The Holmestead Heifer.
Beneath the drawing, words nestled into an ugly mass, the letters pulsating on the page as if they, too, laughed at her.
…or the Holmestead Harlot? It has come to the attention of the writer that an incident of some concern has taken place at Holmestead Hall, the seat of Lord William Honeychurch. A Miss C has fallen to temptation though no announcement will be forthcoming. The unfortunate gentleman suffered no ill effects from the escapade, and the writer has it on good authority that he has sought comfort in the arms of the celebrated courtesan, Miss W…
Jeanette crumpled the paper, wanting to crush the words into oblivion. A nasal voice broke through her thoughts, triumph seeping from every word.
“As a friend, I’d suggest you leave London at the earliest opportunity. I’ll wager Henry is waiting for you to go before he returns home.”
As a friend, indeed! With a rustle of stiff silk, Lady Elizabeth stood. She raised an expectant eyebrow, but Jeanette remained sitting. Decorum be damned. She wasn’t going to bestow any civility on someone undeserving of it.
Elizabeth exhaled through her nose. “I pity your education, Miss Claybone, for failing to bestow an understanding of how to behave when a lady takes her leave.”
“My education has at least enabled me to understand what a lady is.”
Confusion clouded Elizabeth’s eyes, and she shook her head as if to dissipate her stupidity. She turned her back and swept out of the room. Shortly afterward, Sanderson reappeared, but Jeanette waved him away. More tea wouldn’t alleviate her predicament. Elizabeth De Witt was right; Ravenwell wouldn’t hesitate to turn her out. Jeanette might have lost her reputation, but she still had her dignity. She must leave before he ejected her.
*
The solid black door stood like a barrier shutting her out of society. Jeanette traced the names etched into the brass nameplate, her fingerprints leaving a stain as ugly as her reputation.
Allardice, Allardice, and Stockton.
She pushed the door and stepped inside. The last time she’d come here she’d been a hopeful young girl entering womanhood, accompanying Papa on a business trip. Uncle George had lifted her onto his knee and patted her head affectionately while he talked with Papa.
Papa. His last words formed an imprint in her mind.
George Stockton will look after you, Jeanie love. He’s a good man.
Would she ever see Papa again?
Sunlight filtered through the window in the roof, casting sharp shadows across the walls from the chandelier, the occasional burst of color diffracting through the crystal.
“Ahem.”
A single word, but the contempt echoed thickly across the hall. A clerk, dressed in black, approached her as a crow might circle carrion.
Her reputation had preceded her.
“Do you have an appointment, miss?”
“Please tell Mr. Stockton he has a visitor.”
The clerk’s face twisted into a sneer. “And you are?”
“Miss Claybone.”
“There are no appointments for a—Miss Claybone.”
“Would you be so kind as to tell Mr. Stockton I’m here?”
“That won’t be necessary. Let me escort you out.”
“But…”
He took her arm, and she suppressed a cry at the sting of pain from the bullet wound.
“Tell him the Holmestead Harlot wishes to see him!”
“Really! I must protest…”
A soft, deep voice interrupted the clerk. “Unhand the lady, Wilkes.”
“Lady, indeed!”
“That’s enough! Return to your office. I’ll deal with this.”
“But Messrs. Allardice…”
“…need not be troubled. Miss Claybone is my client.”
The newcomer stood halfway up the staircase. He gestured to Jeanette. “Come with me.”
Freeing herself from the clerk’s grip, she followed the man. His cane tapped against the marble stairs, the echo changing as it met the wooden floor of the corridor on the top floor. He stopped beside a half open door.
“In here.”
He gestured toward a chair in front of a desk. Instead of sitting behind the desk, he chose the chair beside her and took her hand. Only then did she look into his eyes.
Her godfather had changed over the years. The smooth skin was now puckered and wrinkled, the shock of blond hair a pale gray, but the kindness in his mahogany eyes was as she remembered.
“What on earth have you been doing, my dear?”
Having withstood derision and ridicule, these few words of kindness were her undoing. Hot, fat tears spilled onto her cheeks. She reached up to wipe them away, and he took her hands and gave them a gentle squeeze.
“Jeanette…”
“Mr. Stockton…”
Tutting, he shook his head. “You know me better than that.”
“Uncle George.”
His cane clattered to the floor as he pulled her into an embrace. Unable to stifle the sobs, she cried into his waistcoat while he stroked her head as if she were a child again until she grew quiet, comforted by the aroma of parchment and cologne.
“I was so worried, Jeanette! I’d expected you sooner.”
“But the clerk…”
“Never mind Wilkes. Your father wrote to me three days ago.”
Shame heated her face, and he gave her another squeeze.
“We shan’t discuss the past. Let us look to your future.”
“Do I have one?”
“Not what you’d originally hoped for, but your papa’s done his best to help. He’s settled a sum of one thousand on you. Not much, but it should secure a husband.”
“A husband?”
“We must wait until the scandal dies down, but I can make inquiries once the season is over and London is less hungry for gossip.”
“I’ve no wish for a husband. Can’t you find me employment? I could help you with your ledgers.”
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”
“Because I’m a woman?”
