The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)

by Grace Callaway

  “Chin up, poppet,” Papa murmured. “This’ll be over soon.”

  They were in the waiting room outside the office of Arthur Mayhew, Daltry’s executor. Daltry’s family members were present as well. The greetings from Mrs. Antonia James and Miss Eloisa Fossey had been decidedly cool, but the warmer ones from Lady Charlotte and Miss Sybil had given Rosie hope.

  As for the gentlemen, Mr. Peter Theale, Daltry’s ginger-haired heir, had been his usual amiable self and Mr. Alastair James, Mrs. James’ stepson, a trifle too friendly. A blond rakish sort, Mr. James had a rather high opinion of himself and seemed to believe that everyone shared in the delusion. Even now, he was smirking at her as he strutted about like a puffed-up peacock.

  Rosie turned to her father. Somberly attired, his unruly hair neatly combed, he exuded dignity.

  “Thank you for accompanying me, Papa,” she said, ever grateful for his presence.

  His amber eyes studied her. “Mama wanted to come too, you know.”

  With so much going on, she’d put off setting things right with her mother. “I’ll speak to her soon, I promise,” she said guiltily.

  Papa looked as if he might say something, then the door to Mr. Mayhew’s office opened, and everyone was ushered inside.

  The dark paneling, drab green upholstery, and shuttered windows gave the solicitor’s inner sanctum a gloomy feel. A heavy desk dominated the room, a semi-circle of chairs facing it. After everyone found seats, Mr. Mayhew, a stout fellow whose heavy jowls and wide-set eyes reminded Rosie of a bullfrog, addressed them from behind his desk.

  “I’d like to begin by offering my sincere apologies for the delay,” he said in deep, resonant tones. “It was unfortunate that I was detained abroad when Lord Daltry passed.”

  “Quite an inconvenience,” Mrs. James said.

  “My stepmama doesn’t like waiting.” Sprawled languidly in the chair next to Mrs. James, Alastair James added snidely, “Especially on the help.”

  Mr. Mayhew’s eyes bulged, his face turning red.

  Feeling sorry for the man, Rosie said quickly, “Thank you for sending Mr. Horton to assist during your absence. I don’t know what I would have done without him.”

  The solicitor inclined his head at her. “You’re welcome, my lady. I was gratified to hear from Mr. Horton that the funeral was a stately affair. George Theale was a long-time client of mine, and I consider it an honor to execute his last wishes. Thus, without further ado,”—he lifted a document from his desk—“ladies and gentlemen, this is the last will and testament of George Henry Theale, the fifth Earl of Daltry…”

  Mayhew began with the letters patent, which dealt with the passing of the peerage and all its entailments to Peter Theale. As the solicitor droned on about estates and finances, Rosie’s mind wandered back to Andrew. The talk with Polly yesterday had added fuel to her longing, and she’d spent a restless night fantasizing about a future with him.

  Her practical nature had weighed in with a compromise. What if she allowed herself to explore her feelings for Andrew… without the expectation of marriage? She was a widow now, and everyone knew widows played by a different set of rules. As long as she was discreet, she could take a lover—and the only one she wanted was Andrew.

  I’ll make love to you when you admit I’m the only man who can give you what you need.

  Botheration. Having to capitulate to Andrew would be annoying... but a small price to pay to be in his arms. Even as excitement poured through her, she reminded herself of another caveat.

  If she and Andrew were to have an affair, she must guard her heart.

  She couldn’t allow herself to hope for more than what was possible. Besides, being rejected by him once had been painful enough, and she didn’t want to go through that again. Thus, she would present her terms to him: she’d be willing to have an affair as long as (a) there were with no strings attached, (b) it was done discreetly, and (c) it didn’t threaten her ultimate goal of achieving social acceptance.

  Feeling mature (and rather proud of herself) for working out a plan, she was reminded of her present objective and glanced at the dowager countess and Mrs. James, who were perched on the edge of their seats. As a first step, she would invite the ladies to luncheon. She’d plan a special menu and pour on the butter boat, if necessary. Maybe she’d be able to convince them to say something favorable about her at their popular Thursday Salon.

  She warmed to her plan. The crème de la crème were like lemmings: just get one to change course and the others would follow. All she had to do was sway Lady Charlotte or Mrs. James…

  At that instant, their gazes swung to her. She blinked and had a panicked thought: did they somehow catch wind of her machinations? But, no, it wasn’t just them—everyone in the chamber was staring at her.

  Uh oh. Her heart sped up. What have I done now?

