by Laura London
“Mr. St. Pips, you know my cousin, Sir Giles? No? Giles, I know you’ll recognize the significance of St. Pips’ views on horseracing.”
The young man rolled his eyes comically, murmured, “Only for you, David,” and came around the tête-à-tête to sit by St. Pips, inviting him, with an air of solicitous interest, to talk. Satisfied, Landry draped an affectionate arm around Madame and walked her to a spot a few feet away, engaging her in a quiet discussion. Frances couldn’t make out Landry’s words, but after a moment of listening, Madame exclaimed:
“Please, my dear Lordship, I cannot! Instead, I shall let you have Nanette. She’s my best girl and I was saving her for His Highness, the Royal Duke. Only for your satisfaction will I make this concession.”
Frances couldn’t hear Landry’s reply.
“I beg you, Your Lordship,” cried Madame, “to be reasonable. I’ve already promised the White Rose to St. Pips. How can I tell him that she’s not for him, when he’s so obviously so happy with her?”
Landry laughed, and replied in a low voice.
Madame wrung her hands in distress. “How can I choose between you? St. Pips is a regular paying client. You have come to the Chez la Princesse but twice before, on the occasion of parties given by your acquaintances—and neither time did you stay to delight any of my girls with your attention.”
Landry’s quiet answer must have been persuasive, because when he was finished speaking, Madame threw up her arms in submission.
“As you will have it,” she declared, “but not a word of this to a soul, My Lord, or you will ruin me. Only for you . . .”
It was with difficulty that Frances hid her agitation as Madame discreetly summoned Jem Beamer, then leaned down to dig her red-tipped fingers into Frances’ arm.
“If Landry’s not happy when he’s done with you,” Madame hissed in Frances’ ear, “Beamer will personally make you wish you were never born!” But nothing could have been more genial than Madame’s expression as she turned to smile at Lord Landry.
“So, I will take you to a room, Miss-sewer.”
Madame drew Frances to her feet and began to propel her toward the stairs, then up them. Behind her, Frances heard Beamer talking to St. Pips, explaining blandly that the White Rose had been called away to care for her sick mother. St. Pips’ bellow of rage boomed to hit Frances as she came to the top step, and as she looked back she saw heads throughout the room turn curiously in St. Pips’ direction. Kennan was among the interested.
“See what trouble you cause me,” chided Madame, turning back with a come-hitherish smile to Lord Landry as they walked down a narrow corridor. “But here is your love nest! Au revoir!”
Madame threw open the heavy oak door with a dramatic sweep of her hand. Some instinct must have caused her to sense reluctance in Frances’ hesitation; Madame put two hands below Frances’ shoulder blades and gave her an inconspicuous shove. Frances stumbled into a square chamber with a thick wool carpet, a black marble fireplace, and a grandiose ornamented bedstead hung with crimson drapery. There was the neat click of a well-made lock as Lord Landry closed the door behind them. The only light came from red coals that glowed from the hearth’s dark maw.
“Touch me,” announced Frances, “and I’ll scratch your eyes out.”
“Oh, yes, the spirited play that so enchanted Mr. St. Pips,” said Lord Landry, amicably. He bent to reanimate the sullen fire with a poker. “Tell me, are you drugged?”
“I? Drugged? I should hope not!” gasped Frances, shocked from her fierce distress.
Landry took a candle from the bronze athénienne by the bed, held it in the fire to light it, and replaced it on its stand. As he spoke to her, the new flame flickered and grew. “I’m hoping not, as well. But if you’ve had anything to eat or drink here, it’s always a possibility.”
“I haven’t,” said Frances tightly.
“That’s good.” He gave her a clinically approving smile. “According to Giles, creative apothecary is one of Beamer’s specialties. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a little poppy dust in St. Pips’ next goblet.”
Frances’ eyes grew wide. “Horrible!”
“Don’t worry,” he said casually, shrugging out of his jacket. “They’ll be careful not to kill him; only think of the scandal.”
“This is a terrible place,” she whispered shakily.
