After he had checked to make sure no one from the crowd who had followed her from the theatre was still lurking, he locked the door. They strode down the street, his eyes darting left and right, alert for the least sign of danger. He had checked his pistol surreptitiously when she had been drinking the brandy, and was as ready as he could be if he ran into that howling mob of despoilers again. Though with some of his past acquaintance possibly lurking, those ravishers might be the least of his worries.
"I’m guessing from your performance this evening that you are nothing more than a hayseed up from the country for a bit of adventure. I hope this has been an object lesson regarding just how much trouble you can get into as a young woman on her own."
"Hayseed?" she hissed, her eyes narrowing.
Since spending more time in London she had begun to think of herself as rather sophisticated. Certainly she considered herself far more lofty than he in terms of class.
"What, am I to spare your amour propre, when your body very nearly wasn’t? Do you have any idea how dangerous this city is? What were your friends thinking leaving you all alone?" he asked angrily. "Working girl or not, those men were intent on rape."
She winced. He was right, though it galled her to admit it. She had no intention of arguing the first two points with him, but she now rose to the defence of her companions. "I don’t know where they went. They must have missed me in the crush."
George made a face and shook his head. "They’re common stales. They found a doorway or attic to hole up in and —"
Her eyes rounded in horror. "No, surely not. They’re—" She clamped her mouth shut before she gave away the game completely.
"They’re what?" he demanded, clutching her arm more tightly to him. "Please, don’t try to play me for a fool. I know everything. I’ve seen them before. They come about once a week and roger anything with money to pay. Practically empty out my theatre, which is a bad job on a slow night."
"Surely you must be mistaken," Miranda said stiffly.
"Nay, lass. I’m a procurer. A pimp, a bawd," he said in an off-hand tone, as if he were doing no more than discussing the weather. "I know my trollops. That bloody blonde woman is looser than a sailor’s teeth."
"A b-b-bawd?" she gasped.
"Aye. Surely you’ve heard of me. Everyone south of the river has. In fact, where do you think I’m taking you now?"
"Oh, no, God, no, please," she said, struggling against him in earnest.
He circled her arm with his huge hand like a manacle, trapping her completely though he never even squeezed or twisted. "What did you think was going to happen to you?" he said gruffly, taking little delight in terrifying her, but doing so in the hope he could deflect her from her road to sheer ruin.
"I thought you were going to save me from ravishment! Not do it yourself, or turn me over to many men instead of only one for a share of the profit in those beastly touches," she said in horror, trying to halt their progress down the street by digging her heels in and leaning back.
He relented at last. "No, you misunderstand. I’m glad I’ve scared you into seeing just how bad things can get for you if you’re not careful."
He allowed himself the luxury of stroking her shoulder, then took her arm lightly once more and resumed his progress down the street.
"I’m simply offering you a place to stay whilst you get on your feet again. No one is going to touch you. You go up the private way, using the back stairs, up to the garret. No one will bother you there. Then you need to take a long hard look at what you’re doing with your life. I can’t believe a fresh-faced young thing like you has no other options but to become an orange seller."
She raised her chin proudly. "I do, actually. If I could just borrow some money I could cross to the other side of the river and —"
He shook his head and gave a grim smile. "I think you’re just telling me that so I won’t make a fuss and will let you go back on the streets. Well, all right, but just remember, no one sneezes in my territory without me finding out about it. If the money is for a baby or younger brothers and sister, an elderly mother or something, fine. If it’s for drink or opium, all I ask is that you play straight about it. There are places you can go to try to get help. I know a good man, Dr. Antony Herriot, who has a clinic over in Bethnal Green. He helps girls go on the straight and narrow, and get good decent jobs."
She stared at him. She knew Antony Herriot. But she certainly wanted to know more about her companion. This was the dangerous criminal everyone spoke about in scandalised whispers?
"Look, it’s very kind of you to be so worried about me and my future, but—"
"You know," he said consideringly, "my leading actress has been asking for a helper for some time. A maid and general busy bee. It might suit, if you have a mind. I saw the way your eyes glowed when you were watching the play. It might not pay as much as trawling, but it’s not a bad life. With that and the room in the attic you ought to be able to save up and—"
She shook her head. "Really, it’s very kind of you, but—"
"And perhaps in time become an actress. Once you got a chance to see how we do things, see how you get on with the other people in the troupe. Most of them are all right, but Maggie and her husband Hugo are a bit loose. You need to say no to them. They enjoy threesomes," he explained with a shake of his head. "Sometimes more."
Ruddy color flooded her cheeks. "Really, I have no intention of working for such an immoderate—"
By now he had reached the back door of the brothel. A steady hum of noise punctuated by moans, groans, pants and roars emanated from within.
