by Olivia Drake
His candlestick cast a feeble light onto the dwarf-sized chairs and table he had used as a child on his rare visits to London. He remembered the time he’d been so excited to visit his parents that he’d made himself ill on the trip. Upon his arrival, he’d been put straight to bed, and although his mother paid a brief visit to lay her cool hand on his brow, it had been his father’s presence he had craved. But the fifth Earl of Chasebourne did not wish to be bothered with a sick child. He could not abide weakness, especially in his son and heir.
Ethan grimaced at the bitter memory. He had never been able to please his father, and after one shattering humiliation in early adolescence, he had stopped trying. Instead, he had molded himself into the sort of man his father despised most: a dissolute rake who wasted his life on wine, wagering, and women.
The trouble was, he had fallen so deeply into debauchery he was not certain he could change his ways now. And he must change. The reason lay sleeping in the gilt cradle near the hearth.
He stepped closer and raised his candle so that golden light haloed her.
Marianne rested on her stomach, her head turned to the side and her knees tucked up, her bottom thrust into the air. Dark lashes fringed her closed eyes, and her tiny fist lay curled beside her mouth. As he watched, she pursed her lips and sucked, as if she were dreaming of sweet milk.
His chest tightened with an emotion so fierce it hurt. He’d never imagined a man could feel so attached to a child. She was only a baby, after all. She couldn’t walk or talk yet. She spent most of her time sleeping or eating or crying. There were scores like her born every day.
But Marianne was his baby, his to protect and his to guide.
His to love.
The thought shook him. It no longer mattered that he had proven nothing about her parentage, that the woman who had given birth to her had vanished without so much as a note of explanation. It didn’t matter if that woman were Serena Badrick or some other unnamed, forgotten woman whom he’d used in a drunken stupor. It didn’t matter that Marianne complicated his reckless life. He intended to raise her well.
Would she someday come to love him? Or would he fail her, too, as he had failed to earn his father’s love?
Panic surged in him, and he wanted to flee—to run as far and as fast as he could. But as he stared down at the infant in the cradle, something magical happened. His fear dissipated and a sense of peace stole over him.
She had kicked off her blanket, and he drew the covering over her tiny pink nightdress. He would take care of her. He would see that she wanted for nothing. That her every need was met.
She needs a mother.
The thought made him step back as if Jane were there to scold him. With uneasy clarity, he pictured her stricken face when he had informed her of his decision. She had argued with him, laying out all the reasons why he could not raise Marianne. But he discounted her self-serving logic. She only wanted a child as a salve for her spinsterhood. He wouldn’t give away his child and go on his merry way. Nor would he follow his mother’s ridiculous advice. He would have to be mad to shackle himself to an outspoken faultfinder who would make his life a living hell.
His mind conjured up the image of Jane in the garden, soft and willing, sweet-tongued for once. He had reacted like a randy adolescent with his first girl.
I wanted to know what it felt like to be held and touched and loved.
Something burned his hand, snapping him out of the vivid fantasy. He peeled a soft blob of candlewax off his skin and rolled it between his fingers. What the hell was wrong with him? Jane wasn’t any goddess of passion; she was a pathetic spinster who had been drunk on champagne.
He flung the bit of wax into the banked coals on the hearth. His response to her disturbed him. At least she would soon be gone, and good riddance. She was a constant reminder of his flaws and failings.
He reached down and touched Marianne’s cheek, pale as pearls, soft as swansdown. She sighed without awakening. The strength of his attachment to her tightened within him. She was the only person who mattered to him.
He certainly didn’t need Jane.
* * *
“Have I told you about my hounds?” asked the earnest young gentleman sitting beside Jane in the drawing room.
Three times already. “I believe you mentioned them,” she said politely.
“They are the finest pack to grace the county of Leicestershire. Never once have they let the fox escape.”
His freckled face aglow with enthusiasm, he launched into another monologue on the joys of riding pell-mell after his beloved dogs, his horse leaping ditches and galloping over fields on bitter-cold winter mornings.
