One Night Is Never Enough

by Anne Mallory

  There was that pinched look to his features again, and she wondered what her father had tried, and failed, to negotiate. What else did the Chatsworths have to “take?”

  “And what might Downing then ask?”

  “That will be dealt with when it occurs.” He licked his lips—he needed such a thing to occur, for his fear was far too palpable. She tried not to let the feeling bind her too, but nausea rose from the pit anyway. “I am sure you will be able to flap your lashes and get us out of it entirely. That wife of Downing’s is soft in the head.”

  Charlotte wondered if Miranda knew what was to happen tonight and what her reaction had been or would be. Soft in the head she was not. Charlotte could almost see her stowing away in her husband’s carriage, coming to rescue her.

  Charlotte allowed the image to warm her a little. But she was too used to rescuing herself.

  She was a rational girl. She had to be to survive. And she was of the ton, where sex was often a tool of the trade. Something that was bartered. For marriage, mistresses, pride, money. And obviously for debts to be paid.

  She had been silly last night to let her desperation show through. This would be a cold business transaction. Part and parcel of something that she would do in order to survive in this world and keep it clean for Emily.

  The fact that Charlotte was in her third season with virginity and heart intact made her think perhaps she was truly the ice queen she was called. Doomed like her mother for a frosted marriage bed and a brittle future of turning the other cheek.

  But she’d use the cold. Use her mind and social standing to ascend the peak. She’d host elaborate parties. Rule the ton. Sit high on top, untouchable and likely acidic. Eyes jaded and brittle, like some of the matrons and dowagers who decided the fates of all.

  If she had been married her first season, she would already be in the running for a cicisbeo or two. Perhaps a man to warm her, to make her laugh, to stop the constant push of the balloon.

  The start of her first season had been magical. Her second, increasingly chaotic. Now in her third, she felt the stretch of skin about her mouth like a sunburn that never eased.

  “And if this Merrick does not accept alternatives?”

  She had heard of the Merricks. Nothing very specific—they were whispered about in back rooms, the topic of conversation deemed unsuitable for ladies’ ears. They owned a number of very fashionable—and a number of very seedy—clubs in London. The young men-about-town frequented the more fashionable establishments, though occasionally those fresh from school, without a care in the world, ventured into the latter. Usually with nothing left in their pouches—or of their pride—when they emerged. Lucky to emerge physically unscathed.

  She had never cared much about listening to such talk except to curse gambling in general. She wished now that she had paid closer attention. Hadn’t Margaret Applewood said something about one of the men in a hushed conversation in a retiring room last week?

  There had been a lot of tittering going on, but Charlotte had shoved that conversation along with a dozen others out of her mind, thinking them inconsequential to her present course.

  “Then Downing will keep silent about the whole matter,” her father said. “And we will deal with Trant. You will do what you must to keep him at arm’s length until we can get Binchley or Knowles to come round. We must move forward quickly now regardless,” he said, wiping his hand along his thigh.

  She chose the better part of valor and didn’t respond.

  She should have sent a note to Miranda. Surely she would know about the Merricks as she knew far more about what happened outside the ton. Or Downing would have filled her in, if not. But Charlotte had been unable to set her humiliation to paper. To make it real.

  She had hoped with each passing hour that her father would appear and say the matter had been resolved. A vain hope that she had clung to until the end. Until she had stepped foot inside the conveyance.

  The carriage stopped, and she took a series of deep breaths as she felt the vehicle shift to indicate the unknown coachman had dismounted and was about to open the door.

  She pulled her mourning net farther down and descended onto the uneven pavement of a back alley. Dark shapes slithered along the walls, and scuttling noises conjured images of things better left to nightmares. Raucous laughter boomed from somewhere in the distance, indicating a lively part of town on the other side of the buildings. But the voices were far enough away that she and her father would most likely be unaided when they were mugged here and left for dead.

