by Sarita Leone
A long, shuddery sigh escaped the older woman’s lips.
“I suppose you’ll want to hear about your father, then?”
“How do you know my father?”
Emmaline Byrd glanced up at Hugh, who still stood before them. Then, she met Elise’s gaze and said, “Your father lived here with me, Elise. For the last twenty years, he was my…ah, how can I say this delicately—so that you don’t swoon again?”
Elise knew what was coming. It was incomprehensible. Shocking, certainly. Completely preposterous, utterly false, of course!
Still, the knowledge of what was about to come gave her the largest case of the collywobbles she’d ever had. Ever.
“Just say it,” Hugh prodded. He was suddenly the voice of reason in an otherwise unreasonable situation.
“But, Hugh, you saw the girl swoon…”
Elise found her voice. “I am a grown woman, not a girl…”
“Just tell her, Emmaline.”
“But, Hugh, I—”
“Good Lord, woman, this is complete balderdash.” Hugh raked a hand through his curls, sending them into handsome disarray. He met Elise’s gaze, pointedly ignoring the fluttering hand and its ruby ornament that Emmaline waved in the air between them. “Your father and Emmaline were lovers. Lovers, for twenty years. He lived here until he died—two months ago.”
Lovers.
Her father alive and well, living in London?
With Emmaline?
Elise turned to face the woman beside her. She saw the truth in the eyes that met her gaze. Her throat was tight but she asked, “You were my father’s wife, then? His second wife?”
Preposterous to believe a married man could marry again when his wife—his deserted wife—was still alive but that had to be the explanation. It was the only slightly logical suggestion whirling around her mind.
Emmaline glanced down at the ruby, which Elise now realized was on the ring finger of her hand. She twirled it once. Twice. Three times.
Finally, she looked up and into Elise’s eyes. This time, there was no wavering, no uncertainty. She shook her head. Quietly, she said, “I’m afraid not, Elise. I wasn’t your father’s wife. I was, as Hugh so bluntly said, his lover. And I was the woman running all of this.” The ruby disappeared when she turned her hand over and swept it through the air, showcasing their surroundings. “I ran it all.”
Elise struggled for understanding. “You ran a boardinghouse with my father?”
Another shake of the head. “Your father had nothing to do with the business. And this wasn’t a boardinghouse. It was…ah, this was a whorehouse.”
****
Elise glanced from the valise on the bench at the foot of the bed to the bed itself. It was hard to believe that the embroidered coverlet and starched bed sheets had so recently cradled her in comfort. Now they, along with everything else in the room, disgusted her.
A whorehouse. She had lain in a bed where…
Bile rose in her throat. Swallowing against the urge to lose the contents of her stomach, she grabbed the closest item and shoved it into her bag. The best thing to do—the only thing to do—was to escape this madness as expediently as possible.
Ignoring a knock on the door, she tossed another item into the jumble in her bag. Her eyes scanned the room, looking for anything forgotten.
The door swung open on silent hinges. Of course it did, she thought. Who would want their comings and goings to such a spot announced to the world? She’d bet her last shilling that every door in the mansion was well oiled.
“Helen, I don’t require any—”
The deep chuckle brought the hairs on her arms to attention. Elise whirled to face the doorway, where the too-quiet door had already swung closed.
She had never been alone in a bedchamber with a man. This was not how she’d dreamed her first encounter would be.
“No one has ever accused me of being Helen before.” His gaze took in the room, moving from her face to the valise, its contents dripping over its worn leather handles. One brow shot up as he walked to the foot of the bed. The end of one finger lifted a wash towel from the mishmash of contents in her bag. “Stealing the linens?”
Her feet moved of their own accord, so quickly she skidded to a stop inches from the annoying man. Snatching the towel from his finger, she threw it on the bed with a defiant glare.
