Sari Robins - [Andersen Hall Orphanage 01]

by One Wicked Night

  “Please don’t say a word, sir.”

  “You should be crowing about this one.”

  Nick shrugged. “I am happy, of course. But crowing is a bit too much effort for me these days.”

  “Dunn would want you to be happy, Nick. It’s all he ever wanted for you.”

  Nick almost smiled, remembering the burly headmaster. “No, he wanted me to be happy, hardworking, honorable, righteous, provide for a family…the list goes on.”

  “He was a bit of a tyrant.”

  “A beloved one at that.”

  Winner scratched his shadowed chin. “So when will you settle down, Nick? You’re almost thirty. Almost as old as me.”

  Nick swirled the beer in his mug, watching the foam spin. “I do not think that I am cut out for having a family, sir.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  Nick shifted his shoulders, feeling that unseen mantle drag on him. “Well, I’ve never had one, for one.”

  “Perhaps not in the traditional sense. But being at Andersen Hall was like having a big family. Well, maybe not. But look at you now; you’re the queen’s man, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Please don’t tell anyone, sir.”

  “Your secret is safe with me.”

  “Thank you.” Finishing his tankard, Nick stood.

  “Where are you off to in such a hurry? We have some celebrating to do.”

  “You enjoy yourself, Doctor.” Nick tossed some coins on the bar. “I have to go see a prospective client.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “Miss Fanny Figbottom.”

  “The stage actress?”

  “Can’t imagine many women having that name.”

  “I saw her once in a production of…what was it now? Oh, I can’t recall. Something about someone dying and a great love affair. All I know is that she had these milky white shoulders that seemed to have a life of their own. And those hips, well, she certainly is aptly named.” He coughed into his fist. “Not that I notice those things, mind you. I went for the culture.” He looked up. “Did you ever have the chance to see her?”

  “She was ages before my time, sir,” Nick ribbed.

  “So were many other great things, you guttersnipe,” he retorted, joking. He sipped from his drink. Then, licking his lips, Winner sighed dramatically. “Miss Figbottom. I would love to meet her in person.”

  “I cannot introduce you until I meet her myself.”

  “Very well, but I want a full accounting.”

  “You are assuming that there will be something worth sharing.”

  “With a woman like Miss Figbottom, there always is.”

  Chapter 6

  Nick was led to a wood-paneled drawing room with mint-colored walls, bottle green chintz furnishings and pea green drapes. Splayed before him was a plush carpet depicting a view of the ocean’s multilayered emerald waters. The former actress must be inordinately fond of green, he mused.

  A hearty fire flamed in the hearth, and the drapes were drawn, giving the chamber an intimate feel. The two wide-backed olive chairs faced each other before the grate, with a mahogany table resting between them. On the table sat two glasses filled with a burgundy liquid. A crystal decanter filled with the same was positioned beside them.

  The carrot-headed butler waved for him to have a seat. “My employer will be a few moments.” The man had the stout build of a laborer and a less formal mien than most butlers.

  “Miss Figbottom, she’s the famous actress, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, sir. Retired now.”

  “You need not ‘sir’ me. What is your name?”

  “Stanley.”

  “How long have you been with Miss Figbottom, Stanley?”

  “I have known Miss Figbottom for almost thirty years.”

  Nick did the sums in his head of when the actress must have been on Drury Lane. “But you have not always been her butler?”

  “No, sir. Not always.” A twinkle flickered in his pale blue gaze.

  Nick nodded, sensing that there was a story underlying this relationship. Curious about his potential client, he inquired, “May I ask how you two met?”

  “When I was a stagehand, sir. With Mr. Lowell’s Traveling Troupe of Players. Miss Figbottom was the lead in almost every production. The best thing that ever happened to the troupe.”

  “And now you are her butler.”

  “I consider myself a jack-of-all-trades, Mr. Redford. I do whatever is required, regardless of designation.”

  Nick did not like the satisfied smile on his face. Like a cat who’d cornered the mouse. He pushed aside the feeling; the man was probably serving his employer in the boudoir in addition to his other duties and wanting to crow about it. Well, it was none of his affair.