  Her father walked briskly toward the back door of a large building and rapped on the wood with his cane. He whispered something briefly to a head that poked around the edge.

  The door opened, and her father gestured sharply for her to move.

  Upon entering, she could see a short corridor and a heavy door. From the voices and light emerging from the crack beneath the oak, it was likely the floor of a gaming hell. Lovely.

  Her father snapped his fingers, and she followed numbly up a set of stairs, away from the voices. Stepping from the landing, she noticed that Downing and Trant were standing halfway down the hall to her right.

  Charlotte allowed a grim little smile to form behind her veil when her father made a cutting motion toward her. She stopped, while her father walked toward the men to discuss her fate, as if she were a goat in a stall.

  She stared straight ahead at the corridor in front of her instead.

  She didn’t know what she’d expected. Peeling paint or dents and holes from cracked elbows and skulls. But it was a plain hallway, nothing extraordinary. Lamps hung every few paces—more light than she’d expected.

  She wondered if this was a gaming establishment or a gaming hell.

  Morbid humor, unfortunately, didn’t seem to help her nerves. She swallowed and tried to focus elsewhere. From her vantage point, she could see in both directions.

  A door opened down the empty hallway near an extinguished lamp that dulled the light in that one small area.

  A woman emerged, tears streaking her cheeks as she stepped into the light. A well-made man followed her, his shadowed back to Charlotte as he closed the door with one hand. Something about him put Charlotte on edge. Tall, though not overly so, he looked strong enough to handle himself in a fight yet not tire easily the way a heavier man might.

  He reminded her of the man from the ribbon shop. Standing as if he owned the place. Well dressed. Hair that seemed to reflect the golden light of the hall for a brief moment when he parted from the shadow.

  He made a violent motion with his hand, and the woman flinched. Charlotte did as well. She could see livid marks crisscrossing the woman’s face as her cheek touched the lamplight—as if someone had taken a shallow blade to her skin a few nights before.

  Prostitutes could often be found near Covent Garden, and she had seen quite a few, even when her father tried to hurry her through the gates. The woman’s face looked cleaner than most, as if she had recently taken a bath, but her hair was wild, as if she had forgotten how to use a comb.

  The man held out something, and the woman paused, then snatched it from his hand. She looked at her closed fist, nodded at something he said, then turned and ran down the hall and through a door at the end.

  The man was likely the woman’s handler. She had heard of them. He had probably beaten her too, cut her up. The stories that people liked to tell at parties often grew quite lurid in the details of what happened on the London streets.

  And here she was in the midst of the carnage, sold to a man who played in the game.

  The man turned fully into the light, and her thoughts stopped churning. Her entire body stopped. And she could still feel the ripped fabric of the dress where her pin and her jerking had irreparably torn it, a dress currently buried in the dark recesses of her armoire.

  “You.”

  There was a distant expression on his beautiful face for a moment before he caught sight of her. The shadow immediately cl
eared, and the edges of his mouth curved, lifting the edge of the thin scar along his cheek, as if he knew exactly who she was behind her dark veil. As if the sound of her voice had been imprinted upon him.

  “Me.”

  He looked even more angelic than he had before, only the scar showing him of the earthly plane. Blond hair curled at the edges of his face, iced eyes were warmed by the lamps, and the lights caused a halo of gold to appear about his crown. He was garbed once more in impeccably tailored clothes.

  But this time, there were no visible speckles of blood on his sleeves. Only the metaphorical kind.

  Her mouth moved without thought. “Shouldn’t you be in prison?”

  “Should I?” He lifted a brow, walking toward her. A lazy gait that she shouldn’t have seen as prowling, stalking her, but the jump of her heart wasn’t listening.

  “I told the patrolman. He ran off to arrest you.” What was she doing? Telling him that she had sent the watch after him? Even with her father only two dozen paces away, she still had the distinct impression that this man could take them all down before she so much as made a peep. Murder her father, Trant, and Downing with one hand as he pressed her against the wall with the other.

