by Summer Devon
* * *
The long night drew to a close. Reed sent exhausted servants on their way or off to bed and reminded them of their duty to remain silent. He doubted his admonition made the slightest bit of difference. Probably even the bribes of money that would come later wouldn’t be effective.
Some of the guests had to be awakened, dressed by one of the remaining maids, or assisted by Beels. Then Reed summoned carriages for the bedraggled partygoers. Not their own carriages, usually. Those servants had been dismissed a little after midnight, and rather than ask questions, they went off happily. Only one or two coaches lingered because the coachmen claimed they’d lose their jobs if they left without direct permission. That meant Mrs. Lark had a ride home.
Reed found Rosalie asleep on the kitchen table. He hoisted her in his arms and carried her up the stairs.
She woke and smiled. “You,” she said. “Good. Thank you.”
She wrapped an arm around his neck and snuggled deeper against him.
He’d already decided he must tell some of the people who’d lived through this evening what had occurred. But what could he say to Rosalie? Not only had he failed to protect her from assault, he’d carried it out himself.
She’d expect him to tell the truth. She would if the positions were reversed. But over the next few days, weeks, and months, she’d have to face some consequences. Someone would know all the night’s happenings. All it would take is one whispering servant.
He sighed and pushed open her door with his knee. The bed had been thoroughly disordered by the long-gone Mr. Wentworth and Mrs. Lark.
Would he have to approach those two guests and tell them the truth? She wouldn’t be likely to bear a child…
“Gideon.” The fragrant bundle in his arms kissed his neck. “Thank you for everything you did. I know you helped us immeasurably.”
“Not with everything I did,” he said as he knelt and put her on the rumpled sheets.
“Everything.” She held open her arms, and he almost went to her. Almost answered the invitation. Then he remembered Maggie. The body’s mindlessness.
“No, damn it. It’s horrible.”
“I am?” She peered at him, her forehead furrowed.
“Not you. All of it, Rosalie. You saw it. You saw your mother and the others.”
“My mother. She’s…” Her voice died away.
He wished to God he’d not reminded her of that, but he had to stop her. “You know what’s causing this, and you want more?”
“No, it—it’s not…” She gnawed her lip. He watched the white teeth worrying at her mouth and wished he could reach out and stop her.
She shook her head. “Not the same.”
God, he still wanted her and had to drive them back from it. Remember Maggie, he thought. “Tonight it is nothing but bodies. You can’t speak of anything else when all action is dictated by pure need created by artificial means. There’s nothing of real regard or affection in those embraces.”
“No?” Her voice was strangled. “That is your perception, Gideon. Not mine. Not what I saw or felt.”
“It’s easy to allow the powder to take over your thoughts as well as your body,” he said. He couldn’t allow her to say something she might regret. Wait for the cold light of day, he wanted to say.
But she wasn’t begging him to fuck her. Her response was cold, and he supposed he deserved every chilly word.
“At least I am not a pious hypocrite,” she said. “I am going to write down everything. All the things that you and I did together in that library. Twice we did that. So if I forget this evening, you won’t be able to plead innocent.”
He rocked back on his heels and straightened. “Rosalie, I am sorry you think I’m a hypocrite. Come to think of it, you’re probably right.” He sighed. “I’m angry. I’m confused. It’s been a very long night.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “And the only proper thing for me to do is to thank you for your help. I shan’t bother you again.” She gave a sniff. “And don’t worry. I won’t find paper and write down what happened. I daresay I’d be more mortified than you if I remember tonight.”
“I doubt that,” he said. “For the whole of the night, I’ve despised myself for my weakness.”
She waved a hand at him, then covered her face with an arm as if trying block out a light. Only a lamp glowed next to the bed.
“No need to hate yourself, me, or anyone else. I am tired of your grim face, Mr. Reed. You were disapproving the first time you sat in my parlor and refused to say a word. Arms all tucked up tight,” she said peevishly, her voice muffled by her arm. “Heavens, I wish I had the sense to fall in love with someone who had a lighter heart.”
In love? She thought she was in love with him? His heart was suddenly so light, it had flown into his mouth.
“Rosalie?”
She’d closed her eyes, and now her breathing was deep and regular. He leaned over her and kissed her cheek. “I’d never despise you. I couldn’t,” he whispered.
That was settled, then. Once the stuff had worn off, he’d be back.
He’d already argued with himself that his need for her could just be some animal drive within him. Or it could just be the bloody powder. But at that last sentence of hers, he was lost.
Love was a word he heard often enough, lightly tossed about. No reason it should mean more than I love champagne. Lady Williamsford and her set probably used it in every conversation. Yet he couldn’t talk himself out of the exhilaration her grumpy words had stirred in him.
He went out the servants’ entrance and into the predawn air. The city had scarcely dozed through the night hours, and the new day had already started. A milkman chirruped to his horse, and a rag-and-bones cart was trundling down the street.
A pushcart vendor slowly pushed an empty cart near the gutter. Probably going to fill it with the day’s wares.
Reed watched the street scenes as he walked and thought of none of it. His mind still replayed her half-awake mumbling. She’d as much as said she’d fallen in love with him.