  “Now, my task is to make you comfortable, Mr. Redford.” He motioned to the chairs by the flaming hearth. “I have taken the liberty of pouring you Cognac.”

  Cognac. He had not had the opportunity for such an indulgence in a very, very long time. If he had to name a favorite libation, Cognac headed his list. Either Miss Figbottom had done her research, or he was having an exceedingly lucky day.

  “Aged twenty-five years,” Stanley added, with a pleased smile. “Miss Figbottom will be a few moments. So please make yourself comfortable.”

  He left the room and closed the door with a loud click.

  Miss Figbottom must have been in sore need of investigative assistance, for she was going to great trouble to put him at ease. Nick eyed the snifter longingly. Twenty-five-year-old Cognac and somehow smuggled into England despite the war with France. Still, he hesitated. He had a personal rule about no spirits while working. Unless, of course, he was gathering information at a tavern and needed to grease the wheels. Since Miss Figbottom obviously wished for him to imbibe, their interview likely would proceed more smoothly if he did…and surely, seeing as it was already poured, he could not let such a fine tipple go to waste….

  Slipping into the cavernous chair, he raised the snifter to his nose. The burned, oaky scent teased his senses. He sipped. Velvety fire.

  A sigh escaped and Nick leaned back, allowing himself a brief moment of repose. The fire popped and hissed. This was fine.

  A part of him wished Miss Figbottom would take her time. But he knew that the sooner he was done here, the sooner he could be back in the office. This was not his favorite part of the job. The sale. The negotiation. And when a woman was involved, the possibility of tears. The fire crackled, and heat wrapped itself around him like a thick blanket. The urge to stretch his legs was unbearable, and he soon felt the soles of his boots warmed by the flame. His muscles unwound themselves as his shoulders relaxed. It seemed the tension of these last few weeks was no match for a good drink, a soft chair and a roaring fire.

  Before he knew it, the glass was empty. He wished he could have more, but he wanted to keep his head about him, so instead, he waited, letting the fire warm him. Time stretched, and he eyed the decanter. If she was going to keep him waiting like this, surely she could not expect him to simply sit there. And if she wasn’t going to show at all, it would be a terrible waste of some of the best Cognac he’d tasted in a long time. He lifted the crystal decanter and poured himself a hearty measure more.

  “To Miss Figbottom,” he murmured as he raised the glass in toast. “And the…water of life.”

  “Legend has it a knight in the sixteenth century created Cognac,” a husky female voice stated from near the door.

  Blast him for not hearing her enter. Quickly, he set the glass on the table with a graceless thud and stood. His knees turned to jelly, and he had to lean against the chair back for support. What the hell was wrong with him?

  “Miss…Figbottom.” His voice echoed oddly in his ears. Shock rippled through him: He couldn’t be this foxed from only one glass…

  She sashayed deeper into the room, the swoosh of her emerald gown grating on his ears. “Story has it, the knight thought he would burn in hell once for murdering his unfaithf
ul wife, and a second time for killing her lover. Hence he ‘burned his wine’ twice and put it in the far corner of the cellar. Whereupon he promptly forgot about it.”

  He seemed to be looking at her from down a long tunnel, and she was a blur of green gown, pale skin and flaming hair. “What…is…” His mouth was not working properly. “Wrong…with…me?”

  “Finding it years later,” she continued as if he had not spoken, “he must have felt a bit better, or worse, about his destiny because he decided to imbibe. And acidic, poor wine was reborn as Cognac.”

  The room spiraled around him in sickening green waves, and he fell back into the chair with a thump.

  “The story is completely false,” she stated in devilish tones, leaning forward and bracing herself on the arms of his chair. The scent of roses enveloped him, making his stomach lurch.

  “The drink…” he slurred.

  Her face swam before his eyes; the skin ghost white, cat green eyes, devil-red curls and scarlet lips formed in a smirk. “We know that Cognac was born by accident. An offshoot of economies of trade. But the myth is much more affecting.”