“Certainly not! I grabbed it by mistake, that’s all.” When he managed to lift his brow a fraction of an inch higher, completely obscuring it beneath the thick curl dangling over his forehead, she came close to stamping her foot. On his boot. Then, the devil himself sat on her shoulder. Arching her brow, a flagrant impersonation of his position, she asked, “And what of it if I am stealing the towel? No one could think less of me for wanting to claim a souvenir of this enlightening visit, could they? Besides, what concern is it of yours if I do steal the towel—or the sterling, for that matter? This is not your…it is not your…” She couldn’t bring herself to say “whorehouse” so she stopped midsentence.
“Establishment?” Sarcasm dripped from every syllable.
The man had no morals. He did not attempt to hide his amusement—at her expense. He had made a sport of her and it seared hotter than the sunburn rasping against the collar of her traveling dress.
“That’s as good a word as any since the real description of this place isn’t suitable for polite company.”
“Polite company? Is that what we are, Elise? Polite? Tell me; is it ‘polite’ to steal towels in Essex?”
Elise. No sarcasm oozing from her name. No, it slid off his tongue like velvet. Hearing the word spoken thusly did strange things to her composure. She thought to ask him to address her properly, but the idea got muddled in her head, never making it to her mouth.
Acutely aware of the nearness of his body, the scent of soap and cigar smoke clinging to his skin and jacket, Elise took one step back. He was formidable—as well as enticing.
Beads of perspiration peppered her temples, and the room felt suddenly hot too hot.
He leaned forward, his forehead nearly touching hers. “Well?” The word was like warm molasses, dripping and drawn out, low and sweet enough that her mouth watered.
“Well?” Just a shade above a whisper, it came out on a long exhale. And she hadn’t known she was holding her breath.
“You and I—polite company? That was the question, although it seems I already know the answer.” He closed the space between them. Elise’s calves were against the bench behind her so taking another step back was out of the question. Not that she was sure she wanted to, anyhow. “We’re past that stage, I’d wager. The look in your eyes says we’re way past carefully polite. We are, aren’t we?”
Indignation reared its head. She put one palm against his chest, meeting solid muscle but she refused to be intimidated by the sheer size and power of the man. Who did he think he was, barging into the room and backing her into a corner?
“We are nothing—not polite, impolite, careful or otherwise. In fact, as soon as I’m packed I’ll be out of here and you, sir, will forget I even exist.”
“Are you so sure I’ll forget you?”
“Absolutely certain.”
“How can you be? We’ve only just met. You cannot believe you know me so well already.” He pressed against her hand, and she felt his heart beating beneath her palm. The rhythm was slow and steady, and the cadence should have calmed her but it had the exact opposite effect. Her own heart galloped like a racehorse, maddeningly uncontrollable.
Elise gave a tiny push against him, just to let him know she wasn’t daunted by his proximity.
“I know you shall forget me—I know it as surely as I know my own name.”
“How?” He pressed the point. “How do you know for sure?”
Feeling brave—and somewhat bold—Elise let her gaze travel from his eyes, along the chiseled contours of his face, down his chest and back up again, finally meeting his gaze with her own.
“You ar
e a man. It is what they do—forget women.”
A muscle worked in his jaw, moving the tanned skin near his chin in such a way that Elise could not keep her gaze from it. When he spoke, she met his eyes but could not read them. He was not an open book; this was a man who kept his own council, that much was clear.
“You really believe that?”
“I do.” Not even the golden glints in his dark brown eyes or the wobble in her knees could make her back down. “With all my heart.”
He stared at her for a second, and then said, “Fair enough. I could try to change your heart, but that is something best left to another man.”
“Pardon me?”
Her hand moved on his chest when he shrugged. “You are a woman with obvious convictions. I have my own deep-rooted beliefs. They do not seem to match yours, so changing your heart is obviously not a job I wish to take on.”
Elise’s head snapped back as if she’d been slapped. His assessment was so calculated, so clinical, that it sounded like the description of a chess tournament rather than an affair of the heart.
Just one more insult to add to the list of miseries this London trip had wrought.