“Partly, but the other partners wouldn’t permit it. You saw how Wilkes treated you.”
“A governess, then?”
“Could you see yourself in such a position?” He tipped her face up until their eyes met, his glistening with compassion.
“A governess is nothing. She’s too far above the servants yet beneath the members of the household, subject to the constraints of the upper classes with none of the freedom of the lower. You’d be miserable.”
“Are there no other professions?”
“There’s only one profession for a ruined woman, and it would break my heart to see you enter into it. Marriage is your only choice. It’ll secure you a home, children of your own. A man willing to take you for one thousand with the history of scandal would be a good man.”
“Does such a man exist?”
“Of course. Not all men are like…” He sighed. “Never mind, we shan’t speak of him. Many young men in trade, eager to prosper, would appreciate a little financial support and an intelligent helpmate. But your chances of a match with a gentleman are limited.”
“From what I’ve experienced, Uncle George, I’ve no wish to marry a gentleman.”
He nodded and placed a fatherly kiss on her head.
“I’ll secure lodgings for you in the interim, and when society has turned its ugly attention toward another poor soul, we’ll plan for your future. Where are you staying?”
Jeanette shook her head. At all costs, he mustn’t know she’d been residing in a rake’s love nest.
“No matter. I made inquiries as soon as I heard from your father.”
“Is he well? And Mama, my sisters?”
“Aye, they’re well, but do not write to them.”
“Why not?”
“Your father bestowed the money on one condition. No contact until you are respectably married.”
Papa…
He’d disowned her.
But had she expected better news, that she’d find him in Uncle George’s office, waiting to take her in his arms and tell her to come home?
No. She was alone in the world with nothing but one thousand pounds and a ruined woman’s reputation. What did society care that her virtue was intact?
“I’m sorry, Jeanette.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I know, but it breaks my heart to be the one to tell you.”
Jeanette nodded, the action releasing another droplet which rolled down her face.
Uncle George drew her to him again.
“Your father would want me to take care of you,” he whispered.
His heartbeat echoed against her ear, the deep, slow pulse of the lifeblood of her only friend in the world.
The pulse quickened, an echo growing louder. No, not an echo. It came from outside, together with voices; one, loud and authoritative, overpowering the other.
Quick, angry footsteps approached and the door flew open.
“What in God’s name are you doing here, woman?”
Ravenwell stood in the doorframe, hair unkempt, jaw squared, eyes dark with rage.
“You should be in your bedchamber!”
A squat, balding man stood behind him, back hunched in servitude, his voice an obsequious nasal whine.
“Lord Ravenwell, I must apologize…”
Ravenwell raised his hand. Abruptly, the man bowed and stepped back.
Uncle George stood, facing the marquis as an equal, even though the younger man towered over him.
“I believe it’s customary for visitors to knock.”
The balding man cringed. “Stockton, don’t you know to whom you’re addressing such discourteous remarks?”
“I’m addressing someone who entered my office unannounced, Mr. Allardice.”
Allardice turned his attention to Ravenwell.
“Forgive my partner’s lack of civility, my Lord. Rest assured, I’ll admonish him.”
Ravenwell snorted. His disdain for those who made a living from trade exuded from him in a cloud of contempt.
Hateful man! Though she shared Ravenwell’s dislike of the toad-like Allardice, Jeanette could not forgive his dismissive manner toward others purely because of their birth.
“No matter, Mr.…”
“Allardice, my lord, at your service.”
“Mr. Allardice.” Ravenwell nodded to Jeanette. “But she must come with me now.”
“I must protest.” Uncle George placed himself in front of Jeanette as if to shield her from Ravenwell’s formidable gaze. “My goddaughter is under my protection. Her already fragile reputation will be ruined irrevocably by an association with you. Do you want that on your conscience?”
“Mr. Stockton!” Allardice exclaimed. “That’s precisely why you must turn her out. We’re a respectable business, and our clients value our discretion. If you defy me, I’ll have to call a meeting of the partners to discuss your future.”
Uncle George bristled with anger. How Jeanette loved him at that moment! To stand up to a marquis, a bully who’d led a privileged and pampered life, whom nobody dared speak against. What a contrast to the simpering Mr. Allardice. But she couldn’t allow Uncle George to suffer for her folly.
She kissed her godfather’s hand.
“No, Uncle George,” she said softly, keeping her eyes on Ravenwell. “I love you for defending me, but I cannot let you harm your livelihood by an association with me. You have your family to consider.”
“You’re like a daughter to me, Jeanette. How do you know this man won’t harm you?”
“I don’t, but I have no choice.”
Ravenwell’s eyes hardened at her words. “Then do as I say, madam. Go to my carriage and wait there while I speak with Mr. Stockton.” He gestured behind him. “Allardice, please escort Miss Claybone out.”
“Of course, Lord Ravenwell, sir. I must say what a pleasure it is to be of service…”
“Yes, yes,” Ravenwell sighed irritably before stepping aside to let Jeanette through.
The last thing she heard was Uncle George’s words as she was led out of the office.
“Take care, my dear.”
