by Summer Devon
It could have been worse, Rosalie supposed. He was not a bad person, not like the coachman next door, who had a tendency to drink too much, use the whip too often, and act in an unpleasant manner with the maids. “He’s a good man. He won’t gossip.”
The older lady kept her eyes closed, but she did not fall into hysterics. “I saw him,” she said in a low voice. “He was coming back from the, ah, privy. And I told him the air was too wonderful to go indoors. He agreed. Particularly in his room, he said. I gave him permission to come through the iron gate. The garden. To look at the fountain. And we talked, and then I, ah, I think…I told him I wanted him to kiss me. I hadn’t been kissed, you see. I hadn’t. But if it wasn’t a dream…” Her voice grew thick with unshed tears. “Good gracious, I’ve been kissed…”
She gave a choked sob. “It-it was… The whole thing was so…” She shook her head. “I will never forgive myself. Never.”
“It wasn’t your fault. Please, Emily, you were under the influence of a powerful drug. No one could blame you.”
The lady pulled out a neat little handkerchief and broke down completely. “Oh no. It’s terrible. Unforgivable.” She took to her heels and flew from the room, slamming into Beels, who must have been listening at the door.
* * *
Rosalie longed to pretend nothing had happened, but someone had to make sure the man in question would stay quiet. She considered sending a vaguely threatening note, but wasn’t sure Hawes could read. Summoning him wouldn’t be a good plan. Miss Renshaw might see him in the house, which would not be good for her overwrought emotional state, not to mention the servants had enough material for gossip.
Rosalie decided to go through the garden and cross the cobblestone yard to find Hawes.
It was late enough in the morning that the mews and stables were fairly quiet. Looking around to make sure no one watched, she skirted the pile of hay and manure, climbed the rickety wooden steps, and rapped on the door of the small apartment.
“Come on in,” a muffled voice shouted.
Hawes sat at a bare wooden table, eating eggs from a chipped plate. At the sight of Rosalie, he jumped to his feet and yanked off his brown woolen cap, revealing a head of uncombed graying hair that blended into his side whiskers and mustache. He wore only a plain white shirt and trousers, held up with cheery blue braces. Taller than Rosalie by only an inch or so, he must have outweighed her by a good two stone, all of it muscle, she guessed.
“Take a seat, miss?” he mumbled, clutching and working the hat between both hands.
She shook her head and launched straight into speech before she lost what was left of her nerve. Best to use her reputation again as a blunt female. “Last night Miss Renshaw and you had a…an interlude. It was due to some unfortunate drug she had accidentally taken, Mr. Hawes.”
“Naw.” His voice was hoarse with shock. “I wouldn’t guess she was under the influence. She didn’t sound slurred or nothing. She was like herself, only…happier.”
“It was something other than alcohol. I think it best you forget it happened and never speak of this matter to anyone. I feel responsible for her accidental dosing, so I will certainly help her should there be consequences.” She gulped at her own words. Consequences meant a baby. Oh heavens, she wished she knew what to do. No wonder her father fell back on anger so often.
He scowled, and the skin under his left eye twitched slightly. “I don’t wanna forget it. Best thing ever happened. I won’t talk none to anybody. Her reputation’s safe. But don’t tell me it didn’t happen. I’ve had girls in my time, but none so sweet and kind and full of life.”
Rosalie flashed on the image of his naked bum moving. “I’m not sure I should hear this,” she said firmly. “I’m absolutely certain no one else should.”
He shuffled his feet, clad in heavy boots. He hadn’t dressed in his uniform. “She’s a good person, is Emily. If she’ll have me, it would make me the happiest guy ever.”
She stared at him. The thought that he might actually want marriage hadn’t occurred to her. Rosalie clasped her hands to stop herself from gesturing around the small one-room apartment with the narrow, unmade bed, the rough table. “Mr. Hawes…you must understand…Miss Renshaw was born to an important family, and even though she has lost her former position in the world, she is a genteel lady.”
“Yah, I understand. But see—” He stopped, and she knew he wanted to spit, his usual habit when at a loss for words. Thank goodness he didn’t inside his room.