She straightened her shoulders and removed her hand from the man’s chest. It did not matter that his eyes captivated hers or he looked like an Adonis; he was party to the whole sordid mess she had landed in. No good could come of falling for his charms.
“So glad to hear that,” she said in an icy tone. “Believe me, I have no wish to be ‘taken on’ by any man. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to finish packing. I cannot wait to leave this place—and all within its walls.”
Bowing his head, the first gesture of politeness he’d tendered since barging into the room, he took a step back. A twitch at the edge of his upper lip made her heart skitter in her chest.
“I understand. But the question is still unanswered: Are you stealing the towels when you go?”
Again with that damn towel!
Exasperated, she stepped right up to him, so close her chest touched his. “The towel? Why do you care so much about the stupid towel? Surely you can’t imagine I’d take anything from this establishment—or that I’d steal from a-a—from a—”
“From my cousin?”
“Your cousin? Emmaline is your cousin?”
Hugh nodded. “She is.”
“You mean you’re not…that is, you and she aren’t…?”
Both his eyebrows lifted, the look of shock on his handsome face erasing everything that had come before it.
Then, he threw his head back and laughed at her.
Again.
Chapter 6
The coach ride had been horrendous. Due to the lateness of the hour, her only choice of conveyance was with a public night coach. Two of the vehicle’s other occupants of were inebriated; the third snoring and drooling throughout most of the journey. That is, when he wasn’t letting loud eruptions of gas loose with every bump of the carriage’s wheels.
Emmaline Byrd offered the use of her private coach and driver but Elise would rather have walked the entire way than accept help from the woman.
She should have been tired but crossing the threshold into their humble—yet respectable, she reminded herself—abode brought a sensation of empowerment. No longer out in the world, at the mercy of every lunatic who had the temerity to pen a letter. Secure in the knowledge the whole sordid London affair had to be a cruel mistake, she paused to unbutton her boots. Kicking them off, she heard them land with a gentle thud beneath the entry table. Grinning widely, she slipped out of her jacket and tossed it onto the tabletop. She was constantly reminding Louise not to carelessly shed her boots and jacket, and here she was doing the very same thing.
Drastic measures in trying times, she thought as she took the stairs two at once. No light burned in the upstairs hallway, oil being too precious to waste, but the glow of a lamp made a slender line beneath her mother’s bedroom door. Louise’s voice, muffled but unmistakable, hit her ears.
Without pausing to knock, Elise turned the glass doorknob and swung the door wide. It gave a small creak of protest. Her mother and sister looked up from the book lying across Louise’s lap.
“You’re home.” Louise jumped up, caught her foot in the hem of her nightdress and would have fallen if their mother hadn’t grabbed her from behind.
“Careful! Yes, Elise is home. That doesn’t mean you should jump like a frog after a fly at her, does it? Goodness, my dear, when will you learn to carry yourself like a lady?”
“Never.” Louise giggled as she opened her arms wide. “Or not tonight, anyhow.”
Elise hugged Louise, then her mother, before settling down on the edge of the chaise.
Lord, but it was good to be home!
Their mother didn’t waffle over details, but cut right to the matter itself.
“How was London? Did you meet anyone interesting? Learn anything worth sharing with us?” Genevieve pulled her lower lip between her teeth and nibbled it distractedly. Her brow furrowed, and she searched so deeply into her eldest daughter’s eyes that Elise felt more like a scrutinized fly now than she had when Louise had lunged at her.
“I didn’t see much of London, actually. Just what I saw passing by the coach windows.” She stuck a hand in her dress pocket. “During the ride to London, at least. Coming home it was so dark there wasn’t anything at all to see.”
“Why did you come home at this hour? It isn’t the safest time to travel, Elise. I am surprised at you. What were you thinking?” Her mother’s lip was red, and somewhat swollen. Her teeth were doing a nasty job on the delicate pink skin.
“My only thought was to get away from the lunatics in London.”
Louise’s interest asserted itself. “Lunatics? You met lunatics?”
