Paying the Virgin's Price

by Christine Merrill

  When he reached his room, he rang for the butler.

  'Sir?'

  'Benton, do you have a key for the room at the head of the stairs?'

  'Miss Diana's room, sir?' The man had been butler of this house since long before Nate had come to it. And although he appeared loyal, now that he was pressed on the subject, he made no effort to hide the fact that there was still one area of the house that did not belong to the new owner. When Nate had returned from America, the single room had been left untouched, as though no one could bring themselves to store the contents. And now, Benton's tone was worried, as if the idea disturbed him that it might finally be time to pack the contents away.

  Nathan nodded. 'Miss Diana's room.'

  The butler did not say another word, but removed a single key from the ring in his pocket, handing it to Nathan as though he wanted no part in what was to happen nor in whatever cosmic repercussions might fall on his master's head as a result of his actions.

  Nate sighed. 'Thank you, Benton. That is all.'

  The man removed himself, and Nate made his way back down the hall to the locked door. He turned the key quickly and jerked open the door before stepping inside, leaving it open behind him, so that he could see by the light from the hall. The room was dustier than he'd remembered, but other than that, unchanged. The wardrobe doors were thrown open, as though the occupant had been forced to pack and leave in a hurry. She must have taken her day dresses; a large section of the wardrobe stood empty.

  But the ball gowns had been pushed to the side, and left behind. She'd known, even then, that her days as a debutante were over. If one was about to seek a position, then one did not need finery. He glanced around the room, taking note of the things missing and the things left behind. The hair brushes were gone but the ornaments remained. The jewellery box was open, and the contents scattered, as though she'd thought to take it all, then come to the conclusion that it had been lost to her along with everything else and settled on taking a few small pieces as remembrance of her old life.

  There was a book on the table by the bed, the reader's place still marked by a scrap of ribbon. Did she ever finish it, he wondered, or had the little book been forgotten in her rush to go?

  He thought back to his own departure from Leybourne House. The way his mother had told him to pack only what was needed. He had just turned ten, and still thought toy soldiers and wooden swords to be among life's necessities. After seeing the enormous pile of his possessions, she had sat down with him, and explained that, from now on, life would be different.

  It was the first time, in all the harrowing weeks, that he had seen his mother cry.

  He looked again at the contents of the room around him. He remembered how it had felt to be so totally displaced. And yet, he had done it to others. To the sweet-faced girl who had absented herself from his conversation with the Carlow sisters with the talent of one whose sole job was to fade into the background. She should be dancing at balls beside Verity and Honoria, not sitting in the corner with her book.

  He had done that to her. He had ruined her chances, and her life. She should be married by now, with children of her own and servants to care for her needs.

  He could feel the marker, heavy in his purse, as though it sought to burn through the leather and scar his skin. He had been telling himself for years that he had done the best he could by Diana Price. That it was enough: not following through on the damn thing. As bad as he had been to take it in the first place, he could have been worse. He had never demanded payment. He held himself forever in check, trying to prove his good character by the one thing he did not take.

  Small comfort to Diana Price. He had not made her his whore for a night. He had left her with her virtue while denying her a lifetime's comforts.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and looked around the room. She had been happy here, he was sure. It was smaller than his room, of course, but well-appointed and cheerful. It suited her. Without thinking too much about it, he stretched out on the bed and he picked up the book.

  He woke nearly an hour later. He could remember reading. It was a volume of Shakespeare's sonnets. He had read and enjoyed them many times before. But the surprising warmth of the room and the peace of it had overcome him. Was it the quality of the light through the windows? Perhaps, when he had chosen his own room, he should have taken this, rather than the master suite. He had rested better during the little nap than he had in his own bed. And now, he was shaking off the vision of a pretty young girl with wide dark eyes, sitting in the window seat of this very room, legs tucked under her skirts, a half smile on her sunlit face and the book in her lap.

  In his dream, she had looked up at him, where he lay on the bed, and put down the book to come towards him. The glint in her eyes was as welcoming as he might wish, and she had smiled. And then, thank God, he had awakened. If the dream had gone as he expected--with her lying in his arms--he was sure that it would have ended in a nightmare, once he'd realized who she was.

  He got up quickly, trying to clear the fog from his brain, then left the room, locking the door behind him and dropping the key into his pocket. Then he bypassed his own room and went down the stairs to his study. Or was it Edgar Price's study? He was no longer sure. He had been so proud, when he'd first won this house, although much less so of the rest of that evening. There would have been room for Helena and Rosalind, and Mother as well. They would have lived happily enough, he was sure, once he had found some way to persuade them that he had come by it properly.

  He had meant to break the news to them gently, making sure that everything was legal and the way prepared. His mother had never approved of his gambling to make the rent. She had wanted him to find an honest trade to help contribute to the family. And if she had realized how high the stakes had risen, and how quickly? If it upset her that he was winning coins off navvies or a few quid off of drunken clarks to help pay the bills, then she would have been appalled to see what he had won from Price.