Her eyes widened, and she tried to pull away. He took her hand firmly and began to lead her up the stairs. The incredible warmth of the contact was all the reassurance she needed. If he was not going to give her the money to get back to Kitty’s because he was convinced that she needed rescuing from a sordid life, she was just going to have to make the best of the situation. She was safe, there was heat, light, a bed. One he did not seem to intend to share. Once it was light tomorrow she could get her bearing by looking out of the attick window, cross the river and walk home.
Fortunately Kitty had no parents who were going to worry about what had befallen their daughter’s friend. She would get back to King Street and no one would be any the wiser.
She could hear the noises, guess what they were, but the place itself looked unobjectionable, certainly nothing like what she expected. The plain wood panelling extending half way up the wall on each of the floors.
They reached the third story, and he opened a concealed door sprung by hard pressure on the very top part of the wall. Another long narrow flight of stairs led them to a room which in other circumstances might have been exceedingly pleasant. Once he had lit several candles, she could see a good-sized brass bed, a dresser, small table, and a fine porcelain chamber set.
"I’ll get you some water and something to sleep in. The bell is here. We have Tom and Jim the serving lads. They’ll get you anything you need. Then there is Emma, the lady of the house. Any trouble of a female nature, ask for her."
She blushed.
He vanished, but was back in five minutes with the supplies he had promised, and some food as well, bread, meat, cheese and milk. He had brought some hot water, which he poured into the porcelain ewer. He turned to face her once more.
"You’re a bit thin, child. Eat up."
"Thin?" she said in surprise. She felt sure she was ungainly with her large breasts, and rounded hips, which, though slender, were obviously larger than the tiny waist she possessed.
If any woman had absolutely no need for a corset, it was this one, he thought with a long, appraising glance which she oddly was not shocked or offended by.
He unfolded the nightrail and laid it out on the bed, then moved to close the shutters for her. He knelt in front of the fire and got it going in a trice, though she protested it was warm enough.
"Take a good fire whenever you can get it is my motto. And a go
od meal too. You never know sometimes when your next one of either will be coming. The same goes for sleep."
"Not wenches?" she asked with a quirk of one delicate ebony brow.
"For most men, aye, that would be included on the list. But I’m a pimp, remember?" he said, wondering as he did so why he kept throwing that supposed fact in her face. "Plenty of women hereabouts. So in case you’re offering, thank you for the very kind condescension, but I’ll pass."
"Oh, you—"
"That doesn’t mean I won’t take a taste and tiddle though," he said suddenly, pulling her to him to inhale her hair, fragrant with lemon verbena and roses. So clean, so pure, like the lovely smell of a newborn…
Not that he had been around many of those in recent years, but it was a fragrance which, once smelled, was never forgotten. Any more than the fields of England, their lovely green, could be pushed aside completely. He had dreamt of them during the long hard years of the war. Dreamt of a woman like this, chaste, pure....
Bloody nonsense, he scolded himself. She was an orange seller, for heaven’s sake. Just a better groomed one with more decent personal hygiene was all. Probably had had a bath for her special debut this evening and wouldn't have another for a year, as like as not.
She had stiffened under his hands, rigid with shock. But she didn’t struggle, and didn’t try to step away. He rested his cheek against her silken fall of dark hair, mysterious with red highlights which glinted in the near-dark like a living flame. His hands on her shoulders travelled down her arms, and he breathed in deeply again.
Home. She smelled like home. The warm crackling fire, fresh brioche coming out of the oven, he and his brothers coming in from a morning ride. He could almost taste the cool new milk on his tongue, see the cerulean sky, feel the bright sunshine pouring in the window as they took their places at the table and said grace over the bounteous food.
He moved his head now, and dipped his nose into the most intimate space behind her ear. Clean there too, fragrant and wonderful. His slightly rasping jaw touched her own, and she shivered. Her nipples peaked under the tight bodice of the gown, which now constricted her chest almost painfully.
Yet still Miranda didn’t step forward or back. For in truth she knew not what to think. This man had known more women than she’d ever met in her life, yet he wasn’t grabbing, snatching or pawing her the way so many men did, even though he was so virile he could very easily bend her to his will, force her even if he was so inclined. There was nothing to stop him. They were completely alone. No one even had any idea they were there.
She sensed his inner struggle actually had little to do with her as a person. No, it was something from his past, something she reminded him of. A woman he had been madly in love with? The previous tenant of this charming little room?
That had to be it, she decided. Pimp he might be, but his reiteration of the fact in order to keep his distance from her only served to make her even more intrigued. And far from repelled, she actually found herself attracted to him. Fascinated by him. He was an enigma wrapped in a conundrum. Nothing about him, about this whole evening ever since he had come to her rescue, made any sense.
