. ‘Between the three of us our connections extend to every corner of London and beyond. You will find your son eventually. It takes time to scour a city of so many.’ He slanted a look over his shoulder to where Max stood near his desk and matched his friend’s nod of agreement.

  Gemma dashed a glance over her shoulder and entered Cymbeline’s Bookstore on Bond Street. She wished to purchase a gift for Rosalind in hope of making amends for her carelessness while they’d walked in the garden. Perhaps a book of sonnets or a fairy tale would help Rosalind pass the time because she hadn’t come out of her room since Gemma’s insensitive question, nor would her sister allow her in.

  Pausing beside a square table decorated with a lace tablecloth, pink lilies and a few select leather-bound collections of popular poetry, she surveyed the room, pleased to see it nearly empty. With curiosity as her alibi, she strode to the bookshelf at the far left where a sign identified the section as History and Government. Running her pointer finger over the bindings, she scanned each for the most recent editions concerning Parliamentary Law. Perhaps she could read a few paragraphs and better understand her brother’s point of view. Imagine his surprise when she could contribute to their breakfast discussions. He would be hard pressed then to dismiss her opinion as female thinking. Her experiences seeking Miss Devonshire in Charing Cross and the upset her brother displayed each morning had intrigued her to learn more.

  Her finger stalled on a volume titled Employment of the Poor, but that wasn’t quite right. In pursuit, she rounded the corner of a towering bookcase, built from pedunculate oak and far sturdier than her nerves, where she found exactly the section for which she searched. There were numerous volumes on Parliamentary government organised alphabetically. She chose the first one to decide if it would serve her purpose but barely advanced past the title page when she heard someone’s approach. The familiar tenor of the newcomer engaged a clerk from the store in conversation and, as she listened, gooseflesh dotted her skin and a sudden rush of heat flushed her cheeks. In a panic, she gasped. But wait, the deep voice was familiar. Could it be Mr Hewitt? Cole?

  In her hurry to step away from the corner and hide behind the looming racks, the volume she held slipped through her gloves and, with a quick manoeuvre, she snatched it back to her person, opened it with haste and held it to obstruct her face from any passer-by.

  Chastising herself as a coward and rationalising no one could discover she was in the bookstore reading about Poor Laws, she released a long-held exhale, gathering enough courage to chance a minuscule peek over the volume’s large cover. Slowly she raised her eyes across the blurred words, tracing upward over the spine, and then…’

  ‘Why hello, Lady Amberson. Fancy meeting you here, your nose quite literally in a book.’

  Cole Hewitt stood before her looking ever so dashing, the picture of gentlemanly courtesy. He’d positioned one arm above to rest on a high shelf and leaned, in a strong, masculine manner, as if he had all the time in the world. Meanwhile her pulse began a frantic race. Did it have to be so? His eyes twinkled with something between teasing jest and bemused flirtation.

  ‘I was…’ Instead of snapping the book closed, she flattened the open book like armour upon her chest. Why did this man do peculiar things to her heart? But then she realised she’d likely brought more attention to the volume. She’d need to keep his focus on the conversation. ‘How are you, Mr Hewitt?’

  ‘Very well, thank you.’

  Her cordial question seemed to amuse him further.

  ‘Were you buying a gift? You seem unsure of your purpose.’ He dashed a quick glance over each shoulder as if he could ascertain her intention by merely assessing the surroundings.

  ‘Oh no, not at all. I enjoy browsing the selections. Reading is a favoured pastime of mine.’ She sounded a babbling fool. Not the sister to a duke. Not the cleverest ingénue. A fool, most definitely.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t require my assistance?’

  The corner of his mouth curled in a charming half-smile and she had the ridiculous impulse to run her finger over that curve. Alarmed by her wanton thoughts she dropped her eyes and noticed his boots were shined to a high gloss. For a gaming hell proprietor, he possessed a taste for quality and refinement. He cleared his throat and she raised her attention to his face. That same troublesome lock rested against his forehead. How he managed to look irresistible in the shadowing corner of a dusty bookstore was beyond her comprehension.

  He angled forward, his hand holding tight to the shelf above her head as he rocked closer, his arm flexed tight through his shirt sleeve. He was tall and charming. There was no debating that fact, though belatedly she noticed his eyes fell to the spine of the book clutched to her bosom. It took every ounce of willpower to resist the urge to cover the title with her hands.

  ‘What do you have there? Something I’d like to peruse?’

  He winked, the scoundrel, and her breath caught, while her mind worked through the double entendre. Words were difficult to form. ‘No, thank you. I can manage. Why do you ask?’ He must think her a complete ninny. And why not? She was acting the role.

  But he’d kissed her. Stolen a kiss actually, the handsome thief. She shouldn’t be engaged in flirtatious conversation with the rogue. Was this flirtatious? She didn’t mean it to be. Or did she? Good heavens, the man scrambled her brains with unanswerable questions.

  ‘Well…’ He seemed hesitant to continue, his thick, dark brows lowered with enquiry. ‘You know how to read, don’t you?’

  The insulting insinuation provided the sobering tonic needed to regain composure.

  ‘Mr Hewitt…’ She ground his name out between clenched teeth. ‘You insult me.’

/>   ‘Not at all, Gemma.’

  Had someone heard him address her in public by her Christian name it would instigate a colossal scandal. Kent would see her drawn and quartered before sunrise. She darted a furtive glance left and right, relieved to note they remained alone, and so she waited, somehow aware Mr Hewitt had more to share. A forbidden, but that much more delicious, thrill of anticipation shimmied through her.

  ‘I only ask because you’re holding that book upside down.’

  He smiled then. The charmer. And her heart pounded madly. Could the muscle burst from overuse? Was it possible? She reversed the position of the volume against her chest and prayed he didn’t hear the thrum of her heart in the meantime.

  ‘Now, let me see.’ He slipped the book from her grasp as if he were a magician. ‘Parliamentary Law Volume One.’ His brows climbed in a devilish expression that seemed to tease more than anything else. ‘Boring subject for such an interesting lady.’

  ‘My brother…’ She quickly defended her choice until she realised the less said the better.

  ‘Oh, he’s not one of those overbearingly stuffed prigs who believes he knows what’s best for greater London, is he?’

  Something warned she need tread carefully, but when she opened her mouth to answer, he didn’t allow her the chance.

  ‘Such a pity.’

  Although his description proved most appropriate. ‘If you must know, Mr Hewitt, I entered Cymbeline’s to purchase a gift for my sister and unfortunately became temporarily distracted.’

  ‘Cole.’ He pushed the law volume back into rightful position on the shelf, though he pushed the boundaries of their familiarity further out of place. ‘I thought we’d established first-name basis the last time we met.’