“There are a lot worse.” There was no sentimentality in his smile. He draped his jacket over a convex girandole mirror that hung beside the hearth. “To broaden your horizons, Miss Atherton, that’s what you do with a two-way mirror. Are you going to faint?”
Miss Atherton’s voice was high and thin as she said, “Certainly not.”
“Very sensible. God knows what’s been spilled on this carpet.” He leaned against the wall by the fireplace, long legs braced apart, and watched her, smiling with sparkling eyes. “Would it cheer you if I told you that I looked on this more as a rescue than a purchase?”
The color began to return to Frances’ face, and the resentment to her breast. Her chin went up.
“I didn’t need,” she said in a brittle voice, “to be rescued.”
He laughed, unoffended. “Then I can look upon this as a purchase?”
“Certainly not.” Her reply and his mimic of it were spoken simultaneously.
“Poor mysterious Miss Atherton.” He smiled into her arctic glare. His voice was warm with sympathy. “Do you know what kind of a terrible place it is?”
“My horizons,” she snapped, “are sufficiently broad for me to know that, even though I was not aware of it when I first came in. This is, Lord Landry—and I shall not mince words—it’s an . . . abode of wrongdoing!”
“Miss Atherton, you minced words,” he said reproachfully. “A euphemism for a euphemism.”
“Very well, if you will have it! This is a bawdy house!”
“Wherever,” he asked good-humoredly, “did you learn all this plain speaking?”
“My father is a parson,” she said with dignity.
“Ah!” The green eyes were bright as emeralds. “Prudence Sweetsteeple, parson’s brat. It explains much. Are you here to save those poor sinners downstairs from themselves or to raise money for the missions?”
As the scattered shards of her self-confidence began to reunite, the desire to justify her presence to him began to war with a strong conviction that she ought to show him how little she cared for his good opinion. It took her a moment to devise a retort that would satisfy both requirements.
“I suppose that means that you think I owe you an explanation for being here,” she asked.
Reaching out his hand, he traced a slow path with one finger across the pale skin above her gown. He watched her tremble, and smiled. “My sweet Prudence,” he murmured, “how are we going to get around this excess virtue of yours? It doesn’t feel the same as when St. Pips touched you, does it?”
Frances felt the skin heat under her cheeks. Backing away, she said chokingly, “I think you’re odious.”
“No, you don’t, too bad for you. You’ve got a lot to learn, parson’s brat.” He stepped forward as though to touch her again and she retreated quickly. “Careful, Miss Atherton, you’re getting closer to the bed.” He gave her a lazy smile and leaned back against the wall, crossing his legs. “Relax, dear. You don’t have to skitter from me like a fawn. I’m not going to chase you around the room. Do you know this is the first time I’ve made your bosom heave with indignation in such a skimpy gown? It’s quite an effect. And I ought to point out that yanking the neckline higher is not achieving what you want it to, because that draws the material tighter over you . . .”
“Stop this instant!” flashed Frances, hardly knowing whether to cover her ears or her bodice. “If you had a shred of decency, you would disdain to take advantage of my predicament by behaving in this hateful, insulting fashion.”
“Which is my cue to point out that I don’t view my attentions to you in the nature of an insult, to which you reply
, with a great deal more heaving of the bosom, that it is an insult unless preceded by an offer of marriage. Do you want a husband, Miss Atherton? Look downstairs; half the men there are husbands.”
“I don’t want a husband!” she shouted.
“You don’t want a husband, you don’t want a lover . . .” His eyes took on a wintergreen tinge, the firelight gave his skin and hair a clean gold glow. “Do you want to tell me what you do want? And you don’t owe me anything, least of all explanations. Tell me why you’re here if you want to; don’t, if you don’t want to. It’s entirely up to you.”
After eying him resentfully for a moment, Frances said, “I’ve never met anyone like you.”
He smiled. “Prudence Sweetsteeple meets Lord Rakehell.”
Frances wasn’t sure quite why, but somehow she found she was unable to resist that irresistible smile. Against not only her will but her better judgment as well, she smiled back. Some of the tension that had haunted her body flowed from her like a fleeing ghost.
“You really are incorrigible, you know,” she said.
