“Which brothels did he check?” Terence demanded.
“Not more than four or five of the best, the ones frequented by gentlemen. I’ll make a list.”
Looking grim, Terence nodded his thanks. And what would he find when he visited the places which did not usually cater to the nobility?
Chapter Seven
In three weeks of unrelenting social activities Beth managed to keep her head above the tidal wave of adulation the ton had decided to grant the young woman whose father could afford to whistle all their fortunes down the wind. She was a success. Yet beneath her gracious smiles and charming manner she never forgot she would be nothing more than a shy wallflower watching the glitter from afar if her father were a country vicar and her dowry a mere thousand pounds. Her Papa had already refused four offers, three from young men easily identified as fortune-hunters, and one from the heir to a barony, because Beth stated emphatically, she could not like him.
The Earl of Hyde called in Cavendish Square and danced with her under the frowning gaze of the Marchioness of Harborough just often enough to further enhance Beth’s reputation. It was, however, Viscount Monterne who was the odds-on favorite in the betting books at White’s, Brook’s, Boodle’s, and lesser establishments about town. Miss Brockman’s formal come-out ball was to be held in Marchmont House under the auspices of the Duchess of Marchmont herself. It was even whispered the formidable duke himself would be on hand for the festivities. Rumor also had it that an interesting announcement might be forthcoming. And that Lady Colchester had torn up her invitation. Others said, with a nod and a wink, it was much too soon for an engagement. Tobias Brockman was not about to throw the girl away on the first handsome and titled face that came along. Not that the heir to an earldom wasn’t a proper catch, but, odds were, the Merchant Midas might not be willing to settle for any title less than a duke. The simple truth? Lord Monterne had not yet made an offer.
Beth beamed up at Viscount Monterne as he whirled her round the spacious floor of the Marchmont ballroom. “I can’t believe this is happening. It’s as if I have my very own fairy godmother who waved a magic wand and here I am, Cinderella waltzing with Prince Charming in the palace.”
“Cinderella, indeed!” the viscount scoffed. “I’m quite sure you have never been near a fireplace for any other purpose than warming yourself. And your fairy godmother is named Tobias!”
“Very true,” Beth conceded, twinkling merrily. “But this is only the second time I have waltzed in public, and it is quite thrilling, I assure you. And the duke was actually civil to me, you know, which surprised me no end. All this”—Beth nodded her head at the glittering ballroom—“is for me. As long as I have hoped this day would come, it is still difficult to believe. A-ah!”
Monterne laughed at Beth’s surprise as he whirled her in a fast double circle, nearly oversetting a portly gentleman whose feet were not so nimble. “Beast!” Beth giggled. “That was not at all nice and, besides, I might have tumbled straight onto the floor and made fools of us both.”
“I am constantly pleased that you were raised in a household of men, my dear,” the viscount approved. “Quite refreshing, let me assure you. But, then, if you were a shy mouse, I would have avoided shocking you so.”
The music came to halt. Lord Monterne bowed, Beth curtsied, still laughing. “A breath of air on the terrace?” he inquired.
“Cat will scold, but nothing could sound better at this moment.” Beth gave him her arm, and they slipped through the crowd and out the tall French doors.
“If I dared, I’d put my arms around you to keep you warm,” the viscount murmured, “but pistols at dawn with Harborough is certain suicide. So I’ll content myself with standing close, between you and the breeze.”
His maneuver was most effective, the superfine of his black swallow-tail coat brushing up against the right half of her body, negating the sharp coolness of the spring evening. Beth felt such a surge of heat she might as well have been still twirling about the ballroom. How could she feel such excitement over the nearness of a man who wasn’t Terence? Was she truly so fickle? A woman of dubious virtue?
Conjured by thoughts of Terence, Beth’s words tumbled out without thought. “You would not live to stand up with Alex,” she said. “Terence would make sure of that.”