One tiny, small gesture might help, though, she decided as she reached up one hand to stroke his cheek. He let out a little groan, and kissed her throat. He was now trembling forcefully, and moved to the back of her neck, again inhaling her scent. She felt a rising sense of alarm as he began to unfasten the dress, but was as still and startled as a lamped rabbit. For the touch of his lips, the feel of his cheek, had sent a shower of sparks down her spine. Her unyielding stance melted. Miranda could actually feel herself leaning into his huge hard hands, opening like a flower to the warmth of the sun even as he opened the back of her dress.
"I think you’ll be able to get the rest of the buttons yourself. Sleep as late as you like. Ring for Tom when you want some breakfast. Good night."
This last speech had been punctuated by a line of heated open-mouthed kisses down her back which had every nerve ending in her body sizzling. But before she could say a word, respond in any way, he was gone.
George didn’t halt until he got back down to the ground floor. He couldn’t believe her single light touch on his cheek had caused him to erupt like a volcano. But his cloying drawers were ample evidence of his pathetic weakness. He didn’t even know what had happened. One minute he had been enjoying her fragrance, her elegant arms. The next he had been felled by a climax so powerful he was sure his body had been turned inside out. Only his grip on her shoulder and buttons had kept him from falling flat on his face. Or worse still, hauling her skirts up and taking her from behind without an ounce of compunction.
Oh, he would have hated himself for it a minute later; he had never ever treated any woman so vilely. What was it about this innocent yet experienced orange wench which drove him to the brink of insanity and beyond?
What if he had hoisted up her skirts? What if he went back up the stairs right now and helped her with the rest of her buttons? Would she welcome him? Take the full force of his rampaging desire right up into her? Ask him for money afterwards....
She was a professional, for heaven’s sake. And he had never, ever paid for a woman. Never ever traded favour for favour with them either. A woman had to be in his bed because she wanted to be, because they knew each other well enough to think there might be a possibility she could accept him for who he was. Or at least who George seemed to be. Who could accept the truths and half-lies, evasions, secrets, and above all, his supposed profession. Some people would find a theatre owner shocking enough. But a pimp?
The only women willing to accept that were ones who wanted a piece of the action themselves in most cases. And that of course would never do. The girls’ money was their own. He provided protection, medical attention, four meals a day, a place for their children if they were unfortunate enough to get caught out, and decent rooms for them all.
Likewise in the theatre, George never allowed any of the actresses or even actors to be sexually exploited by either gender. If they wanted to conduct affairs, that was fine. But if money or presents exchanged hands, they were all shown the door. A chivalrous pimp. Ironic, wasn’t it. But there were far too many miserable, displaced people in the world.
He had never even realised how many until he had come into contact with his friend Sebastian and his sister Viola. Meeting them had opened even his cynical and jaded eyes, and he was more committed than ever to ensuring that the new Heaven and new Earth the social reformers spoke of would one day be made manifest.
He shuddered and pulled his damp clothes away from him, and headed for the public privy just off the main salon to get himself cleaned up. He stripped off his lower half, washed himself, pinching himself mightly to stem the tide of another arousal, and then got dressed once more. He flung his drawers in the laundry basket just inside the kitchen door and shouted for Tom.
He ate a mouthful of bread and cheese without tasting it as he explained that Miranda was a guest and was to be brought to the theatre in the morning.
Tom, a fresh faced lad he had helped escape from a life as a chimney sweep, nodded sleepily. "Aye, Boss, whatever you say."
"Get to bed, lad. You’re dropping."
"Up all night reading. These stories—" He hugged the leather-bound book to him like a miser with a hoard of gold.
"Glad you liked them. Plenty more fairy tales where those came from."
"I like Beauty and the Beast best myself."
"Then you’ll adore Miranda. And I of course would be the Beast."
"Nonsense, sir. You pretend you are, but you know we all love you here."
George stared at him, wondering if he was taking the mick. But the boy just gave him a warm smile, a bear hug, and went off to his bed.
He felt a tight constriction in his throat, and cleared it a few times until it subsided. Then he cuffed at his eyes, and looked into the parlor. All was quiet there; a slow night.
He checked the adjoinin
g bath house next, a serene oasis in lapis, white and gold. A couple of patrons only lounged there and all was well. The reputation he had deliberately cultivated for himself as a vicious criminal not to be crossed had stood him in good stead ever since he had come here six years ago.
Long may it last, he thought with a sigh. For he was tired of fighting. He wanted his life now to be as tranquil as the lovely eyes of the beautiful woman in the attic.
As he moved from place to place, room to room, George wondered what he sought. He seemed for a time to have no idea why he felt so reluctant to leave.
But as he strode down the street, he turned to look back up at the back window. Then he had to admit he knew exactly why. The thought of Miranda naked, or clad in the delicate lawn night dress decorated with roses, her long wavy brown hair billowing down her back gloriously unbound, was like a caress to his manhood. He had all to do not to redirect his steps up the secret staircase and beg her to let him in.
The Rakehell Regency Romance Collection 6 Page 40
