“Go ahead,” he told them as Friar stood without moving, his big dark eyes meeting Magnus’s, as if he knew these children were not like those he normally carried about on his back, the boisterous, happy boys and girls who begged Magnus for a ride whenever he took Friar on his rounds.
They petted Friar’s velvet soft nose and chin, tentative smiles fluttering across their narrow, pale faces. The door to the cottage opened and their postures stiffened.
“Mr. Stanwyck?” The woman in the doorway looked as beaten down as her children, her hopeless eyes not only exhausted, but shadowed by the unrelenting fear of what would happen to her when her husband was gone and whoever owned their land learned there was nobody left to work it and pay the rent.
Magnus took the children back to the step and set them down before standing and greeting her.
“Would you like to take me to your husband first, Mrs. Jones? Perhaps we might talk after I meet him?”
She nodded, her eyes red and raw, as if she had no more moisture left to cry.
The house had the moist, sweet, sickly odor he’d come to associate with illness and death. The little cottage was only two rooms and a blanket separated them. Mr. Jones lay on a pallet on the floor, a nearby basin making the room so foul Magnus’s eyes watered.
The man on the pallet had wasted to nothingness and his breathing was so shallow that at first Magnus believed he’d already died. But then his chest rose and a weak cough racked his body. He turned to Mrs. Jones, who was staring at her husband with dead eyes.
“Would you like a few minutes to go rest? Perhaps have something to eat? Or spend a moment with your children?”
She turned away without answering, leaving him alone with a living corpse.
Magnus took out the accouterments that usually gave him strength, the ritual of preparing another for death usually brought him purpose and focused him. But today, he felt like an actor assembling his props—a man merely playing a role.
This is not about you. The grim inner voice made his spine stiffen and his face heat with shame.
No, it wasn’t about him. It was about Mr. Andrew Jones, a farmer who’d been struck by a chain that had snapped while he pulled a tree stump. The vicar said the man had never regained consciousness, but his body continued to function, slowly wasting away. That had been almost a month ago.
Magnus closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and began to pray.
∞∞∞
The vicarage was dark and quiet by the time Magnus rode into the stable. It was still raining, and he was drenched through and had been for hours.
He saw to Friar’s welfare first. It wasn’t his mount’s fault that his mad master had ridden for hours in the rain. After removing Friar’s saddle and bridle he gave him a triple portion of oats, and rubbed his sore, wet body with a rough cloth as the horse happily munched away. Once the big gelding was warm and dry, Magnus switched to a curry brush.
The repetitious motions were hypnotic, freeing his mind and allowing it to wander. It chose the same path it always did.
What had happened that night after he left? Why had she left? Was it because of what they’d done? Had he disgusted her with his raw lust?
No answer his mind composed made any sense to him. His imagination was insufficient to come up with a reason for what she’d done—how she’d left him.
When his arms were too rubbery to move any longer, he oiled Friar’s tack and then—when he could avoid it no longer—made his way to his lonely cottage.
As weary as he was, he couldn’t sleep, so he ate some of the shepherd’s pie the vicarage housekeeper had left him, not bothering to warm it up.
Tonight he’d crossed over from self-pity to self-awareness. Yes, he was in considerable mental anguish. Yes, it would take him time to come to terms with what had happened. And, yes, he would not treat his love as if it had been a mistake—a weakness that had led him to sin, to break his vows to God. He would go on—unlike poor Mr. Jones, whose breathing had finally stopped an hour after midnight. He hadn’t wheezed, whimpered, or made any sound at all as he left his body. His struggle was over, but his wife and children’s struggles were just beginning. If they could continue against such perilous odds, surely Magnus could?
He’d ridden into the small village closest to the farm and woke the local innkeeper, who was also the undertaker, and had paid him from his own pocket to provide what was needed, letting him know that he would return to perform the service.
Tomorrow morning he would speak to the vicar about the poor fund and perhaps finding a position for the woman. A farmer’s wife would make a good housekeeper, there had to be something for her.
He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. A mixture of food, warmth, and exhaustion sent a wave of lassitude through him. He’d just drifted off when a sharp knock made him jump a good foot in the air.
When he jerked open the door, he found Sarah outside, her wool cloak dotted with moisture. Her cheeks were stained with tears and her laughing eyes were, for once, serious.
“It’s Mrs. Tisdale, sir. She’s . . . well, you’d better come.”
Chapter Thirteen
Melissa was working on the plan for the new supper room. She wanted to remove two walls to make a room that could be used for either more card tables or one of the masked “balls”—which were really just orgies—she offered from time to time.
While many of her clients came and went hatted and cloaked or even masked, some enjoyed the more exhibitionistic pursuits. Many of them liked to imagine themselves as Roman senators engaging in a bacchanal, so she catered to those whims on occasion. She didn’t care if they wanted to dress in rabbit suits and hop down Saint James in the middle of the day—as long as they were willing to pay for it.
She took a sip of milky weak tea and grimaced. Her stomach had been sensitive, although she hadn’t had the wrenching pains or—God forbid—the blood. Still, she’d been throwing up in the mornings and Daisy said she was losing weight and looked pale.
