by Olivia Drake
“Help yourself.”
She busied herself with selecting a quill from the silver penholder. The very first one was beautifully sharpened—by his efficient valet, no doubt. She uncapped the inkwell and dipped the quill tip into the black liquid. “So. Who are these women?”
“Miss Aurora Darling. Lady Esler. Miss Diana Russell. And Viscountess Greeley.” He rattled off the names as if he’d memorized them.
Jane scribbled madly, her pen scratching into the silence. When he didn’t speak further, she looked up at him. “You may continue.”
“That’s all.”
“Four women?” She couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice. She had expected him to list at least a dozen names or more. “Sometimes babies are born early or late. Are you certain you took that into consideration?”
He arched an amused eyebrow. “I’m not a half-wit, Jane.”
She glanced at the rolled paper sticking out of the blue vase. There had been quite a lot of strike-outs. Perhaps he had eliminated some women for various reasons. If, for instance, he’d seen one of his former lovers a few months ago, he could be reasonably certain she wasn’t the mother. Yes, that made sense.
Even if his cooperation did not.
Chapter 7
It didn’t look like a brothel.
Located in a quiet residential district, the town house was sandwiched in a row of pale stone dwellings. The modest white door and columned porch made the house indistinguishable from its neighbors. Lace curtains shrouded the windows, both upstairs and down, and had Jane not known better, she might have thought it the residence of a respectable family.
She ascended the three granite steps and stood by a fluted column while Ethan lifted the brass knocker and rapped. In sudden trepidation, she regretted her boldness in coming here. She should retreat to the barouche. She should let Ethan interview Miss Aurora Darling. Jane had seen enough of his wicked women to last a lifetime.
But there was Marianne to consider.
With a rush of tenderness, Jane imagined the infant, cooing in her cradle back in the nursery. Someone had to settle the baby’s future, to make sure she had the best possible home. And Jane couldn’t trust Ethan not to relinquish the baby on a whim.
“They must be asleep,” he said, knocking again.
“Surely not. It’s the middle of the afternoon.”
“Work all night, sleep all day.” Cocking one eyebrow, he peered closely at her. “Good God, Miss Maypole. Is that a blush I see?”
She willed away the depraved curiosity that made her wonder what exactly these women did throughout the long nights. “I doubt you would recognize a blush if you saw one.”
“Quite true,” he said unrepentantly. “In my circle, one doesn’t encounter many virgins.”
“In my circle, it is the scoundrels who are in blessedly short supply.”
“Touché.”
The door swung open. A short, round woman filled the opening, her enormous breasts bulging from the bodice of a red silk dressing gown. She had untidy ginger hair and smears of black cosmetic beneath her hazel eyes. The sullen tightness of her mouth eased into a smile. “Holy Mother of God. Why, m’lord Chasebourne, isn’t it? We haven’t seen you in many months.”
“Hello, Miss Minnie,” he said, kissing her plump hand. “I trust you’ve been a naughty girl in my absence.”
Minnie batted her eyelashes. “Never a dull moment here, that’s for certain.”
“I’d like to visit with Aurora Darling. Is she available?”
“’Tis a mite early for company. If you’ll come back in the evening, we’d be happy to accommodate you.” With frank curiosity, the whore scrutinized Jane in her high-necked mourning gown, and her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You haven’t gone religious on us, have you, m’lord? We’ve had enough with preachers knocking on our door in hopes of redeeming us.”
Ethan let out a hoot of laughter. “No, I’m here on another matter entirely. So do be a love and fetch Aurora. Here’s something for your trouble.” He took a sovereign from his pocket and pressed it into Minnie’s fleshy hand.
Clutching the gold coin in her fist, she opened the door wider and shooed them inside. “Come in. Make yourselves comfortable while I run upstairs.” She did just that, heading for the staircase in the foyer, her slippered feet slapping on the wooden risers.