  It would not do to drop his family into a house full of unwilling servants, with the previous owners' possessions strewn about and Price's pipe still burning on the mantle. So he had toured the premises, released any servants that did not feel they could make peace with a change of masters and arranged things so that his mother need never again be troubled with the butcher's bill. He topped up the household accounts with several more fine scores at the tables. When he was through, the place would run like clockwork. His mother need never think about the time he'd spent gaming for the money she lived on, or waste her fading energy in sympathy for the source of their wealth.

  But it seemed that fate was working against him, yet again. For no sooner had he finished his plans, than he was set upon by a press gang. He did not wake from their tender ministrations until he was onboard ship and well on the way to France as a member of His Majesty's Navy.

  When he had managed to make his way home, he found the house little different than it had been when he'd left it. He had returned to a life that was quite comfortable, and further gambling had made it even more so. But it meant nothing if there was no one to share it with.

  And now he could not shake the feeling that it was not his life that he was living, but one that rightly belonged to another. He gathered paper and pen, and addressed a hurried letter to Miss Price, care of the Carlow family.

  And what did he mean to say to her? 'I am sorry,' hardly seemed enough, nor would it do any good to explain himself. It might appear that he thought he had suffered more than she, and he doubted it was possible to compare burdens. At last, he decided to leave the contents blank. Then he turned out his purse and piled the folded bank notes neatly inside the paper, reaching for the wax to seal it all up tight before sending. He almost marked it, but thought better of it. She did not need to know the sender, nor the reason. After this afternoon, she would not wish to take a penny from Mr Dale for fear of encouraging his attentions. And if she should discover the real reason he had done it, he dreaded her re
sponse.

  But if he could reimburse her, in some small part, for the damage he had done.

  It was not enough. It could never be enough. But perhaps he could find other ways to help her, without giving the wrong impression, when her position with the Carlows was at an end. It was better than nothing.

  But nothing was what he had done in the past, and he found it would no longer content him.

  Chapter Six

  As she sat enjoying morning tea in the small dining room with Verity, Diana tried not to think of the day before. So the girls were convinced that Mr Dale was considering marriage. The idea was as ridiculous as it was appealing. His interest could not be too strong, for she was sure he would not have returned to the Carlow home had Verity and Honoria not forced the issue.

  But once there, he had been more than willing to speak to her. And it was more than that. It was far more telling that he listened. Anyone might speak when trapped alone in a room with a stranger, just to fill the embarrassing silence. He had said very little about himself, but made every effort to draw her out.

  And he had made the curious offer of aid. Perhaps she had misunderstood him, putting too ominous a spin on the words. After years of watching out for the virtue of others, even the most innocent of unguarded comments might be seen as an improper advance. She replayed the exchange endlessly in her mind, trying to see it from all sides. But it became even more confusing with repetition.

  And now, whether she saw him again or not, Verity and Honoria would tease her endlessly on the subject of Mr Dale, just to see her turn pink at the mention of the man's name.

  But if she did see him?

  It was all she could do not to moan aloud at the thought. Her curiosity about him had grown to fascination, and then obsession. If she saw him, she would make a complete cake of herself. Any interest he might have felt would turn immediately to distaste, once he saw her behaviour.

  It was disaster.

  She gave Verity a weak smile over her cup of tea, and wished Honoria a good morning as the girl appeared in the doorway, yawning and sorting through the morning's mail. 'Here, Diana. A letter addressed to you.' Honoria held it out to her, and then snatched it back, holding it to her temple, as though trying to divine the contents. 'Too thick for a billet doux. I wonder what it might be?' She passed the letter to her friend.

  'What utter nonsense, Honoria. You really are being most unfair to me. If you are not careful, I shall remember this behaviour. And when you receive a letter, I shall return the torment.' She tried not to appear as excited as she was, but she rarely received mail. It was even more rare to receive it unexpectedly, and she had no idea what this might be. She ran a finger along the edge of the folded paper to pop the sealing wax.

  Bank notes fluttered to the table in front of her. It was as startling as if she had opened the letter to a flight of moths. She leaned back in her chair, as though afraid to let the things touch her dress.

  'Ohhh my.' Verity had no such fear and came to her side to scoop the notes off the floor and into an organized pile on the table, counting as she went. 'There is all of thirty-four pounds here. Who sent it?'

  Diana's mind was too numb to scold her charge for the impudence of the question. In truth, she was curious to know the answer. She picked up the letter, searching both sides for information. 'I do not know. There is my address, right enough. But there is no return.' She turned the paper. 'And no message, either.'

  'Why would anyone send such an odd number?' Honoria asked. Was there a debt that needed paying?'

  Diana stared at the money on the desk. 'None owed to me.' There might have been, to her father. But it was far more likely a debt was owed by her, than to her. And why would the money have come to her now, so many years after it might have helped?

  'Well it is nowhere near your birthday. Or Christmas, for that matter,' Verity said.

  Honoria riffled through the stack. 'And it does not look as if the person went to the bank for the money. The bills are all odd. Creased. Old.'