  “I’ll see…you…in hell…for this,” he whispered, barely able to keep his eyes open.

  “The road to hell is paved with good intentions,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

  All went black.

  “Fanny, what have you done?” Lillian cried from the doorway.

  Her friend stood over the canopied bed where Redford lay stretched out on his back, his sleek, bare skin glistening in the candlelight.

  “What?” Fanny turned. “Oh, get that horrorstruck look off your face. He will be fine. The alchemist said that he might have a bit of a headache, but he will be fit as a fiddle all the same.”

  “And you trust this?” Lillian shrieked.

  “Look at him, he’s breathing soundly and shows no ill effects from the tonic.”

  “You could have killed him!”

  “Piffle.”

  Her friend’s confidence reassured her, and Lillian’s feet edged forward. She was afraid but too fascinated not to look. Her breath caught; the man was a masterpiece of smooth, pale skin rippling over fluid brawn. His head rested to one side, spreading his collar-length glossy black mane over his shoulder. His arms bulged in repose over his head, held there with colorful silken cords tied from wrists to bedposts. This position opened his chest like a fan of undulating muscle.

  “Oh, my,” she breathed, spellbound by the dipping hollow of his navel. Heady warmth washed over her, and more than anything she longed to graze her hand across the sprinkling of black fuzz that ended abruptly at the silken white sheet at his waist.

  “He is a beauty among men, isn’t he?” Fanny marveled.

  Lillian swallowed. “You would know better than me.”

  Setting hand to hip, Fanny grinned. “That’s true. And I must say, he’s as well favored as any man I’ve had the good fortune to bed in the last few years.”

  “Look at those scars.” Lillian pointed to the slashes of white on the moon-pale skin of his chest and arms. “I wonder what happened to him.”

  “The man was an orphan; it could not have been easy.”

  Something inside Lillian tightened at seeing Nick Redford so vulnerable. He was not a fantasy but a flesh-and-blood man with history, feelings and hurts. “Fanny, this is not right—”

  “Now for the prize,” Fanny declared. Reaching forward, she lifted the sheet.

  Lillian grabbed her hand. “Fanny!”

  “This is a golden opportunity. You might as well enjoy the view.”

  “It just doesn’t seem right.”

  “And drugging him was? Besides, where’s the harm, the man is out cold.”

  Guilt clashed with fascination inside Lillian. Where was the harm at this point? She was going to hell anyway, she might as well glance a peek. Slowly, she released her friend’s hand.

  Lowering the sheet, Fanny beamed. “Oh, my.”

  Lillian straightened.

  “Pretty astounding that those parts cause so much trouble in this world,” Fanny opined.

  Lillian tilted her head. “When he is resting and all, well, it does not look so daunting.”

  “Daunting? Dear Lord, Lillian. I’m coming to believe this is an act of charity, me exposing you to a man other than Dillon. I love him dearly, mind you, but the man clearly is not a good influence on you. That, right there, is heaven’s perfect tool of pleasure, and a mighty well formed one at that.”

  “Look at those thighs,” Lillian murmured, raising her hand to her lips. The thighs were brushed with a delicate cover of dark fuzz on sea-foam white skin. “Each one around is as big as my waist.”

  “Go ahead,” Fanny encouraged, stepping aside. “Touch him. He will not wake.”

  That navel just begged to be stroked. She felt the yearning deep in her middle, like a ticklish hunger that could never be satisfied with food.

  “He will not wake?”

  “Go ahead, Lillian.”

  Swallowing, she tentatively stretched out her hand. Her fingertips swept across the gentle slope of his rib cage. “Like a baby’s bottom…” she marveled, her heart charging with excitement. She explored that delicious dip in his navel, then raked her fingers through the crisp black hair. A ticklish heat swamped her, and she felt the unholy desire to press her mouth to that very abdomen and taste him. She licked her parted lips. “He is beautiful….”

  “His face is not bad either.”