“Believe me,” Monterne assured her, “from what little you’ve told me, I have the most abject respect for O’Rourke as well. I plan to stay in his good graces.” Truthfully, a number of his friends had assured him O’Rourke was dangerous. He suspected the warning, in guise of a rumor, had started with Harborough, who had survived the war by being as clever as he was daring. The viscount appreciated caution, just as he enjoyed a good chess match. No rushed fences for Rodney, Lord Monterne. When the game was on, the more challenges the better.
“Elizabeth!” Catherine, Marchioness of Harborough, stood in the open doorway, obviously displeased. “Your partner for the next set is looking for you,” she declared. “Monterne.” With a sharp nod to the viscount, she swept her charge inside. Rodney almost laughed out loud. The upstart marchioness acting like the starchiest matron in the beau monde!
When Elizabeth Brockman danced the supper dance with Viscount Monterne, heads nodded, knowing smiles were exchanged. Surely, there could be no doubt which way the wind was blowing. If there were no interesting announcement tonight, surely it would be soon.
For the first time since he’d entered the establishment run by Mrs. Jamison years earlier, a brash young Irishman with a chip on his shoulder and the world by the tail, Terence felt uncomfortable. Perhaps it had been too long, he’d become too nice in his tastes. Tonight, the heavy red velvet, the sumptuous gold satin, swagged and fringed, weighed him down. The smell of cigar smoke, sweat, seldom washed bodies, and sex permeated the air, part and parcel of the fabric of the place, from rugs, draperies and upholstery to the clothing—revealing and enticing—worn by the female occupants of the public rooms.
Terence waved away the majordomo’s effusive greeting. Slipping a guinea into his hand, he asked to speak with Mrs. Jamison. “I will see if she is available, sir,” the man intoned.
“You do that,” Terence snapped, wishing he’d never undertaken this mission. He wanted to discover Monterne was a bully at the very least, perhaps even a bluebeard. Unfortunately, Beth actually seemed to like the bastard, was favoring him above all her other suitors. Would a bad report break her heart? Unlikely. His Beth was not so fickle. She was flaunting Monterne before him, twisting the knife. See, see, I’m doing as told. Suffer, Terence. As I am.
But was she? Little more than a child, her affections could blow hot and cold. A title, a handsome face, a charming manner, Tobias’s approval, and she’d be bloody well married. Gone from him forever.
Terence thrust his dour thoughts aside as the majordomo returned to lead him into Mrs. Hetty Jamison’s private parlor, before quietly closing the door and leaving Terence alone with the owner of London’s best-known house of ill repute. Mrs. Jamison was a woman of indeterminate years who had become acquainted with Terence O’Rourke long before he had reached his twentieth birthday. She liked to think she had taken up his education where the Wilson sisters left off. Terence, always an avid learner of anything new, had been suitably grateful. He even fancied Hetty Jamison might have learned a thing or two herself.
And Terence never hesitated to make use of every advantage. After the necessary pleasantries, including a flash of his most charming Irish smile, he sat back in his chair and said quite simply, “I have need of information and will pay well to get it. Will you help me?”
Although Hetty Jamison had put on a few pounds through years of lavish living, she was still a fine figure of a woman. Her carriage was proud, the paint on her face only enough to enhance her fading beauty. Terence found the white lace cap she affected over her far-from-natural chestnut curls amusing. More interesting, however, were the dark eyes beneath, which betrayed a shrewd intelligence.
“If I ca
n.” she offered, opening the joust by giving Terence the distinct impression she was very much on guard.
Terence nodded. “Very well. Viscount Monterne. What can you tell me?”
“Monterne . . . Monterne?” Mrs. Jamison seemed to be sifting through years of names and faces when Terence knew perfectly well she knew exactly who he was. “Indeed,” she finally admitted, he came here regularly a number of years ago, but he’s set up a succession of girls in St. John’s Woods since then. Had no more need for the likes of Mrs. Jamison’s.”
“Nonetheless, I’d like to know about that time,” Terence persisted. “Were his appetites –ah–normal?”
Hetty Jamison seemed to swell in her chair, like a balloon being pumped with hot air. “As if I cater to any other kind, Terence O’Rourke, and well you know it!”