  “Patrolman? Ah, you mean Robert?”

  She opened her mouth, but nothing emerged. She took a step back toward the others, not taking her eyes from him.

  “An old family friend, Robert. It pays to have friends in many places.” The edge of his mouth curled, and he continued toward her in that same lazy, stalking gait.

  “So you just, what, beat Mr. Hunsden? Nearly kill a man? And get naught but a friendly visit from the watch?”

  “Don’t feel sorry for Noakes.” There was something dark in his eyes. “Don’t waste a thought for him.” The darkness lingered for a long moment before it cleared. “As for Hunsden, he is as well as he was when last you saw him. Perhaps requiring a new pair of trousers, but otherwise, physically untouched.”

  She took another step back as he advanced, hating the need to retreat but not feeling stupid enough to indulge in holding her ground.

  “What . . .” She swallowed. “What are you doing here?”

  He watched her for a moment, his eyes roving her veil as if they had successfully pierced the dark fabric and were tracing her features. Or as if he already had them committed to memory and was playing the image through. He raised a brow, something darkly amused in his eyes. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that question?”

  She opened her mouth, but nothing emerged for a moment. She squared her chin, pushing dark thoughts aside. “I am here on business.”

  “What a surprise.” He ran a hand along the wall, cresting over the bend in the hall, as he closed the gap between them. “I am as well.”

  “Not for a pleasure visit?”

  He lazily surveyed her. “I do so hope that too.”

  She tried to say something rational through the fluster he caused, gazing instead over his shoulder in the direction of the woman who had fled. “You are looking for another victim?”

  His brows furrowed for a second, then eased. “Ah, you mean Marie. No, I assure you that I have been saving myself for the night to come.” He seemed to find something terribly amusing about that.

  “I see.” She tried to think of something else to say as he pressed closer.

  “Do you? Will you oblige me then?” His voice was low and smooth, nearly whispered. He lifted her hand, the back of his lips only touching lightly but searing her skin beneath the silk.

  Everything froze for a moment. Even the flickering lamps seemed to pause, flames surging upward and waiting. She tore her hand away, hardly able to breathe.

  “No.”

  She had never been so near to a man who set her on edge. She had never had a man set her on edge. And she didn’t find the feeling particularly pleasant. Her breath was harsh and odd in her chest. Frozen without the cold. Her hands were trembling, and she was just thankful that she wasn’t holding a glass or some other piece that might give her away.

  “No?” One long finger slowly lifted the middle of her veil to form a triangle of cloth. He was even more golden when unobstructed from view. His eyes sought the pulse at her throat—just as they had done in the ribbon shop—and his lips slowly curved. “Folly indeed, but worth it in the end, I think.”

  “Merrick.”

  Her father’s voice was crisp. But the heat in the eyes of the man in front of her, the increase in the curve of his lips, kept her attention.

  Then the single, uttered word registered.

  Panic initiated and spread in all directions. No, it wasn’t possible. But she could hear the footfalls behind her. The men drawing alongside her again.

  Her heart stopped for a second time.

  “Merrick, I didn’t see you come up.”

  Having his identity confirmed just made the halt lengthen. One absent beat, then two. She didn’t know if the organ would restart.

  She watched the beautiful face of the man, who continued to lazily assess her, to drink in her reaction, all dark amusement that she was suddenly putting the pieces together, before he glanced away, dropping his finger and her veil, to answer her father.

  He, standing with the flush hand, and she, carrying the discards.

  “Chatsworth.”

  “If I could have a moment to speak with you.”

  Roman Merrick—good God, she had never heard or kept the knowledge of the Merrick brothers’ first names, or else she would have put it together sooner—smiled charmingly. “Surely.”

  Her father motioned to the man in a deferential manner—and in a direction away from her.

  Roman’s eyebrows lifted. “Don’t you think the lady should be able to have a say in something that concerns her?” The words were delivered in a charming and innocent manner, but there was something entirely false about the simplicity of the statement.