  'But legal tender, all the same,' she told them. The Carlow girls were used to their money, clean and neatly folded, going straight from their brother's hand into their reticules. They had never been forced to search their father's pockets after a night of gambling, hoping that there would be a little left to pay the grocer.

  The memory shocked Diana, for it had been so long, she'd thought it forgotten. But at the sight of the somewhat ragged bills before her, the past came flooding back and brought bitterness with it. Pound notes hurriedly gathered and stuffed into a pocket or purse. Not stacked neatly, but front to back, and upside down. This was enough to be very near a year's salary to a paid companion. But someone had thrust it into an envelope as though it were nothing, and addressed it to her. She stared at the writing on the letter, trying to divine masculine from feminine. The letters were roughly formed, as though the writer had wished to conceal his or her identity.

  'Well, whoever it was seemed to think it most important that you receive this,' Verity said. 'You are sure that you have no idea?'

  'None.'

  'No belated gifts from estranged godparents?'

  'I have none, estranged or otherwise.'

  'No family that has gone to the continent or the colonies to make their fortune?' suggested Honoria with a smile.

  Diana held it up to her. 'It is a London postmark, Honoria. There is nothing exotic about it.'

  'No pending bequests from rich uncles?'

  Diana laughed. 'Of course not. You know I have no family. And even if I did, they would not be so secretive.'

  Verity smiled in triumph. 'Then it must be from an admirer. Someone is pained to see you forced into the shadows, toiling to maintain our good name. That someone wishes you a chance to better yourself. And I know just such a one. It is from Mr Dale.'

  'Verity!' Diana was sure that her cheeks could not get any more pink at the thought of the man, for she could feel them burning already. 'It can be no such thing, and I forbid you to say that again. Mr Dale would have no reason to send me a large sum of money, on a whim. And even if he did, the gesture would not be kindly in the least. It would...' She struggled to think of a way to explain, one that did not confirm her worst fears about the man. 'It would be most improper. Only one sort of gentleman would offer money to a female. And only one sort of female would accept it.'

  'Do you think that he means to make you his mistress?' Honoria's eyes grew wide with curiosity.

  'Honoria! It is most unladylike of you to entertain that idea. But if a gentleman well outside of his dotage gave me a substantial amount like this, I would not think that it was out of concern for my future or well-being. I would return it immediately, for I would assume that he expected something in exchange for it that I did not wish to give him.'

  Honoria stared at the pile of bills on the table. 'Then he would be the most cold-blooded and foolish paramour imaginable. Surely he must know that jewellery would be a better temptation, when persuading a woman to part with her honour. And to not enclose an address?' She waved her hand over the money. 'It is very difficult to demand thanks for the gift if one does not identify oneself when sending. Is he likely to make an appearance, regretfully inform you that he forgot to enclose his card when offering a carte blanche, and then expect you to fall at his feet? I seriously doubt it, Diana. More likely, he was moved by your situation and feared you were in need of help. But the natural shyness and reservation he displayed towards you, when talking with us, left him awkward and unsure of how best to aid you. So he posted you the contents of his purse. But he feared that you would take it just as you have suggested, and throw the money back in his face. So he gave no return address to prevent you.'

  Diana dearly wished that this was the case. For it would allay her suspicions about their last meeting. But if he had truly meant to offer help, why could he not have forgone the money and renewed the offer with a note of apology and explanation?

  Unless he did not wish to see her again, or
lead her to believe that there was anything at all romantic about his interest in her. Her heart fell a little at the most probable truth. And then she looked back to the money and sighed. 'Well, whoever sent it, I certainly cannot keep it. They are mistaken if they think I need financial help. I am secure in my position here.'

  'Until we are both married,' Verity pointed out. 'And I suppose that will happen soon. Honoria, you must make a choice from amongst your many admirers, for it is cruel to make them wait. And for me?' She sighed as well, as though the idea were a burden to her. 'There is the matter of finding an appropriate gentleman. But once I apply myself to the task...'

  Diana cut short the girl's fears, for sometimes it did not sound as if Verity wished to marry at all. 'When you settle is beside the point. You will do it when the time is right. You need not give a thought to what will happen to me after. But when you no longer need me, I have set aside a small savings that will keep me until another position can be found.'

  Verity looked at the money again. 'We will not worry, for we know that you have at least thirty-four pounds. Enough for a year's worth of rainy days, right there on the table.'

  It nearly doubled what she had set aside for herself. 'But I cannot keep it,' Diana said again, firmly so as to assure herself. 'It is far too much to be proper. Perhaps a deserving charity--'

  'How utterly ridiculous.' Honoria's autocratic nature was showing again. 'You are worthy enough for this, Diana. And we will not allow you to get up on your high horse and give this away. Is there nothing you want? No unfulfilled dreams that might be achieved with the help of this money?'

  'Dreams?' Diana resisted the urge to flinch at the word. She had worked very hard in the last ten years to rid herself of dreams. But now that the money was before her...'No,' she said firmly. 'There is nothing.'

  'There is,' Honoria said in triumph. 'I saw it in your eyes, just now.'

  'It is not enough money. It hardly matters, really.'