The words weren’t new to her. She’d already thought of him and connected him to love before. There had been a weary, what-else-is-new attitude in her voice.
That was enough to make him smile. She was annoyed by the fact that she loved him.
He laughed aloud.
Never a particularly romantic man, he’d lived through an embarrassing end to his one love affair. And after all that time with Clermont and now this powder idiocy, it was easy enough to believe that love was nothing more than some sort of glandular condition, brought on by biological need. Yet for some reason, the cynical Gideon Reed apparently believed she wasn’t lying to him or fooling herself when she said she was in love.
He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Another smack on his head. The only reason he could thoroughly believe was simple. He was in love as well.
A convert was the most fervent sort of believer. And Reed knew he was converted. Even if she denied loving him, and even if she laughed in his face, his love for her had become ingrained in him—and all before he’d understood its existence. His love for Rosalie would be impossible to lop off and discard. He was utterly trapped, bewitched, and conquered by a woman commonly regarded as a headstrong shrew.
He began to whistle.
* * *
Her mother was at the breakfast table. Even pale and with circles under her eyes, Rosalie’s mother retained a radiant beauty.
It wasn’t fair. Blonde beauty was supposed to be delicate and easily lost. Puffy skin or pink noses. Or at least Deirdre should have worn a look of anxiety and shame that would turn her wan.
Never Deirdre, Lady Williamsford.
She smiled as she caught sight of Rosalie.
“Before you rip into me, I want to say I didn’t know. What happened last night was far more than I expected,” she announced.
“I’m glad you remember, because now you know it was more than my reputation or yours can bear.” Rosalie had con
sidered ranting, crying, or at least giving her mother a good scolding. But what was the use? She sat down at the table and contemplated the coffeepot.
Her life as she knew it was over. Where could a disgraced young woman go next? Perhaps a new city, even take a new name. She had enough money. She tried to feel horror but only felt fatigue and a sense of loss.
“Your Mr. Beels is not speaking to me.” Deirdre raised her coffee cup to her lips. “And I swear I saw the two footmen leer at me as I came down the stairs. I’ll have to bribe every servant in your employ and mine too. Ah well.”
“Yes, Mother, but I don’t think that will be enough.” Rosalie decided she’d risk coffee. She poured a cup and ignored the sugar and cream. Bitter and strong was just what she needed. “I wonder, do you remember what you did last night? And what happened to the guests who came to my house expecting innocent entertainment?”
Her mother shrugged and nodded. “Some of it, yes. Rather too sprightly. I think your Mr. Reed was right. It has a stronger effect on those who aren’t used to indulging their senses.”
“My Mr. Reed. Ha.” She couldn’t remember him saying that.
“He was invaluable. I understand he managed to stop the worst of the effects in many of your guests.”
“Our guests.”
Her mother went on as if she hadn’t interrupted. “And Mr. Reed brought in that handsome doctor. Very pleasant young man. What is his name?”
Rosalie sipped coffee and refused to answer. She wasn’t going to add any more men to her mother’s collection. They sat in silence for several long minutes. The coffee helped clear her head, but she wished her mind wouldn’t grow so very clear. She was remembering too much.
“Rosalie?” For the first time in Rosalie’s memory, her mother’s voice was hesitant and perhaps even trembled. Rosalie looked up and waited. Her mother’s eyes were bright. But with tears now, not plots.
“I’m sorry, love,” her mother said at last. “I truly didn’t know how strong that stuff was. Even Mr. Clermont, who’d described it to me, was shocked. Except he was delighted. I, on the other hand, regret it. Indeed I do.” She put her napkin on the table and pushed back her chair. “I wouldn’t be worried if it weren’t for you, my girl.”
“Mother, there is no point in regrets now. Barn door after the horse is gone.” Rosalie shut her eyes and sipped the coffee. It would be the small things that kept her sane. The taste of good coffee. The vague and lovely memory of the first time she made love with a man. “I only hope no one summons the authorities. We’d look so horrible in prison clothing.”
Her mother rose from the table and walked to her side. “I expected you to be in a raging fit. I thought you’d be like an avenging angel.”
“I suppose we’ll discover the consequences and deal with them as they arise. I will expect your help, Mother. We will need to aid anyone harmed last night. I don’t know if it’ll take money or explanations, but we must be ready to give both.”
Her mother patted her shoulder awkwardly, then gave it a brisk rub as if Rosalie were a dog. She returned to her place and picked up her fork. Her normal manner of slightly jolly disdain returned. “You are a good girl. I most definitely don’t deserve a daughter as forgiving as you. But alas, that is my fate in life.”
Rosalie felt a real smile rise. “And you are a bad, wicked woman. But you are still my mother. I can’t throw you away and try again.”
“Much as you’d like to.”
“Don’t tempt me, Deirdre. I do have screams and fainting fits bottled up inside. Push me, and I’ll indulge in them. Have you seen Miss Renshaw this morning?”
Deirdre daintily forked some scrambled eggs. “She came sneaking in about seven a.m. From the back. I imagine she had enough soup to give her the strength to retire with her coachman for the night.”