Ha! She was one to talk. Her erstwhile most popular whore was now her housekeeper. Melissa hadn’t even known she needed a housekeeper. But it seemed to give the older woman a sense of purpose, and also keep her from moping.
But it hadn’t kept her from prying.
“Are you sure you’re not increasing, Mel?” she’d asked just last week when one of the maids must have tattled that Mrs. Griffin’s wash basin was once again filled with something other than used wash water.
Melissa had been assailed by shock, terror, fear, and anger in rapid succession. And lastly, filled with an almost crippling bolt of hope. Which she’d swiftly crushed.
While it was true that she’d not employed her usual precautions when laying with Magnus, she’d always had intermittent courses, sometimes going as much as half a year without bleeding. No, she was not carrying a child, and that should be a relief to her.
“It is my stomach condition, Daisy. And I’d thank you to stay out of my business.”
Daisy had merely raised her eyebrows, but at least she’d dropped the subject.
But the subject had wormed its way into Mel’s mind like an eel writhing its way under a rock. She knew what her friend said was a possibility. It was always a possibility, especially when a woman was such an idiot that she allowed a man into her body without a sheath, and then failed to cleanse herself.
But that had not been an option that night nor had she wanted any such thing with Magnus. In the week since Daisy had planted the idea, she continued to be ill in the mornings and have a sore back. And her pelvis felt oddly . . . heavy. She’d been a whore since she was fourteen but never had she become pregnant. When she’d been with Lord Vanstone, he’d put the fear of God into her, warning her he would toss her out onto the street without a penny if she quickened. He’d taken her to an old woman, a courtesan who no longer took lovers, but whom many wealthy and powerful men went to for conversation. Dorothy had been the most composed, confident, and wicked person Mel had ever
met; she’d also became Mel’s idol over the two years they were friends—before the older woman died.
Dorothy had taught Mel something even in death, as her funeral was bare of any of the great men who’d come to her salons for amusement, entertainment, and even advice.
That was her last lesson to Mel: a whore should never expect loyalty or friendship from the men she fucked.
In any case, Mel had adhered to Dorothy’s strict cleansing regimen while she belonged to Lord Vanstone. After him, she’d required any man who wanted to bed her to wear a sheath. She didn’t care if they didn’t like it; she’d seen too many victims of the pox to allow anyone to change her mind.
She’d never been careless and allowed herself to fall pregnant. But now Daisy had made her consider the possibility—something she’d never thought of before. If what she was feeling was not more gastric trouble—if she really was with child—what would that mean for her? Would she—should she bring a child into the world? If she did, she knew she could find a home for it. She’d seen it happen—she had helped women find proper homes—she didn’t need to bring the child up with the shame of having a whore for a mother.
Melissa had never thought of herself as the maternal type, but she had to admit to a certain sense of something—all right, perhaps it was a yearning—at the thought of a baby.
A sharp rapping interrupted her musing and she looked up. “Yes?”
It was one of her footmen, Herman, who was as haughty as a lord and had the good looks to pull it off.
“A man to see you, Mrs. Griffin.” He presented the tray with a flourish and a bow.
Melissa looked at it, and then looked again. “What?” she muttered, picking up the small rectangle as if it were a venomous insect. She looked up. “He is downstairs?” she asked stupidly.
Herman gave a moue of disapproval. “Yes, madam, and he appears to have leapt straight off his horse. He is garbed in a drab coat and mud-spattered leathers. He said he is not leaving until he sees you.”
She stared at the name on the card and shook her head. “Lord Magnus Stanwyck”? He was a bloody lord? How could she not have known that?
Mel knew that shouldn’t surprise her. How much did she know about him, really? Only that he had five siblings, a loving family, and that he was kind and—
She shook away the pointless dithering and stood. “Has he said what he wants?”
A look of apprehension crossed the servant’s features and Mel realized she was speaking sharply.
“No, he’s only said he wished to see you. Shall I ask him and return?”
“No.” She looked up from the card in her hand. “Leave me for a moment—wait outside until I call you.”
He nodded, his expression no longer haughty, and quickly shut the door behind him.
She wasn’t surprised that he’d found her. She’d suspected Sir Thomas of being unable to keep his exciting surprise to himself—it sickened her to imagine the conversation. But she hardly expected that Magnus would seek her out. Sarah had certainly said nothing in the few brief letters she’d written to Daisy—and which Daisy had shared with Mel.
He could only be here because he’d discovered who she was and had come to confront her. Perhaps not shame her—no, he was not that kind of man—but he would want to face her. She ground her teeth at the thought of discussing anything with him—of seeing him at all. He was so . . . so loving and kind, she could just imagine him trying to help her, to get her out of this profession: to save a fallen woman. Hadn’t somebody done that in the Bible?
Mel didn’t think he would do it in the spirit of superiority, but because he really had loved her—or at least he’d once loved who he believed her to be: Miss Melissa Griffin, a youngish spinster of independent means who lived a proper life with her aunt.
Mel dropped her head into her hand and groaned. God, the stories there were about her—and most of them, unfortunately, true. If Sir Thomas had filled his ears there was no telling what Magnus knew about her.