  “This is unacceptable.” Alastair James shot to his feet, all feigned lassitude gone. Rage flashed in his blue eyes. “I was Daltry’s favorite. After all the time I spent with him, the bastard has no right to do this to me. To any of us!”

  “On the contrary,” Mr. Mayhew said, “Lord Daltry had every right to dispense with his personal fortune as he wished.”

  “B-but the estate.” Peter Theale looked bewildered, the color of his face approaching that of his hair. “How the d-devil will I manage?”

  “Outrageous,” Mrs. James snapped. “There must be some mistake.”

  Completely lost, Rosie tried to piece together what she’d missed.

  “There’s no mistake.” The solicitor’s voice rang with authority. “Lord Daltry brought in two colleagues from his company to witness the signing of the will. They can and will attest to his sound state of mind and intentions.”

  “We are to rely on the word of merchants?” Fury accentuated the angularity of Mrs. James’ features. “Well, I won’t have it. I won’t allow this strumpet,”—her black gaze honed in on Rosie—“to destroy the future of the Daltry lineage.”

  Papa rose, his expression lethal as a blade. “You will kindly show my daughter some respect.”

  Mrs. James stuck out her chin, the bodice of her black bombazine heaving.

  “It is just a shock, you see.” Lady Charlotte spoke up, exchanging glances with her wards. Miss Eloisa was thin-lipped, and Miss Sybil’s gaze darted around the room like that of a frightened rabbit. “None of us was expecting this.”

  Rosie couldn’t contain herself any longer. “Expecting what? What is going on?”

  Everyone stared at her as if she were a few cards short of a full deck.

  Clearing his throat, Mr. Mayhew was the first to speak. “Your husband left the entirety of his fortune to you, Lady Daltry.”

  Shock percolated through her. She said faintly, “But I thought… I thought the estate would go to his heir.”

  “The estate, yes. But your husband’s wealth did not come from the Daltry holdings. On the contrary, he was using his personal fortune—gained from his businesses and investments—to restore the earldom.” The solicitor regarded her solemnly. “He’s bequeathed that fortune to you.”

  She blinked. “He has?”

  “Yes, my lady.” Mr. Mayhew briefly surveyed Daltry’s relations; when his gaze returned to her, it held a gleam of satisfaction. “To be precise, you’ve inherited a sum of one hundred thousand pounds.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “Keep an eye on Lord Michaels.” Andrew shut the peephole, having seen enough of the drunken nob’s belligerent swagger. “Water down his drinks, and post Tim by his room. If Lord Michaels so much as raises his voice at Lizzie, he’s out on his arse.”

  The wall sconces cast shadows across Grier’s rugged countenance. “I’ll see to it.”

  It was midnight, and the two of them were carrying out the nightly rounds from the hidden corridors that ran through the club. Andrew had a vantage point into every room: the club was his domain, and he didn’t take the responsibility lightly. Everyone who entered Corbett’s knew t
he rules. Patrons unwise enough to abuse the wenches—or trespass in other ways—would be dealt with severely. Enforcing the rules was no easy task and kept Andrew on his toes.

  Usually, he liked the challenge. Tonight, however, he was tired from lack of sleep and unabated arousal. The two days since he’d issued his ultimatum to Primrose felt like millennia.

  Why hadn’t she come to him? Had he overplayed his hand? Misjudged the situation?

  “There’s something else, sir.”

  Annoyed that he was moping like some lovelorn greenling, he said curtly, “Yes?”

  Grier’s look was grim. “One of the guards you have posted at the Nursery House reported in. There was another incident.”

  Andrew’s shoulders tensed. “Malcolm Todd’s men?”

  “Aye, sir. They were attempting to block deliveries to the house. The grocer was scared witless by the time our boys noticed what was happening and chased off the buggers.”

  Devil take Todd. Andrew’s hands fisted. “Request an audience with Bartholomew Black. We’re sorting this business out once and for all.”

  Not much intimidated Grier, but at the mention of the King of the Underworld, he grimaced. “You ken what involving Black could lead to?”

  “I’m not doing this dance with Todd. If he wants to challenge me, he’ll have to do it in the open and with the King as his witness,” Andrew declared. “If he still wants bloodshed, then by God I’ll give it to him.”

  Grier’s chin jerked in acknowledgement. “Anything else, sir?”

  “Just keep an eye on Lord Michaels and Lizzie. I’ll finish the rounds on my own.”

  The factotum exited to attend to his tasks, and Andrew continued on to the upper floors. He walked soundlessly behind the walls, stopping to make quick checks on the proceedings. Sex was happening in a variety of configurations: couples, ménage à trois, a rollicking orgy in the ever popular Sultan’s Seraglio. It was business as usual, the mayhem controlled—which was more than he could say about the situation with Malcolm Todd.