“Oh, that is just an expression, dear. I’m sure Elise didn’t meet any lunatics.” Widening her eyes so they looked like saucers, Genevieve turned to Elise and asked, “You didn’t, did you?”
“I most certainly did.” There was no kinder way to tell the story, so Elise went for the unvarnished truth. Her fingers caressed the soft object in her pocket. “Honestly, the woman who wrote the letter might be certifiably mad. She is…” a fast glance at her younger sister, who was sitting on the edge of her seat. Why bother with subterfuge? Louise could not be so guileless that she did not know at least a tad about the steamier side of society.
“She is what?” Louise asked breathlessly.
“The proprietress of…” It wasn’t something that tripped effortlessly off her tongue. Just say it. Elise pulled as much air as she could hold into her lungs, then on the exhalation she blurted, “She is the proprietress of a whorehouse.”
There. It was out.
“Good heavens, Elise—how can you say such a thing?” Genevieve held a hand to her breast, outrage shining from her eyes.
“There is no other way to put it, Mother. You asked, and I told the truth.”
“A whorehouse? What is it like? Did you see anything—” Louise ignored the shushing noises their mother made. She leaned forward, and said in a scandalized tone, “Did you see anything immoral?”
“Lord above, look what you’ve taught her!” Genevieve’s face reddened, until its shade nearly matched her ravaged lip. She swatted the air above Louise’s right thigh, sending the young woman’s nightdress swishing against her skin. It was the closest Genevieve ever got to actually striking her daughters. The air swat had silenced many childhood disagreements but it could not quench Louise’s interest. “Now she is saying such dreadful things, and all because you—”
“I am not to blame,” Elise protested.
“Did you see any whores?” Louise’s question brought a shriek from their mother. “Even one? Elise, did you see even one whore? And what did she look like?”
“Do you see what you’ve taught her?” Genevieve’s eyes were wild as she looked from one daughter to the other. “Whores—my youngest child is talking about whores!”
; “Calm down, both of you.” It was up to her to bring reason back into the conversation. “I didn’t see any whores at all—not even one.” She could have tripped over one and not realized, had the house not been almost empty.
What did a whore look like anyhow—well, who could tell about such things? The thought flitted through Elise’s head.
“Truthfully, the house looked like any other house might. It just had many bedrooms on the second floor. At least, that’s the impression I got from all the doors leading off the hallway. But, no, I did not see anything—or anyone—untoward.”
“That’s dreadful, isn’t it? You actually got inside a—” Genevieve made a strangled noise that cut Louise off. With a sigh, Louise continued, “You were inside…” She glanced at Genevieve. “You gained entrance to an unusual establishment but weren’t fortunate enough to meet anyone interesting. How sad!”
Elise’s fingertips ran over the pouch in her pocket. She hadn’t opened it, so she didn’t know what it held but whatever it was, it was tiny. Two dainty bumps pressed against the blue velvet, too small to give any impression other than they were slight.
“I did meet two unusual people, just not any…well, you know. Oh, I met Henry, too, although he was rather ordinary.”
“Henry?” Genevieve’s voice didn’t sound as strained now.
“Yes, the butler.”
“A butler? I have never met a butler,” Louise said. “What did he do?”
“Well, he opened and closed doors, for one thing.”
“With all those bedrooms, I suppose someone has to be responsible for keeping them either open or closed,” Louise said. “Did he do anything else?”
“He brought tea once. Oh, and whiskey.” The minute the words were out, Elise wished she could recall them. Her mother’s eyes widened again, a hand flew to her chest but before she could speak, Elise added, “The whiskey was only for the swooning.”
Louise pounced. “The swooning?”
“It was just a little swoon…”
“You swooned?” Genevieve cast a dubious head-to-toe look that made Elise feel the way she had on the infrequent occasion she’d told a childhood fib. “You have never swooned. Neither have I. Nor Louise, either. We are not a family of swooners, Elise. Are you all right?”