Well, Mel would just have to make sure he saw her as beyond saving; that was the only way to get rid of him for good. If she could disgust and revolt him, she could make sure this would be the last time she ever had to see him. If that didn’t work, well . . . she looked down at his card, sickened by the thought that came to her.
If that didn’t work, she had something even worse.
She tossed the card onto the table and strode to a door, jerking it open so abruptly Herman jumped.
“Fetch Hugo.”
Herman hesitated. “I believe he might be with—”
“I don’t care if he is rogering the Queen Mother herself. Bring him. And make haste.”
∞∞∞
Magnus didn’t know what to expect after what he’d learned from Mrs. Tisdale that night, but it certainly wasn’t a place like this.
“I’m here to see Melissa Griffin,” he told the richly liveried footman who greeted him at the entrance to The White House. It was a house that was indeed white and took up the greater part of one side of a street. It was as meticulously and tastefully maintained as his father’s London house, which sat on Berkeley Square. And he believed it might actually be larger.
“Is she expecting you?” the haughty bastard demanded, pushing Magnus’s already strained patience to the limit.
Magnus reached into the pocket of his greatcoat and took out a gold case his mother had given him on his eighteenth birthday—a case containing cards she’d printed for him and which he’d not used in years—well before he took up his living at New Bickford. He snatched one out and slammed it onto the salver that rested on the table in the entry hall. “Take her that.”
The footman merely lifted an eyebrow at his theatrics before glancing at the card. He did not appear to be impressed by Magnus’s title, but then Magnus supposed the men who could afford to walk through these doors were far more august personages than he.
The footman sauntered from the room with the salver and card. Magnus slumped against the wall, chancing to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror that hung beside the door. Good God! No wonder the footman had looked at him with such derision. He appeared deranged; he was deranged. His eyes were wide and red-rimmed from a lack of sleep and his hair stuck out in all directions. What little he could see of his cravat made him cringe.
He tidied himself as best he could. He could do nothing about his eyes and dirty, rumpled clothing, but he could at least school his features into an expressionless mask.
And then he waited. And waited.
He was just about to get up and open the door the servant had disappeared through, and continue opening doors until he found her, when the door opened.
“Mrs. Griffin will see you now.”
Magnus snorted softly to himself, Mrs. Griffin. He stood and followed the footman without speaking a word. The interior of the building was even more elegant and tasteful than the grand entry hall. Melissa—or somebody she employed—certainly knew their business when it came to creating an expensive, elegant environment that would make most aristocrats feel right at home. Nothing in the house was new or flashy; indeed, the carpet runner was an ancient, almost threadbare antique that bore the look of Savonnerie and the chairs and tables scattered in the small seating areas they passed looked like furniture you might see in Brooks or Whites.
They traversed through several different areas of the house and up two flights of stairs before they entered a part of the house that felt subtly different—less . . . practiced, although the décor was still that of an aristocrat’s town house rather than a brothel. Or what Magnus had imagined a brothel would look like, having never been inside one before.
The footman stopped before a set of double doors and flung one open.
“Lord Magnus Stanwyck.”
At first Magnus didn’t see anyone—and when he did, he wished that he could unsee her.
Melissa was at the far end of the room, reclining on a chaise lounge and wearing a diaphanous dressing gown that
did more to outline the details of her lush, magnificent body than if she’d been naked.
And she wasn’t lounging alone.
A glass of wine dangled from her fingers. “Why, Mr. Stanwyck—or should I say Lord Magnus, what a . . . surprise.”
The man lying behind her had an arm negligently tossed over her side, his fingers playing idly with her breast—with her nipple, which Magnus could see was hard through the thin silk. His entire body became hot, the blood throbbing so loudly in his ears he wouldn’t have been surprised to feel it running down his jaw. He was like a captured animal, unable to tear his gaze from the sight of the man’s long, elegant hand, cupping and stroking, cupping and stroking.
“Is this the man you told me about, darling? The vicar?” His amused words were like a punch in the face, but at least it allowed Magnus to break away from the horrible sight of this man caressing her breast, and Melissa . . . letting him.
Magnus felt rooted in place. This couldn’t be happening.
She smiled; a wicked, sinful smile that simultaneously made him begin to harden while causing his gorge to rise. The reaction left him confused, sick, angry.
“Hugo is teasing you, Magnus. He knows full well you are a curate.”
The man grinned at him, a loathsome, hateful, smug grin that sent the flames of his rage soaring, an inferno he welcomed. Something flickered across her face as her hand settled over the man’s stroking fingers. She made the gesture appear like an embrace, but suddenly Magnus saw the truth. And it cooled his fury like a bucket of ice water.
Melissa was doing this on purpose—she was humiliating him with this degenerate swine so that he would go away.
“I would like a moment alone with you, Melissa.”
The other two chuckled at his request, Magnus’s tormentor sliding free of her grip, his hand moving over her waist, to her hip, and then inching toward her mound.
Magnus took two long strides toward the chaise. “Remove your hand from her person or I will break it.”
Melissa and The Vicar (The Seducers Book 1) Page 16