“Good God, Hetty, I’m not accusing you of trading in boys. But we both know you have girls willing to do a great many things that would not only shock a gently nurtured young female but likely damage her as well. So out with it! Does Monterne have a turn for the rough or unnatural? You may as well know I’ve heard a rumor he beat a girl here half to death.” An exaggeration, but he had to prompt a reply.
“If he had ever done so, you know quite well I would not have allowed him to return,” Hetty declared. “My merchandise is too valuable.”
“But you didn’t, did you?” Terence said, eyes narrowed. “He hasn’t been here in years, you said.”
“That was not what I meant!”
“I’m not so sure,” Terence mused. “But you’re not going to tell me, are you? How handsomely you must have been paid, my dear, to deny me the truth. Particularly when you know I have such a great fortune behind me.” He eyed her for a moment, then sighed. “Ah, I see. Monterne must have influence with those who allow you to stay in business. Something more important than mere money.” He took out a roll of bank notes, laid them on the table between them. “Then give me the girl’s direction. I will ask her myself.”
“She left us years ago,” Hetty replied. “I have no idea where she went, though I may have heard she died of the consumption . . . yes, that was it! As much as three years ago. I felt quite sad when I heard. She was a taking little thing.”
As sharp as she was, Mrs. Jamison did not seem to realize she had just confirmed that Lord Monterne had savaged one of her girls. “Her name?” Terence demanded.
“Lily Mason.” And then, at last, she realized what she had done. The face beneath her paint turned white, then red. “It was a very long time ago,” she protested. “He was nothing more than a pup. It was all a misunderstanding. The girl was fine when she left here.”
“She left?” Terence raised a skeptical brow.
“She returned home, I believe,” Hetty returned blandly. “Some place in Somerset . . . or was it Dorset? Or . . . perhaps I’m mistaken. She may have been the one who snabbled a grand protector, who set her up in St. John’s Woods. So many girls, you know.” Hetty sighed. “So difficult to recall.” Her voice trailed into silence, leaving Terence with nothing more than a name, possibly false, a home in Somerset or Dorset, the possibility the girl died of consumption, a beating, or threw herself in the Thames. Then again, she might be dripping diamonds in a snug nest in St. John’s Woods.
Terence stood and sketched a bow. “My thanks, Hetty. A pleasure to see you again.” He left the roll of bank notes lying on the table.
Out of the corner of his eye Lord Monterne studied the rapt expression on the face of the young lady seated beside him at Lady Carhampton’s musicale. Remarkably pretty, the little Brockman. Unfortunate that she never accorded him a similar look of adoration. But she seemed to prefer his company over any of her other suitors, so he would bide his time and wait. In the meantime, if she preferred to divert her love to a diva, so be it. Better that than welcoming the attentions of Cramond, Sir Darius Fane, or that love-sick fool Humphrey Downes.
Monterne stifled a groan. How anyone could actually enjoy such high-pitched caterwauling was beyond his comprehension. He’d barely prevented Beth and Amabel Trowbridge from seating themselves in the front row. He was their escort tonight simply because Harborough and his wife and brother had better sense than to attend a musical evening at Lady Carhampton’s, even if the performance featured the most highly acclaimed soprano in Britain and the continent. But Alex and Tony had no need of a fortune. The viscount did. And one so nicely packaged was an additional reward. A sensible girl, Beth Brockman. They would deal well together. She affected no die-away airs, nor did she demand protestations of love.
Beth was perhaps not so sensible about Madame Rolande, he amended. She had told him of her great admiration for the famous soprano, and that for some reason her interest in Madame Rolande displeased her father. Perhaps, Beth confided, her family did not care to encourage her musical gift. But, truly, she quite understood she could not go upon the stage, so why were they so opposed to any visit to the opera? Perhaps, Rodney surmised, that was why she seemed so enraptured by arias and such,. The forbidden was always the most enticing game in town.
As he well knew.
The viscount’s eyes strayed across the aisle to his left. His complaisance suffered a nasty blow as he met the venomous gaze of the Marchioness of Colchester. Weeks had gone by, and she had not forgiven his defection from her daughter. Why the ton’s grand bitch thought she had him bridled, saddled and tamed to the bit, he could not imagine. Just because the Colchester estates marched with Ravenshaw, and he’d known Victoria all her life . . .