Jane followed Ethan into a parlor. Here at last was gaudy decadence: pink draperies trimmed in gold fringe, plush maroon couches, statues of gods and goddesses showing an alarming amount of flesh. Even the air smelled carnal with a trace of rich perfume. She averted her gaze from a painting above the mantelpiece of half-clothed warriors romping with naked nymphs. Secretly, she longed to examine the scene more closely, but she was too aware of Ethan settling in a gilt-armed chair, his long legs stretched out, crossed at his booted ankles.
“So,” he said, “does the place meet with your disapproval?”
“Quite. Though you look perfectly at home.”
“Stop glowering and sit down. I promise, you won’t absorb any loose morals from the furniture.”
Jane perched on the edge of a gold-braided chair. “If I were worried about that, I should be more concerned about living in your house.”
He pretended to wince. “I can always depend on you, Jane, to put me in my proper place. It’s hard to imagine there was a time when you liked me.”
She tensed, fighting the rush of memories. “Liked you?” she said on a scornful laugh. “You must have been dreaming.”
“Perhaps liked is the wrong word. Fascinated would be more apt. You spent your time spying on me, looking for ways to get me into trouble.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did. Once you tattled to my father that I’d gone down into the tin mine at Denby.”
“Only because I thought you were stuck there and going to die.”
“And there was the time I was kissing Eliza Fairchild behind the church. You threw a clod of dirt at us.”
“Be pleased I didn’t tell the vicar. You were desecrating a cemetery.”
“Not desecrating. Consecrating.” One corner of his mouth tipped upward into that detestable grin. “Enlightened people don’t deny their passions. They use their bodies for the purpose God intended them.”
A retort sprang to her tongue, but she couldn’t voice it. Lowering her gaze, she stared at her entwined fingers in her lap. What in heaven was she doing, discussing intimate acts with a rake, in a brothel, no less? And why, by all that was holy, did her mind throb with the image of lying beneath him, his body covering hers, his mouth stealing kisses.…
“Now you’re blushing,” he said.
The amused satisfaction in his tone infuriated her. She jerked up her chin. “You mistake the flush of fury. I’m thinking of the babies who are born to those carelessly indulging their passions. I’m thinking of Marianne being left on a doorstep because no one wanted her.”
The gleam disappeared from his eyes, leaving them as opaque as darkened glass. “She’s a fortunate child, having so staunch an advocate as you.”
Fortunate.
That was not the answer Jane had expected, nor did she appreciate the pleasure his praise aroused deep inside herself. Of course, he merely meant to catch her off guard and deflect her anger. Before she could point that out, the tapping of footsteps distracted her, and a woman glided into the parlor.
She was a statue come to life, a slim, curvaceous goddess with copper-tinted brown curls cascading around her shoulders. Her creamy skin made a pleasing contrast to her rose-hued gown, and a pink boa looped her neck, the feathers fluttering against her generous bosom. Her mouth was impossibly red, her lashes thick and dark, as if enhanced by a subtle application of cosmetics. From a distance, she appeared no older than Jane, but as she drew nearer, the fine lines at the corners of her eyes became discernible.
Jane tried to hide her unseemly curiosity. Here was a woman who sold her body to men. It was her profession, her calling in life. Hav
ing a baby in the house would certainly put a damper on her nightly activities.
“Ethan,” she said, smiling, her hands outstretched. A waft of musky perfume preceded her. “What a delightful surprise.”
Rising from his chair, Ethan kissed her cheek. “My dear Aurora. I hope I didn’t awaken you.”
“Gracious, no. I was drinking my tea.” Her warm expression turned wary as she glanced at Jane. “And who have we here?”
“Miss Jane Mayhew.” His eyes narrowing, he studied Aurora. “She’s a neighbor of mine.”
To Jane, Aurora said apologetically, “Please don’t think me unwelcoming, but his lordship should know better than to escort a lady to a house such as this one.”
“Miss Mayhew understands the risks,” Ethan said. “And surely you can guess why we’ve come, Aurora.”
“I’m sure I cannot. Perhaps you should explain yourself.”
He watched her intently. “A few days ago, a parcel was left on Miss Mayhew’s doorstep. I wondered if it had been delivered by you.”