“Go on,” she said gently. No point in imitating her father any longer. She never could maintain righteous indignation for more than a few minutes.
“This is New York. It ain’t England. She can say ‘get lost’ to me, but you can’t, if you’ll excuse me, miss.” He sounded apologetic, not belligerent.
He’d taken so much of the wind out of her, Rosalie wished she’d said yes to the chair he’d offered. She chewed her bottom lip. “You’re absolutely correct. And I’m so glad you’re an honorable man.” Hesitantly she asked, “But, Mr. Hawes, can you base a whole life together on a half-hour interlude?”
She didn’t expect him to answer the question, but he did. “More’n an hour, to be honest.” A shadow of a leer crossed his face. “And, miss, you think I ain’t noticed her all the time I’ve worked for you? All the time she does errands and I go along? Always thought she was a fine figure and bright smile. And when she looks at a man with—”
She felt her face turn hot and hastily held up a hand. “You were right. This is not actually my business.”
He scowled and looked away. “I’ll understand if you turn me out, miss.”
“Oh, nonsense.” She gave up. Heaving a sigh, she dropped down onto the chair. “The fact is that her unusual behavior was the result of a drug, as I said. Didn’t you suspect she was not herself?”
He scratched his grizzled cheek and didn’t answer.
Rosalie spoke more quietly. “She’s terribly upset—she thought it was a dream.”
“Huh.” His face drew in, as if the light inside him had gone out.
She found herself adding, “Although she did call the dream pleasant.”
He grinned down at the blunt fingers clutching the cap.
She knew she had to act the proper lady again. “Please do not engage in such activities again. Not before marriage.”
His grin broadened. Clearly the man felt she’d given him permission to woo Miss Renshaw and was delighted with the world.
Rosalie wished she could again order him to forget the whole thing, even though true warmth showed in that smile of his. She felt sorry for him. Miss Renshaw would likely want to forget any memories of the night he cherished.
Rosalie bid him good-bye, shook the square, browned hand he thrust out at her. Those tobacco-stained fingers against Miss Renshaw’s pale skin… Rosalie hadn’t seen that detail, but her imagination was too sharp this morning.
She went down the rough-hewn stairway, past the fragrance of leather, horse manure, and sweat, and through the iron gate to her own yard.
If Miss Renshaw decided to accept the coachman, this might be the path she would take every morning if she kept up her duties as a lady’s companion. Well, why not?
Evenings above the stables might be better for Miss Renshaw than evenings sitting in your parlor, smiling at nothing until it was time for sleep, an evil little voice said. She suspected it was the voice of Cousin Johnny.
She changed into a morning gown and sat down to write letters. Miss Renshaw had retreated to her room and refused to come out.
“Shall I throw these away?” The maid indicated the pile of roses Hawes had sent over that had been ignored.
“No, please.” How horrid it would be if he saw the flowers in the dustbin. “Get me the Sevres vase, and I’ll do what I can to save them.”
She pulled off the outer leaves and recalled the flowers were the same dusty pink as Miss Renshaw’s gown. Had Hawes noticed that? It occurred to her that the f
lowers must have cost him a great chunk of his week’s wages.
Enough. She had more serious things to deal with than some abandoned flowers. Someone else must know how to destroy or somehow alter the wretched amprodizic or whatever it was called.
She’d contact the two men who clearly knew what was in that box. But she suddenly realized she had discarded their calling cards. How did one find the direction of a rake?
She called for her driver. “Good morning, Hawes,” she said in a loud, firm voice as the footman held open the carriage door and Murphy, Rosalie’s maid, climbed in first.
Unfortunately Hawes wasn’t much of an actor. Usually he’d say, “Morning, miss,” in a friendly manner, but today he avoided her gaze and mumbled. At least Beels wasn’t a witness to his peculiar morning greeting.
She alighted from the carriage at Mr. Dorsey’s office.
“Good gracious, I should have come to you,” he said, rising. His frown reminded her that a lady shouldn’t enter the territory of men and business.