Chapter Nine
Henry approached the carriage. The unsavory Allardice had done as he’d asked, for Miss Claybone was sitting inside. Henry sat beside her, and she immediately moved to the opposite seat and turned her head to stare out the window. Though she appeared calm, her hands were curled into fists.
Good. Her spirit still remained, that flame which had first drawn him to her.
His anger subsided now he was assured of her safety. Having returned to his Holborn townhouse to find her gone, he’d been consumed by panic. Another prostitute’s body had been found, the wounds on her neck suggesting foul play. Two more had disappeared. Sanderson had told him of a tradesman’s daughter who’d gone for an evening stroll on the banks of the Thames and never returned home; tales exchanged over sour ale in the taverns of London’s underbelly. Visions of Jeanette’s lifeless form floating on the water had crushed the air from his lungs while he’d stared at her empty chamber before admonishing Sanderson for not keeping her contained.
From their first encounter, she had captivated him. Her artless manners, the natural laugh borne from a life of love, freedom, and laughter—a life he’d never experienced—had drawn him to her as a ship to a lighthouse.
Would she ever laugh again?
He sat back and closed his eyes. In a few moments they’d reach his townhouse and battle would recommence. Until then, he could relax knowing, she was safe.
At least Stockton recognized her worth. In better circumstances, Henry might have taken pleasure entering into business with him. Few men had the courage to stand up to him, but George Stockton, a mere trader, had done just that, a man of principle, fervent in his defense of Jeanette. Stockton’s love for his goddaughter shone through every word he’d uttered as he’d demanded she be treated well.
The carriage drew to a halt, and Henry offered his hand to Jeanette. Sighing, she took it. Ignoring the surge in his body, he helped her out. She snatched her hand away as soon as her feet touched the ground.
“Am I to be your prisoner?”
“Come inside and we’ll discuss it.”
She snorted, turned her back on him, and strode toward the door. It swung inside to reveal a shamefaced Sanderson. Pushing past the servant, she strode inside and flung open the door to the morning room.
“I’d thank you, madam, to show more respect in my home.”
“Respect!” she scoffed. “I’ve no wish to be here!”
“I don’t care,” he replied. “You can’t wander about on your own. You’re still recovering from your wound…”
“…which your friend inflicted.”
“For heaven’s sake, woman!” he roared. “Have you no sense?”
She opened her mouth to respond, but he stepped toward her, forcing her back against the wall. He gripped her chin and tipped her head up until their eyes met.
“It’s immaterial how you came to be injured. What matters is that you need to recover. Walking the streets is bad for your health, not to mention your reputation.”
“My reputation! You’ve already destroyed that. You and your friend conspired to ruin me, then tossed me aside.”
Moisture glistened in her eyes, and she wiped it with an angry hand.
“My family has disowned me. I have nothing, no means of earning a living. I’ll forever be known as the Holmestead Harlot, to be parodied and ridiculed in the papers. You are to be congratulated on your handiwork.”
Henry gritted his teeth. Who had shown her the newspapers?
“You’re overreacting.”
“How would you know? You live life with no thought for how it affects the lives of others. The women you seek to seduce? Do you know what happens after they’re discarded?”
Visions of the whore flashed across his mind, her corpse face down in the river.
&nbs
p; “Yes, I do.”
“You know nothing!” Miss Claybone raised a fist. Were it not for his boxing training, he might have missed the move which was driven by anger rather than skill. He parried the blow just before her fist connected with his jaw.
“Damn you!” she cried. “Damn you and all your like!”
She raised her other fist. He caught her wrist and pushed his body against hers. She struggled, but he pinned her to the wall.
“Let me go!”
“Only when you cease prattling and listen to reason.”
“I shall not…”
He crushed his mouth against hers. Curse the woman, there was no other method of silencing her.
He’d gone beyond the point of no return. The urgent need simmering inside his body burst forth, and he thrust his tongue into her mouth. Good God, she tasted so sweet! Like a courtesan, rich honey with a hint of fire and an undercurrent of innocence.
She circled his tongue with her own, but he was knowledgeable enough in the ways of women to know the difference between an innocent and a woman learned in the arts of seduction.
Now that Oakville had taken her maidenhead, she had little to recommend her. Despite Stockton’s assurances, no man in possession of his wits would take her for one thousand. Her best option was as a courtesan but, unlike Charlotte, she knew nothing of seduction.
His blood warmed at the notion of teaching her, and he pulled her head back to expose her throat, moving his mouth from her lips to forge a trail of open-mouthed kisses toward her collarbone.
A groan escaped her lips, a sign of her hunger for him, and his own body tightened in recognition.
Ye Gods—no wonder Oakville had not been able to resist her!
He lifted his head and met her gaze. Her eyes were filled with need, face flushed with desire.
“Miss Claybone,” he whispered, “I must stop while I still can.”
*
Her body had come to life the moment he’d kissed her. Rather than battle against the arms holding her, she drew strength from Ravenwell. Unlike the men of society who assumed supremacy over the souls within their influence, he had given her a choice—and in doing so, surrendered the power to her.
Barons, Brides, and Spies: Regency Series Starter Collection Volume Two Page 103