After all, a man had a right to feather his nest as best he could, and Monterne strongly suspected the little Brockman would warm his bed as well as her father’s money warmed his pockets. Victoria, with her high rank and classic English beauty, would have no trouble finding a husband elsewhere.
Lord Monterne offered Lady Colchester his most insouciant smirk of a smile. With a jerk of her turbaned head, the marchioness returned her attention to Madame Rolande.
At the interval Rodney duly escorted Beth and Amabel into the refreshment room before gritting his teeth through twenty minutes of a cello recital followed by harpist who was attractive enough to hold his attention for perhaps five of the fifteen minutes her fingers rippled over the strings. Toward the end the evening, on a note of triumph, Madame Rolande appeared for a second time. Once again, eyes alight, Beth leaned forward in her gilt chair, hands clasped tightly in her lap. He would have to make allowances, Monterne told himself firmly. On this particular score, his quarry was not quite right in the head.
He had no appreciation of Madame Rolande’s high F’s in alt. They did, in fact, hurt his ears. He tried not to wince, though he now fully realized why people went to the opera house in Haymarket to be seen rather than to listen. And yet, Beth was now applauding, as were many of the others around them, as if she were trying to drive one small hand straight through the other. Daft, the lot of them.
As the audience began to break up, some surging forward to form an admiring circle around Madame Rolande, Monterne fought back a sigh. “I suppose you’d like to meet her,” he said to Beth.
Her blue eyes seemed to expand to twice their size. “Oh, may we?” she exclaimed, fixing an appealing look on Amabel, her fingers white-knuckled over her heart.
Amabel laughed. “Of course. We’d never deprive you of such a treat.”
“Come along.” The viscount smiled, allowing the ladies to precede him to the front of Lady Carhampton’s music room.
When at last it was their turn to speak to the world’s most famous prima donna, every polite word of praise Beth had planned to say escaped her head. She came out of a curtsey low enough to be suitable for presentation to the queen and burbled, “Madame, I adore ‘The Queen of the Night.’ I sing it myself, though my voice teacher, Signor Capelli, tells me I am not at all ready yet. But it is such fun to sing, is it not?”
Amabel, who was only a few years past Beth’s age herself, did not admonish the younger girl for her enthusiasm, nor
for her confiding attitude, as if from one musician to another. She merely cut Beth off by breaking into her spate of words, addressing her own compliments to the diva.
Madame Rolande, displaying more animation than she had shown to her other admirers, said, “But tell me please, who is this charming child who sings well enough to study with Signor Capelli and is familiar with Mozart?”
“Madame,” said Lady Amabel, “please allow me to present to you Miss Elizabeth Brockman.”
Rodney, Lord Monterne, always light on his feet, sprang forward just in time to catch Madame Rosamund Rolande as she fainted.
“You wished to see me?” Beth asked coolly as she entered the modest-sized blue salon at the rear of Brockman House. Terence had come to scold. She knew it.
He turned from a contemplation of the cheerful spring flowers in the garden outside, returning an equally cool, “Good morning.”
Chin high, Beth sat, fully prepared to be difficult.
“I scarcely know where to begin,” Terence frowned down at her. Grimly, he clasped his hands behind his back, lest he be tempted to wring her neck. “You were warned to avoid Brummell,” he declared in the quietly ominous tone Beth dreaded.
“And what did you expect, that I should jump to my feet and run when he approached me at Almack’s?”
“Better that than have him spend ten minutes in your company, then declare in that lofty manner of his that he was quite relieved you did not smell of the shop!”
“How . . . how did you hear that?” Beth stammered. “He only said it to Lady Jersey!”
“Who has the fastest-wagging tongue in the ton?” Terence snapped. “The entire scene made it to White’s by midnight and was served up with breakfast at every table in Mayfair!”
“But he was charming,” Beth protested. “And just think what worse things he might have said.”
O'Rourke's Heiress Page 9