  Downing strode into her periphery and flipped open his pocket watch, obviously irritated. “Something that was stated last night, I believe.” His eyes softened slightly when they focused upon her, her face hidden from view once more, but turned hard when he looked back to the men.

  “Lovely Miss Chatsworth seems hardly knowledgeable about what occurred.” Roman hummed. “But strangely resigned to what will happen.” His eyes were hot on her, and she felt her body traitorously respond. What was wrong with her? Had her own eyes not told her enough about this man that she should respond only with coldness? Was this some sort of internal rebellion against the pressure she had been under? She gripped her skirt in both hands, trying to keep from trembling.

  Something snapped shut, the sound like a shot in the suddenly silent hallway. “Merrick, a moment.” Downing strode down the hall, obviously expecting the blond man to follow the strict command.

  Roman shot her a slow grin before turning and following.

  Charlotte swallowed, trying not to follow their progress with her eyes, trying to sort herself out and reinforce her battlements. To think about what might happen if Roman Merrick did claim her tonight. Would her face be scarred in the morning? Would other parts of her? A comforting lick of terror rushed through her. Fear she could deal with, for pride answered to fear.

  She didn’t know what answered to desire.

  Something inside her kept trying to reason that Roman Merrick could have hurt her before but hadn’t. Irrational feelings and rational thoughts collided, bleeding into one another. She tamped down all thoughts on the matter.

  Her father took a few steps toward the two men, then stopped, seeming to waver on the choice. It was hard to say what Downing and Merrick were discussing. The walls seemed to constrict toward them, tightness in every line, sucking in the surroundings.

  Trant looked at her, then at Roman Merrick, something steely in his eyes. “Have you met before?”

  “No.” It wasn’t hard to inject a clip to her voice. She hadn’t truly met him, after all. And she didn’t wish to speak of the situation with Trant, whom sh
e didn’t trust.

  “I will ruin him.” He looked back at the man, his eyes dark. “For you.”

  “I hardly think that will fix the situation I currently find myself in, Mr. Trant.” And she thought the part about the ruination being for her was more of an afterthought to the statement.

  “It is an outrage. Let me fix it for you.” He took her gloved hand in his, steering her a little ways away. His hands were warm, but not scorching like Roman Merrick’s. And though the touch also made her uncomfortable, the feelings surrounding the discomfort were not the same. “No matter what happens tonight. I will still find you a desirable match.”

  She smiled, a hard, brittle smile he couldn’t see, before smoothly removing her hand in a way to which he could not take offense. For even though she didn’t know the details of the bet—yet—she had a feeling that Trant was not inculpable. “That is kind of you.”

  “Say that you will—”

  She cut him off. “Mr. Trant, I hardly think this is the time to discuss such matters.”

  “There will be no time more opportune.”

  “Father says this exchange might not even take place.”

  “But if it does, you should have a plan in place. I would hate to have to harm Merrick.”

  Something alerted her that someone stood behind them. Outside in the alley, the knife would already be sticking from her ribs. This was not her world, and she couldn’t pretend that she was in any way equal to fooling it.

  The tingling of her skin told her who stood there. She could feel the heat of him before he spoke. “I wouldn’t have such trouble in return.”

  The words were silky and dark. Promising. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. She turned to see Roman Merrick standing there, eyes disturbingly lazy upon Trant. Downing was saying something to her father a few paces behind, arguing with him in low tones that she couldn’t pay attention to, too caught by the man in front of her.

  Trant shifted. “It was a foolish wager, Merrick.”

  “It was. And yet here we are.” His eyes didn’t warm one bit. Fathomless pools of blue ice. Though there was that idleness to them, as if he didn’t find Trant much of a threat. And looking between them, at the lethality that surrounded the blond man, she’d have to agree. Trant was fit, and he liked to boast of his boxing prowess, but Merrick looked like he didn’t follow the rules of any sort of gentlemanly match.