“By me?” She laughed in a puzzled manner and glanced at Jane. “I am quite certain I’ve never before set eyes on Miss Mayhew. I wouldn’t even know the number of her town house.”
“Not a town house. Her cottage in Wessex.”
“Wessex! Well, that settles it,” Aurora said with an air of finality. “I haven’t left the city in weeks. And then only to go to Oxfordshire.…” She looked away, her expression contemplative. There was something odd about her manner, something almost furtive.
Jane searched for a resemblance. Like Marianne, Aurora Darling had delicate features. Unlike Marianne, she had dark coloring. Deciding to be blunt, Jane asked, “Do you also deny giving birth to a baby two months ago?”
Those sherry-brown eyes fastened on her in shock. “A baby, Miss Mayhew? Are you saying … someone left an infant at your door?”
Jane nodded. “A ring was tucked into her swaddling blanket—a signet ring belonging to Lord Chasebourne. That led me to believe he was the father. We are trying now to determine the mother’s identity.”
Aurora sank into a chair, the gauzy dress drifting like a rosy cloud around her slender form. “Her. It is a girl, then.”
“Yes.”
“The poor child. But why would she have been left with you and not with her father?”
“That is what I intend to find out,” Ethan said, his voice uncustomarily grim. “A year ago, you and I enjoyed a liaison. You must tell me the truth now. Did you or did you not bear my daughter?”
On the mantelpiece, an ormolu clock ticked into the silence. Aurora Darling sat very still, gazing not at him, but at the cold hearth. A frown knitted her fine brow, and Jane could have sworn she looked guilty.
Abruptly, the older woman rose and went to the window. In the sunlight, her lovely profile took on a somber aspect. “No, I did not, but I cannot expect you to take my word for that. Instead, I implore you to listen while I tell you something very few people know. It is a secret shared only by the women in this house and … well, you needn’t know who else.”
“I want the whole story,” Ethan warned. “Not any half-truths.”
Her lips curved into a sad little smile. Then she drew a deep breath and nodded. “It is really quite simple: I too have a daughter born out of wedlock. But she is most definitely not yours.”
Jane sat on the edge of her chair. Never in her uneventful life had she heard such a riveting confession.
“Her name is Venus Isabel,” Aurora added huskily, looking out the window. “She’s nearly twelve years old and lives with a governess in Oxfordshire. I visit her whenever I can, and sometimes she comes here—of course we do no entertaining during her visit. Someday … someday I hope to leave London and go to live with her, so that we may be together always.” She swung to face them, her eyes sheened with tears, the daylight forming a nimbus around her. “So you see, Ethan, if I’d borne your baby, I would have kept her. I could never give away my own child. Never.”
Jane’s heart went out to Aurora. Surely no one could fabricate the emotion in her voice, the spill of tears down her cheeks. This woman could not have abandoned Marianne.
Ethan crossed the parlor, gathered Aurora to him, and stroked her slender back. His deep voice murmured words of consolation. Jane felt uncomfortable, as if she were spying on a private moment. Yet she remained rooted to her chair.
A year ago, he and Aurora Darling had been lovers. This was the sort of woman he desired, a pretty, petite beauty who wept on his broad shoulder. How amazingly tender he could be, how considerate of her sorrow. It was a side to him that Jane had never seen, and the insight only enhanced the mystery of him.
Oh, to be held close like that, to feel a man’s arms encircle her, to hear him whisper words of wanting. To go upstairs with him to the seclusion of a bedchamber.…
Jane’s heart pounded madly, and she scolded herself for an appalling lack of decency. She didn’t want an affair; she didn’t wish to become like this woman who had lost her morals, who could not even live with her own child. Besides, Jane had been alone with Ethan in his bedroom twice already and nothing untoward had happened. The reason was quite simple. He would never, ever look at her in that way.
But the fantasy lingered like a physical ache inside her. If only she had the chance to be so wicked.
Just once.
* * *
“Wicked,” Lady Rosalind proclaimed with satisfaction. “That gown will make you look positively wicked.”