  His angular features had softened; the hard lines coalesced into a smooth, handsome visage. The worry had eased from his broad brow, his lids were closed, and his mouth was slightly open in repose.

  Leaning over, she traced a fingertip along that sumptuous bottom lip. It was velvety soft. His warm breath enveloped her finger.

  He groaned.

  She jumped, clutching her friend.

  Fanny grasped her hand. “Do not fret. He is tightly bound.”

  They watched him with baited breath. He did not move or make another sound.

  Lillian struggled free of Fanny’s hold. “This is depraved, Fanny. We are fondling an unconscious man.”

  “Yes, it is a bit wicked, isn’t it?” She grinned unabashedly. “I have not had this much fun in years.”

  “Fanny!”

  “Must you sour all my grapes?” Fanny moaned. “It feels like ages since I’ve had a good tumble, and this is amazing inspiration.”

  “Even if he is not awake, we must respect his dignity. It’s only proper.”

  “There’s nothing proper about what we’re doing tonight, Lillian. So get that idea right out of your head.”

  Despite her better intentions, Lillian spared another look at that poetic convergence of man and muscle. “Don’t you think he’s cold?”

  “Stanley stoked the fire. Besides, when Mr. Redford gets you in his sights, he’ll be hotter than burned bisque.”

  “Dear Lord, the servants must know! What must Mr. Stanley think?”

  “Don’t you mind about Stanley or anyone else. You just worry about Redford here.” Fanny sashayed to the door.

  “You can’t just leave me here!” Lillian cried, suddenly panicking.

  “I have done everything in my power to get you to this point, dear. Now it’s time for you to do your part.”

  “But Fanny! I can’t do it if he’s unconscious. It defeats the whole purpose.”

  “He should wake in an hour or two.”

  “But…but…what do I do until then?”

  “Whatever you wish,” Fanny cooed, slamming the door closed behind her.

  The key turned in the lock with a deafening click.

  Chapter 7

  The scent of hearth spices beckoned Nick to consciousness, and he became aware of soft down beneath him. A fire was nearby; he could feel its wafting warmth. He exhaled a shuddering sigh of relief. He had had a nightmare, of that much he was sure, but the specifics eluded him. He could only recall trying to struggle with some
unknown fiend, but his arms would not function.

  A sense of impotence stained his consciousness. He swallowed, and, surprisingly, that tang of fear seemed to still lace his tongue, intermingled with something sour. Like aged goat cheese.

  He felt ragged, as if he had overslept but not quite gotten the rest that he needed. A late night at Tipton’s Tavern perhaps? His memory was fuzzy, his senses dull.

  He peeled his gummy eyes open and saw that he was lying on a canopied bed with fluted, ivory columns supporting a mint green embroidered tester. He tried to rise, only to realize he was hindered. His arms were fastened.

  “What?…” His cry came out as barely a croak. His throat felt burned to ash. He yanked his arms again. They were tied with silken cords. What the hell was going on?

  Panic pulsed through him, bringing with it sharp awareness. For the first time, he took a good look at his situation. He was as bare as the day he was born, with a thin sheet covering him to his waist. He was in a fancy bedroom with one white paneled closed door. Probably locked. A dresser, a divan and two armchairs by the fire. Wait. One of those chairs was occupied. Pulling on the bindings, he stretched as high up as he could to see. He could not have been more stunned if it had been Father Christmas.

  A lush young woman lay curled up asleep in a corner of the chair, her back to him. She wore a rail of the flimsiest silk in a color that reminded him of a lush peach. Golden red curls cascaded loosely over her shoulders and down her back like a wealth of silk. The swell of her derriere pressed against the skin-thin chemise, giving him a view that, on any other occasion, he would have appreciated.

  What the hell was happening here? He felt too awake for this to be a dream, and too cross for it to be a fantasy. Though he had had a few offers, he had not once felt the inclination for erotic sport. His brain scrambled for memory. Green furnishing. Cognac. Miss Figbottom.

  His inability to function.

  Poison.

  “Bloody hell!” Though his throat burned raw, it felt good to scream.