She smiled, hoping to coax him out of his dismay. “Yes, but my companion is not well, and I didn’t want to ask you to visit a house of contagion.”
“Oh dear, Miss…errm…” He, like most people, had forgotten Miss Renshaw’s name.
“She will be fine.” Rosalie adjusted the embroidered band of her right glove. Later on she’d tell Miss Renshaw her lie about contagion. That ought to improve the lady’s spirits. Miss Renshaw seemed obsessively worried the world would find out about her folly.
Mr. Dorsey nodded vigorously. “Happy to hear it. Good, good. But tell me what I can do for you today.”
“I recall that Mr. Gideon Reed said he was stopping at a hotel, but I can’t remember which one.”
“Fifth Avenue. Mr. Clermont is there also. I did wonder if they were friends.”
She didn’t bother to tell him they didn’t seem to stay apart from one another—not even for a few minutes.
Mr. D.’s wide-eyed alarm made him look even more like a pug dog than usual. “I should have warned you earlier, ma’am. I have heard some rumors about Mr. Clermont that worry me a great deal. I am not at all certain he’s a respectable character.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if that were true of everyone who coveted Cousin Johnny’s objects. Thank you for letting me know.” She rose to her feet. That settled it, then. She had no interest in allowing a couple of scoundrels to take possession of the powder. Still, she had nowhere else to turn for information.
“This is about the vial?” he asked. “You have decided what to do?”
“Not yet.”
“Let me know what you decide. I shan’t rest easy until I know you’ve rid yourself of the substance.”
That makes two of us, she didn’t say aloud.
* * *
The day was clear and lovely, far too beautiful to spend in the city on business.
Certainly too nice a day to visit a pair of disreputable rakes. Yet she directed Hawes to the Fifth Avenue Hotel.
Outside the 23rd Street entrance, a crowd had gathered.
She squeezed through the milling groups of well-dressed New Yorkers, found a bellboy, and sent a message. Waiting for a reply, she stood in the hotel’s crowded ladies’ parlor, wishing she’d worn some sort of veil. Too many people she knew were here, and the crowds were growing thicker. She fell into conversation with a well-to-do matron and soon learned the reason for the unusual number of visitors.
The Republican candidate for president was visiting the city and staying at this very hotel, Mrs. Wallack informed her. “But I didn’t know you were interested in politics.”
“Naturally. Isn’t everyone?” She caught sight of a tall, dark-haired gentleman in the doorway. Mr. Reed?
She watched him, and her unruly mind wondered if he grasped his partners in sexual congress the way Hawes had Miss Renshaw. Those large, warm hands pulling her against his body. Naked flesh.
The man turned, and she saw it wasn’t Mr. Reed.
That was enough to stop the unwelcome thoughts immediately. She felt her face turn hot.
Fuming at herself for the vulgar turn of her imagination and at the reprobates for making her wait, she smiled at Mrs. Wallack. “Do tell me,” she said. “What will you say when you’re introduced to Mr. Garfield?”
Chapter Three
Clermont was at his second favorite hobby, reading aloud from his diary of his previous day’s “adventures,” when someone knocked at the suite’s door.
Reed jumped to his feet, relieved. Listening to this stuff was one of his least favorite chores, but it helped keep Clermont calm and more malleable.
When the bellboy announced a lady awaited them, Clermont pulled the cigar from his mouth. “Wonderful. I’ll be ready in—”
Reed interrupted the bright-eyed Clermont. “Escort her to the ladies’ parlor, please.” Reed handed the boy a random American coin. “I’ll meet her there in a few minutes.”
He closed the door and glared at Clermont, who lay on the bed, his handwritten pages in one hand, the fat cigar between the fingers of the other.
“We agreed you will not entertain here,” he said.
“I can’t help it if the ladies come after me.” Clermont took a big puff of the cigar, and ash spilled onto his chest. “You’ll just pay the staff a little extra, and I can at last employ my staff in more pleasant surroundings.”