“So they tell me.”
“You’re wasting your time.”
“I’ll take my chances,” he said serenely.
“You’re very difficult,” she told him, “and I don’t know what I’m going to do about you yet, but the reason I’m here is that I’m conducting what might be termed a . . . private investigation.”
Lord Landry appeared to find great charm in her confession. “Whose privates do you want to investigate?” he asked cheerfully. “This is certainly the place to do it.”
“Don’t be vulgar. I followed Edward Kennan here.”
A slight surprise registered on Landry’s handsome features. He raised a mobile eyebrow. “Kennan? Is one permitted to ask why?”
“I can’t tell you. And come to think of it, I wish you would not tell anyone my name is Atherton, either.”
“Ahh. Hence Frances Brightcastle. The pieces begin to fall together—except, of course, for the enormous gaps. Does this have anything to do with why you wanted to join the Drury Lane Company?”
“Yes, but I didn’t get a part, so . . .”
“So you came here? I hate to disappoint you, but Kennan doesn’t visit this place very often.”
She frowned as she paced the carpet, rubbing her toes in the pile, her hands behind her back. “I didn’t plan to stay. And when Kennan got out of his carriage and came in so stealthily, I thought he must be here for no good purpose. As I was looking for a way to sneak inside, Jem Beamer came to the door and mistook me for an extra girl from a Mrs. Blanchard. Naturally, it seemed like a heaven-sent opportunity.”
He burst out laughing. “For a preacher’s daughter you have a singular notion of heaven.”
“How was I to know?” said Frances defensively. “There’s no sign over the door saying ‘Brothel, Keep Out.’ Madame dressed me like this and said I had to entertain Mr. St. Pips. The rest you know.”
He stared at her, then said slowly, “And you say you’ve never met anyone like me before.” The white rose behind her ear had come loose and he put it back in place, anchoring it firmly among the rich brown locks. “Do you want a very sound piece of advice, Miss Atherton? You ought to get out of here as quickly as possible.”
“I shall.” Frances gave a decisive nod. Lord Landry’s tolerant acceptance of her adventure made its terrors shrink; her earlier fear of Jem Beamer seemed the product of an overwrought conscience. What a departure from her usual self-reliance to have allowed herself to be meekly shepherded about by Madame la Princesse! “I ought to have left as soon as it became clear there was nothing to be gained by remaining. It was the height of melodrama to have been so intimidated by Madame la Princesse! I shall find her and demand the return of my clothing.”
Thankful to at last have a strategy, Frances began to walk toward the door, intent on implementing it without delay. She was brought up short by Lord Landry.
“Whoa!” he said, catching her shoulders from behind.
Frances twisted her head to look indignantly at him.
“Why ‘whoa,’ Lord Landry?”
Landry had made a careful effort to revive the white-faced and stricken girl he had found in St. Pips’ arms into the endearingly plucky creature he had met twice before, but he saw that he had been too successful.
“I admire your determination,” he said in a measured tone, “but your approach leaves a little to be desired. Wait for me here, and I’ll return in a few minutes to take you home. Leave Madame to me.” Even a man with half Lord Landry’s perception could not have mistaken her expression. “Oh, God, I know that look. I’m about to receive a ‘certainly not.’ Miss Atherton, what possible objection could you have to what I’ve suggested?”
“Your intervention is quite, quite gratuitous,” said Frances mulishly. “And if I may be frank? I’m getting a little weary of your smug rescues.”
“Are you?” inquired Landry dispassionately. He gave her a level smile, as free from rancor as it was from charity, then walked around her to open the door, motioning with his hand that she was free to leave. “Very well, my White Rose, do it your way. You’ll soon be sadder but wiser.”
“I doubt it, My Lord,” Frances sniffed, and marched out of the room, almost colliding with Jem Beamer in the front corridor.
“Where are you going?” exclaimed that worthy in his bluff way. “You wasn’t with his lordship long.”
“That’s no concern of yours,” she said, looking Beamer straight in the eye in an effort to compensate for her earlier weakness. “I’m going to get my clothes and leave.”