Jane listened with only half an ear. Her mouth ached from smiling. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, her mind aware of the conversations around her, Lady Rosalind chatting with a group of noblemen and Aunt Willy trading gossip with a stoop-shouldered old matron.
The drawing room was filled with afternoon callers, several of them gentlemen who had danced with Jane at the ball. Lord Avery, her fox-hunting companion, was one of those who had a fortune of his own and no need to marry for money. With his thatch of reddish hair and his friendly features, he would make a fine husband for some hunt-mad lady.
But not Jane.
She stole a glance through the open doors at the corridor beyond. A tall man walked into view. She sat up straighter, then relaxed back against the chaise. It was only a footman.
For the past three days, she had seen little of Ethan. Each morning, he went for an early ride in Hyde Park. She had never learned equestrian skills, as her father hadn’t had the means to keep a horse, so she could not invite herself along. Each afternoon, Ethan had gone out to heaven knew where. Each evening, he had declined his mother’s invitations to escort her and Jane to soirées and balls, the theater and the opera. Instead, he’d shut himself in his chambers.
So much for enticing him. Yet she remained firmly committed to this course of action. Especially since he never visited Marianne at all.
“Would you like that?” Lord Avery said.
Jane blinked at his hopeful expression and had no notion what he had asked her. “Forgive me. I must have been wool-gathering.”
He blushed. “Mama always scolds me for tattling on so. But I asked if you and your aunt might care to visit us in the country. I walk my hounds four times each day, and thought it might be pleasant to have your company.”
“Thank you for the kind offer,” Jane said gently, “but I fear my aunt travels little these days.”
“I see. Ah, well, I shall just have to describe my estate to you, then. We have the finest woods and fields for hunting…”
Jane heard no more. Every muscle in her body tensed as she spied the broad-shouldered man who entered the doorway.
Ethan wasn’t dressed for company. He wore polished black boots and buckskin riding breeches, a plain white shirt and gray waistcoat beneath a dark blue frock coat. In his gloved hand, he held a riding crop. Without noticing Jane, he strolled toward his mother.
Jane rose from the chaise. “If you’ll excuse me, I need a word with Lord Chasebourne.”
Lord Avery looked crestfallen to lose his audience, and Jane disliked being rude, so she smiled to soften the blow of her departure. Then she headed across the Aubusson rug to join Ethan and his mother. The soft cinnamon silk of her gown swished around her ankles. She knew she looked fetching in the low-cut bodice, her mother’s locket nestled between her breasts. The small gold ear bobs added a feminine touch to her upswept hair.
Her pulse fluttered when she neared him. But Ethan barely glanced at her.
“Jane.” He acknowledged her with a nod, then turned with a sardonic bow to his mother. “You sent an urgent message, Mother. What is this pressing emergency?”
“Pish-posh, how else was I to get you here? We’ve seen so little of you these past few days.” Lady Rosalind waved her hand at the unoccupied chaise across from her. “Come, sit with me, you and Jane. Tel
l me why you’ve been too busy for us.”
He looked amused at her maneuverings. “Much as I would enjoy the company, I must decline. I was on my way out.”
His mother pursed her lips in a pout. “Again? But we have guests. Where are you going?”
“To nowhere of interest to you ladies.”
Jane saw her chance slipping away. “It’s a fine, sunny day,” she said, touching his sleeve and leaning closer, the way she’d seen other women do. “If you’re going for a pleasure drive, might I accompany you?”
“What a capital idea,” Lady Rosalind said, smiling in approval. “You two run along together.”
One black eyebrow arched, Ethan slapped the riding crop across his gloved palm. “I wouldn’t dream of taking Jane from her suitors. If you ladies will excuse me.” Without a backward glance, he strode out of the room.
Jane bit her lip in frustration. When was she to flirt with him if he refused to cooperate? Perhaps it was a foolish plan, anyway, thinking she could attract such a jaded man. But she had to do something.
A familiar ache tightened inside her. In another month, the Season would end and she would return to Wessex. Without Marianne.
“Did you say you wished to take a drive?” said a voice behind her.