Jane stared doubtfully at the drawing in the small fashion book La Belle Assemblée. They sat at a table beneath an enormous domed skylight in the linen-draper’s shop. Colorful bolts of fabric lined the columned walls, along with trays containing all manner of trimmings, from ribbons to buttons to lace. The pleasant aroma of newly spun cloth mingled with the expensive scents worn by the few customers strolling the spacious room.
She focused her attention on the open book. The gown under consideration had a scooped neck cut scandalously low in the front. The short puffed sleeves were barely more than a wisp of gauze. The skirt descended from the bosom to skim the dainty figure of the model. It was raiment for Aurora Darling—or Lady Portia.
Not a rustic who preferred books to parties.
For once, Jane’s imagination failed her. She could only picture herself looking like a giraffe in that gown, loping across the dance floor as if it were an African savannah.
“It is all wrong for me,” she said. “Since my funds will stretch to only one gown, it makes sense to choose a more practical style.”
“Practical, bah. You need a positively splendid evening dress for my betrothal ball.” Rising, Lady Rosalind went to the display of fabrics and fingered a bolt of sea-foam green. “I wonder if this silk would do.”
“It looks far too dear. A tweed or bombazine would wear better—”
“What an excellent choice, my lady,” the proprietor of the shop said, hastening toward them. A haughty man with a stiff white neckcloth and a mop of brown curls, he bowed to the countess.
“Thank you,” Lady Rosalind said. “But I am thinking perhaps my godchild needs a more vivid hue to enhance her strong coloring.”
The man considered, looking from the bolt of cloth to Jane, his upper lip curled slightly. “Yes. Yes, you are indeed observant, my lady. I have the very thing that will suit.” Searching through the bolts of fabric, he drew down a swath of forest-green gauze. “Might I suggest this, with the sea-foam silk as an underskirt?”
Lady Rosalind clapped her gloved hands. “Wonderful! Send both to Madame Rochelle’s dressmaking establishment on Bond Street.”
“How much will it cost?” Jane asked.
The proprietor ignored her, his groveling attention focused on Lady Rosalind. “As you wish, my lady. And may I suggest some additional cloths? We have a celestial-blue muslin for evening wear. And a gold angola suitable for a shawl. It goes well with this sprigged poplin for a walking dress.”
“We�
�ll take a length of those, and that primrose silk, too. Oh, and twenty yards of white cambric.” Lowering her voice, she mouthed to Jane, “One can never have enough pretty undergarments, you know.”
“It’s all too much,” Jane whispered, rising in a panic from her chair. “I can’t possibly pay for it. I thought we’d agreed—”
“Never mind, we can settle up later. I can’t have my godchild running around in rags.”
Jane glanced down at her plain black serge. Her best dress wasn’t so awful, was it? There were no patches or worn places, except of course for the frayed hem, but that portion, she’d turned under and resewn. She had hoped no one would notice the skirt was now an inch too short.
Intending to be firm with Lady Rosalind, she followed the countess to a long table, where she and the fawning proprietor were deep in conversation over a box of buttons. “My lady, I appreciate your thoughtfulness,” Jane said, “but I will purchase the materials for only one gown. One.”
“Pish-posh. Touch this beautiful silk and tell me you don’t wish to wear it.” She grasped Jane’s hand and guided it over the length of sea-foam silk.
The cool softness felt like a caress to Jane’s fingertips, and a little tremor of yearning coursed through her. The fabric was deliciously sensual compared to the stiff serge. Jane could imagine the silk draping her skin, clinging to her body, whispering as she danced at the ball.…
Clad in a garment paid for by the Earl of Chasebourne.
She snatched back her hand. “It doesn’t suit me. I’m sorry, my lady.”
The corners of Lady Rosalind’s mouth turned down in hurt. “My dear girl, consider it a gift,” she said. “Surely you cannot deny me the pleasure of dressing you.”
“Shall I put it on Lord Chasebourne’s account, then?” the proprietor asked.
“Yes—”
“No,” Jane said, not caring if she was rude. “Sir, you are not under any circumstances to do so.”
Lady Rosalind threw up her hands. “Oh, all right, stubborn girl. You win. But I can’t say I understand you.”