Beamer stared at her as if she’d claimed the Tower of London was made of cheesecake. “Have you gone mad, girl?” He stuck his face so close to hers that she could see the intricate pattern of tiny red veins in his yellow eyeballs.
“No,” she said firmly. “But I must have been mad before, to have flinched from asserting my rights. This country is governed by laws. And if I want to leave, I can leave! Let me pass, or I’ll . . .” Her threat was reduced to a helpless mumble as he clapped a huge hand over her mouth.
“You little Bedlamite,” he growled in her ear. “We’ve got four clients already paid for you. You hold your sauce or I’ll pump so much opium into you that you’ll think you’re walking on the ceiling. Going to behave yourself?” He pulled his hand off her mouth.
“Unhand me, sir,” she demanded stormily, “or I’ll report you to the magistrates.”
“Magistrates!” thundered Beamer. “Magistrates, is it?” He socked his hand back over her mouth. “By God, you’ll rue the day you said ‘magistrates’ to Jem Beamer. How are you going to get the magistrates if I break both your legs?” He dragged her toward a nearby room; she bit into his hand and tried to scream, and he squeezed her so tightly as to cut off her air. She was ready to lose her breath entirely when she saw Landry leaning against the doorframe of her vacated “love nest,” swinging his jacket from side to side.
Beamer saw Landry at the same time. “Your Lordship! Has she done ought to displease you? By God, if she has, I’ll settle her hash. So says Jem Beamer!”
“No,” he said placidly, a sardonic smile playing on his lips. “She was delightful. In fact, I’d like to take her home with me.”
“H-home?” stammered Beamer, his grip on Frances loosening. “This one? I—we couldn’t have that, sir. I’m sorry, sir, but it wouldn’t do.”
Landry produced a hundred-guinea note from an inside jacket pocket, exposing it in slow rotation to the light from the sconce.
“Trade?” he said.
Beamer looked greedily at the enormous sum being handled so negligently by His Lordship. “I want to oblige you, My Lord, but she’s a troublemaker. Been talking about going to the magistrates.”
“I guarantee that she won’t.” Landry walked to Beamer and tucked the note into Beamer’s ample waistband. “My word as a gentleman.”
Beamer hesitated another second, then released he
r. “The clothes she came in is in the room at the back. I’ll summon your lordship a hack, if you please. Enjoy yourself, My Lord.”
Chapter Six
It was a mere matter of minutes before Frances was changed and being handed into the damp interior of a hackney cab by Lord Landry. Landry joined her inside and the cab lurched forward; the bright tattoo of the hired horses’ hooves came muffled through the hack’s grease-filmed windows. Frances stared at the footbath of foul straw covering the floor.
“One hundred guineas,” she said as though she couldn’t believe that he had spent so great a sum on her behalf.
Lord Landry stretched his arm lazily across the cracked leather seat behind Frances. “Don’t let it distress you; I regard it as an investment.”
“How could it not distress me?” asked Frances. “I shall pay you back every penny if it takes me forever! What do you mean, an investment?”
The hand that he had stretched in back of her lifted unobtrusively to stroke her cheek. “Frances. Is that your real name? Yes? Look at me, Frances.”
She had too much pride to refuse. His fingers lowered to brush the sensitive skin on the side of her neck.
“I still want you. But I didn’t want it to happen there.” He smiled. “It’s probably been a month since they changed the sheets. Come home with me.”
Frances swallowed convulsively, and shifted to avoid his hand. “I can’t think it possible”—Frances’ voice was grave and nervous—“that even you, Lord Landry, would expect me to make good my debt to you by becoming your . . .” She couldn’t say it.
“Mincing words again, Frances?”
“Your mistress,” she snapped explosively. “And I didn’t give you permission to use my first name.”
He laughed softly and pulled her close against his chest; his lips touched the top of her head. Then he released her completely and sat up, away from her. “Forget the one hundred guineas and come home with me anyway.”
“No!”
He touched her chin with the curve of his finger. “All right. Fear not, Miss Atherton, I’m not going to abduct you.” His green eyes were like a soft summer mist as he gazed peacefully at Frances. “I can wait.”