She turned to see the round form and grinning face of Lord Keeble. Beside him towered the not-so-Honorable Mr. Duxbury. They wore identical smiles, polite yet with a hint of something else. Something improper.
An idea sparked in her mind. These two gentlemen might just be the answer to her dilemma. “A drive would be lovely,” she said.
She announced her intentions to Aunt Willy, who gave her grudging approval so long as they went nowhere but the park. Within minutes, Jane had collected her bonnet and pelisse and settled herself in Keeble’s open landau.
Her spirits rose at the warmth of sunlight on her face. A light breeze blew wisps of hair against her cheeks. The gently rocking pace of the carriage lent the illusion of setting out on an adventure.
Perhaps she was.
She focused her attention on the two men who sat opposite her, their backs to the coachman on his high perch. “Gentlemen,” she began. “You both seem most knowledgeable about the comings and goings of people in society.”
“There’s nary a secret we can’t ferret out,” Keeble said. “Ain’t that so, Ducks?”
Duxbury nodded. “Not that we’re gossips, mind.”
“Of course not,” Jane said. “I know I can trust you both to be discreet.”
“Discretion is my middle name,” Keeble said.
Duxbury shot him a puzzled look. “I thought your middle name was Henry.”
“It’s a saying, you dolt. The point being that if Miss Mayhew has a secret to tell us, I can keep quiet about it.”
“So can I.” Duxbury locked his lips with an imaginary key, which he pretended to toss out of the carriage.
Jane refrained from rolling her eyes. “It’s not precisely my secret. I’m hoping you can give me some information. I am curious to learn where Lord Chasebourne goes each afternoon. Would you happen to know?”
The two men glanced at each other. Duxbury let out a snigger. Keeble elbowed him in the ribs. “Don’t laugh. ’Tis rude.”
Duxbury clapped his hand over his mouth, though his baby-blue eyes danced with mirth.
“I presume you do know, then,” Jane prompted.
“Perhaps so.” Keeble winked at her. “But Chase won’t like us to reveal his secrets.”
“As a guest in his house, I am not precisely a stranger,” Jane said with forced patience. “I have a matter of importance I wish to discuss with him. Will you take me to him?”
“Now?” Keeble asked, a pout denting his plump cheeks. “But what about our drive in the park?”
“It ain’t fair,” Duxbury whined. “Chase gets all the women.”
“I am hardly his property,” Jane said, caught by a curious thrill at the thought that she would belong to him if they married. “Please, it is vital that I speak with him today. He departed so quickly from the house that I didn’t have an opportunity.”
The two men exchanged another covert glance. Duxbury said, “Might prove amusing, old chap.”
“Might, indeed.” Looking at Jane, Keeble added, “Though it ain’t a place for ladies, I warn you.”
“I quite understand,” Jane said, and hoped she wasn’t getting in over her head. But what other choice did she have? If Ethan kept eluding her, then she was forced to seek him out.
Keeble relayed an address to the coachman, and the landau made a wide circle past the gated entrance to Hyde Park with its green trees and winding pathways. Jane clasped her gloved hands tightly in her lap. A sense of excitement leapt inside her, the feeling that at last she was doing something to snare Ethan’s attention.
The drive carried them eastward, past the fine houses of Mayfair and into crowded neighborhoods of Covent Garden. The streets narrowed, and the landau squeezed past a cart piled high with cabbages and drawn by a bony nag. Along the foot pavement, housewives hustled by on errands, a pieman shouted his wares, and several urchins played a game of tag.
At last the carriage stopped before a building of soot-stained brick. An iron railing marked the small yard and prevented passersby from venturing too close. It was not a residence, that much Jane surmised from the undraped windows. If the place was a business establishment, no sign indicated its purpose. What purpose had Ethan here?
“If you gentlemen would rather wait…” Jane began, stepping out as the footman opened the door.
“Wouldn’t miss this for the world,” Keeble said.
He and Duxbury scrambled down from the carriage and followed her to the front steps. Another visitor preceded them into the brick building. He was not a gentleman, but a ham-fisted brute with a misshapen nose and the plain garb of a commoner.