Rosalie felt so relieved, she reached for a piece of toast. “Good. He’d take care of her.” She began to spread some jam and stopped suddenly, knife still pressed to the toast. “Oh dear. How far I have fallen when I am glad to hear that a single woman spent the night with a man.”
Beels entered the room with a calling card on his silver salver. Rosalie’s heart sank. It was ten—too early for formal callers. This had to be the result of the unfortunate party. The right corner was folded, and her heart sped up. An English caller? Americans, particularly men, didn’t indulge in the habit of folding a card.
“Thank you, Beels,” she said, watching him.
“Yes, miss.” He gave his tiny mouth a twitch to indicate a smile. A good sign. Perhaps he wasn’t about to give notice.
She glanced at the card. Though she’d suspected what she’d see there, her breath caught. Should she be home to him?
She knew she had promised not to bother him again. He’d carried her up the stairs, and he’d talked about how much he loathed…everything.
She knew she’d done something, but couldn’t exactly recall why he might despise her. And then a haphazard flood of memory came to her, filling her body as well as her mind. The hard floor of the library. A man deep inside her, thrusting.
But that had been Gideon. Oh, good that he had been Gideon.
But he’d been angry… The weariness filled her again, evaporating all joy at seeing his name on the small, plain pasteboard.
She tapped it against her palm, ignoring her mother’s inquiring looks and Beels as he stood near the chair, with his face blank in his exaggeratedly patient wait for an order.
“I should see him.”
Beels turned on his heel to fetch the visitor, but before he got to the door, her courage failed. “Wait,” she said.
Businesslike, she reminded herself. She could talk about the ravages of orgies with him in an aloof, grave manner. He would know what to do next and who required aid. She could get the details of the night from him rather than the servants.
But not the details of what had occurred in the library. Two days in a row. Something about that place…
Copulation and rage—she now recalled vivid snatches of that episode, but she would keep them to herself. The powder stole memory, and that would be her excuse to never mention the incident in the library—and how she’d begged him. She’d retain her dignity, and as sure as she sat there, she would not grovel in any way, shape, or form. She’d pretend he was Mr. Dorsey and was here to discuss business.
“Put him in the small parlor. I’ll join him immediately. No. In five minutes,” she decided.
“Mr. Reed?” her mother asked when Beels left the room.
She nodded. “How did you know?”
“Your face went pink, and you started puffing and snorting like an outraged carriage horse. Don’t let the man get to you.”
Too late for that.
Her plan to pretend he was Mr. Dorsey failed the minute she opened the door and found him pacing the room. All traces of the horrible party had been cleared away, and it looked like her innocent parlor, but now she remembered this was where the naked bodies had been. And her mother had been… She refused to dwell upon that memory.
She cleared her throat. “Mr. Reed?”
“Rosalie.”
He still called her by her first name. That was not a sign of an implacably angry gentleman.
“Won’t you sit down? May I offer you refreshment?”
He waited until she sat before he threw himself onto a chair near her and frowned at her. Time for a diatribe. Instead he asked, “Are you well? Do you think you’ve recovered from the effects? I wasn’t going to disturb you, but I’ve heard that a couple of the visitors did have some gastric distress.”
“Oh no. Are they recovered?” She rose to her feet. “Shall I call for a doctor to visit them? How many are there?”
“Three.” He blushed as he sprang to his feet, and she wondered if she’d seen him turn red before. “And, um, actually, I’m not surprised they had stomachaches. They were eating as if they’d been starved for weeks. I don’t think you need to worry about them.”
&
nbsp; She was on the point of asking him why he bothered to mention them, when he began pacing again. Obviously the man was under some terrible emotional strain—related to her, of course.
Rather than face a lecture, she spoke quickly. “So what do you think we should do? Do you suppose we could have Miss Renshaw talk to any ladies who might have been affected? She’d be willing to share some of her experience. Suffering shared becomes lighter.” She sat down and watched him walk. Back and forth.
“Yes.” He paused. “That’s a good plan.”
“The doctor would also accompany her.”
“I don’t trust him.”
She was going to argue, then had a distinct memory of the doctor holding her in his arms the night before. He’d kissed her shoulder. “He does like women,” she said.
“He is not as reliable as he should be. Intelligent and perhaps good at his work. But I hope I might help with the research—and help keep the researcher from using the powder for his own purposes.” He paused and gave her a long look. “I had rather thought I should stay on. In the city.”
She twisted her hands together and tried to sound indifferent. “What of your plans to travel west?”
“I think I could stay here for a time. I want to…well… Uh. I want…”
Gideon was not prone to stuttering. She wondered what ailed him. A lack of sleep? Definitely. The shadows under his eyes gave him the look of a dissipated poet. Far too attractive.
He folded his arms and glared at something on the floor. “This isn’t going well,” he muttered.
“Mr. Reed. I sense there is something serious you wish to discuss. Go ahead, please.”
“How much of the night do you recall, Rosalie?”
Drat. She had wished he would revert to his early, formal manner. It would be easier to concentrate on what had to be done if she could ignore the way it made her feel when he used her first name.
She picked her words carefully. “Enough to know that I should be grateful for your help. And that I might have some trouble ahead of me.”