“No, Clermont. The rules aren’t going to change just because we’re not in London.” Reed picked up the list of ships heading back to England and waved it in his usual unspoken threat of handing in his notice.
Clermont swung his legs off the bed. “Laddie, I am sad we aren’t getting along lately.”
“You’re sad that the more responsible members of your family will probably send the law after you if I scarper.”
“Not at all, but I know they’ll ship someone even less fit and able than my old friend Reed.”
“God bless the man your family sends. He’ll need God on his side.” Reed pulled out a watch and slumped down into a chair. “Is the female downstairs a professional? Because they warned me again at the front desk—this is a respectable establishment. If any more ladies of the night show up asking for you—”
“I tell you, I hadn’t made any plans. Now I might. I’ll nip down and take a good look at her.” He rubbed his hands together.
“No. I’ll nip down and send her on her way. You push the limits of my patience.”
Clermont still wore that vapid smile that meant he wasn’t thinking about anything other than plowing into whichever female waited for him downstairs.
Reed tried again. “You said you wanted to go to the Lotus House tonight. Save your strength for that.”
Clermont flopped back down and stubbed out the cigar on the bedside table. “Very well.”
Reed examined the man lounging on the bed. He’d learned Clermont’s mannerisms well enough to know when the man planned to escape his keeper, and this wasn’t one of those times. Apparently the reminder of the Lotus House had worked.
One of the older siblings in a large family, Reed knew how to manage small children, and Clermont’s personality rather resembled a toddler’s. One could take away his toys far more easily if one dangled the promise of another treat in front of him. Keep him busy, and he’d stay out of trouble. What a pity Clermont wasn’t a small child instead of a strong, reasonably good-looking, too-wealthy, unbridled idiot.
Reed picked up his wallet and hat. If necessary, he’d escort the woman from the premises, perhaps pay her cab fare—or even more. He had grown weary of Clermont and most of his ladies, but occasionally the female who’d hunted down the rich Englishman was desperate and hungry.
God knew he wasn’t a puritanical soul—or hadn’t been until he’d held this job for several weeks—but it gave Reed positive pleasure to give such a woman a hefty sum from Clermont’s purse as he informed her she needn’t use her body to earn her living for at least a few days.
He a
voided the creaking elevator and used the stairs all the way to the first floor. The bellboy asked him to wait in a semiprivate lounge while he fetched the lady.
“Who is this lady?”
“Dunno.” The bellboy pushed away the strap to his cap and absently scratched at a red mark on his chin. “Didn’t give a name. I swear it, Cap’n. Said it was personal business.”
Confirmation that she was up to no good.
Reed settled himself in a chair and waited. The last one who’d shown up at the hotel had tried to seduce him, and despite months of celibacy, he’d said no without much regret.
There was only one female who’d appealed to him lately. She’d drawn him with her full, expressive mouth, the delicious curves of her figure, but he’d grown too accustomed to that sort of appeal—Clermont would only visit sexually arousing women. The difference was he’d also decided he liked her. He’d had a chance to watch her rebuff Clermont more than once during their long visit. Miss Ambermere wouldn’t fall into Clermont’s arms, thank goodness.
When they went to call on her, he’d supposed they’d visited her for the usual reasons.
During their calls upon most independent females, Reed’s job was to remain as invisible as possible while making certain the lady truly wanted Clermont. He was to allow Clermont and his choice to conduct their “flirtation” and eventually, discreetly disappear. That was the usual procedure.
By God, this lady had more in her mind than cocks and innuendos.
He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed the company of females. She’d talked of New York and England, and she’d made him want to laugh when she’d tried to drive them out of her parlor.
Clermont’s conversation and diary reduced each woman to a series of curves and hot, wet holes of mouths, vaginas, and arseholes. During their visit with Miss Ambermere, he’d realized how pleasant it was to remember they were humans. Miss Ambermere was a person and, even better, never the sort who’d come calling for Clermont in his hotel, looking for mindless pleasure.
Oh, dear God.
Miss Ambermere stood in the doorway, squeezing her hands together, obviously nervous.