Jane’s curiosity heightened. “Is this a gaming hell?”
Keeble and Duxbury looked at each other and sniggered. “You’ll see soon enough,” Duxbury said.
Jane gritted her teeth at their mirth, but said nothing. If it meant having time with Ethan, she’d go along with their silly game. Perhaps he might even be jealous to see her in the company of two other men. It was worth a try.
Climbing the steps, she scrutinized the building again. The ground-floor windowsills were too high even for a woman of her height to peer over. A magpie pecked at the dirt yard, then flew off in a flutter of black wings. The place looked austere with no flowers or shrubbery to soften the grimy woodwork. If houses had a gender, Jane thought in a flash of whimsy, this one was definitely male.
Keeble turned the knob. “No need to knock,” he said.
Puzzled and wary, Jane walked into a small, bare foyer paneled in oak. A narrow staircase hugged one wall. The place had an aura of utilitarian starkness with no furnishings to relieve the monotony. The muffled rise and fall of male voices came from beyond another closed door.
She went to the base of the stairs and peered up into the dimness. This couldn’t be a brothel; the house belonging to Miss Aurora Darling had been decorated with lush sensuality. The air had smelled of rich perfume, not … what was that scent? Something musky and male.
“Are you certain he’s here?” she asked.
“Every afternoon,” Duxbury assured her.
“This way, Miss Mayhew.” With a flourish, Lord Keeble threw open the door.
Instead of a smoky den filled with card tables and disreputable gamesters, she found herself viewing an airy chamber that extended the width of the house. Sunlight poured through the tall windows and onto … several half-naked men.
One lay on the floor and lifted what looked like iron weights attached to either end of a pole. His arm muscles bulged from the effort. Other men stood hitting long leather bags, but Jane spared them only a cursory glance.
Her attention fixed on a throng of fashionably dressed gentlemen gathered around a ringed arena where two fighters sparred, circling each
other and ducking punches. Some of the spectators shouted in savage excitement. A fist connected with a dull thud that made Jane wince. The air smelled of sweat and leather and sawdust.
Dear heaven. A prizefight. Was Ethan among those bloodthirsty bystanders? He had to be.
The gentlemen stood two and three deep, their backs to her. Craning her neck, she looked for his tall form, his black hair and sinful profile.
Keeble stepped past her and gawked. “By Jove, that’s Savage Saxton sparring with Terrible Tom Headly,” he exclaimed. “Why didn’t I hear about this fight?”
“Dash it all,” Duxbury said, his eyes avid. “’Tis too late to place a wager.”
“But we can still watch the action.”
Abandoning Jane, they trotted off toward the arena.
She hurried after them. “Gentlemen,” she said in exasperation. “It would be polite to wait for me.”
“Do fighting men interest you?” Keeble asked, slowing down to her pace. “The truth now, Miss Mayhew. ’Tis no shame to admit you admire them half-naked bucks.”
“Most ladies squeal at the sight. Don’t know why.” Duxbury’s face lit with enthusiasm. “’Tis jolly fun to see men smashed to the floor, the breath beaten out of their bodies, their eyes blackened and their lips split open.”
“Oh, that does sound marvelous,” Jane muttered.
“Make haste, then,” Keeble said. “Else we’ll miss the gory finale.”
He and Duxbury propelled her through the large gymnasium, heading toward the arena in the far corner where Ethan surely stood in the throng of spectators. Male voices shouted encouragement to the two boxers. Several onlookers shook their fists and shouted obscenities. The grunts of the combatants mingled with the thud of flesh on flesh.
Why couldn’t she see Ethan?
Halfway across the room, she found out why. A familiar deep voice startled her.
“Jane?”
Keeble and Duxbury dropped her arms posthaste. She spun around toward the voice.
To her left, poised beside a long leather punching bag, stood Ethan. His fists were raised as if he’d been interrupted in mid-exercise. A lock of black hair adhered to his brow. Stripped to the waist, he wore only his buckskin breeches. Sweat sheened his muscled chest, and as she watched, a tiny bead rolled downward and disappeared into his waistband.