  If that matter wasn’t handled carefully, damage could be severe on both sides.

  He returned to the first floor, a commotion in the corridor beyond catching his attention. He heard one of the footmen inquire with heavy suspicion as to a guest’s purpose.

  “I assure you I was invited here by Mr. Corbett.” The feminine voice sent his heartbeat into a gallop. “I was on my way to his office and got turned about—”

  Andrew pressed a switch, the panel in the wall swinging open like a door. He stepped into the hallway, noting with relief that it was empty save for the footman and Primrose, the latter once again dressed in black and heavily veiled.

  “I’ll take it from here,” he told the footman. “Have refreshments sent to my quarters.” After the servant left to do his bidding, he crooked a finger at Primrose. “You—come with me.”

  She followed him into the passageway, and he closed the panel behind them.

  The instant they were sealed in privacy, she whipped up her veil and breathed, “Is this a secret corridor? How exciting! Does it go all around—”

  He silenced her by laying a finger upon her lips. Goddamn, her mouth was plush, silky and inviting. He couldn’t resist stroking her bottom lip with his thumb and hid a smile when he heard her breath catch.

  While risky, his move had paid off: she’d come to him at last.

  “If you’d let me know of your plans,” he said huskily, “I would’ve prepared a proper welcome.”

  “I wasn’t planning to visit,” she averred, “but I couldn’t sleep. All I could think about was that I had to see you. The next thing I knew, I was sneaking out of Polly’s house and hiring a hackney to come here.”

  “You took a hackney at night—by yourself?” He frowned, some of his satisfaction fading. “That is too dangerous by far.”

  “Something’s happened. You’re the only one I can talk to. It’s a matter of utmost exigency.”

  Despite her flair for the dramatic, the urgency in her voice was real. Panic fleeted through her luminous eyes. His joy at her appearance was tempered with sudden foreboding.

  “We’ll talk in my suite,” he said. “Follow me.”

  He led the way toward his private rooms, which were cloistered at the back of the building. The air grew sultrier as they walked, her clean feminine scent pervading his nostrils. The sounds of the club’s activities hummed through the walls: rowdy conversation, scattered laughter… and the guttural resonance of sex.

  He’d long grown immune to the noises, but Primrose’s presence was like a lightning rod, amplifying his sensual awareness. The acoustics in the passageway seemed intensified, moans and groans surrounding him. Her perfume twined with memories of her taste, the sweet flavors of her mouth and pussy.

  Just like that, he was stiff as a poker. He was not the only one affected; he noticed Primrose’s high color and rapid respiration. She was also casting curious glances at the wooden slats placed at eye-level along the wall.

  “What are those for?” she whispered.

  “They’re viewing holes. So I can stay apprised of all that goes on in my club.” He said it matter-of-factly, wondering how she would react.

  “Oh.” Her golden lashes fluttered. “Does that mean you can see… um… your patrons?”

  He nodded, noting with more than a little interest that the idea of voyeurism didn’t elicit any sign of disgust from her. Rather, her eyes widened, her blush so vivid that he could see it in the dim flicker. When her tongue darted out to wet her lips, he had to bite back a groan.

  Sex being his trade, he knew arousal when he saw it. Despite her innocence, Primrose was a hot-blooded thing. The notion of exploring what fanned the flames of her desire tightened his trousers to an excruciating degree.

  He had the unholy urge to take her then and there. Up against the wall in this dark corridor, showing her what her lovely body was made to do. He wanted to bury his erection in her tight cunny until she screamed with pleasure—until they both came together.

  Instead, he escorted her on. By the time they reached his suite, he was as randy as a sailor on shore leave, his hand shaking a little as he activated the release mechanism. The panel swung open, and he led Primrose into his private domain.

  She looked as if she belonged there, her cameo-worthy profile perfectly set off by the blue-grey motif of the décor. Her slippered feet padded softly over the floral border of the Axminster carpet, woven in shades of azure, burgundy, and cream. Removing her gloves, she ran her fingertips along the back of the velvet settee and then his favorite studded leather wingchair, gazing around the room in surprise.

  “Oh, but this is lovely,” she breathed.

  He smiled at her reverent tone. “Not what you expected of a pimp?”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Her brows knitted. “Based on your style, I always assumed you had exquisite taste. I just didn’t expect such lavish private quarters at your place of business.”

  “I have other houses,” he said gruffly, “but I work a lot and keep late hours. Sometimes it’s easier to sleep here.”

  The reality was he spent more time here than at any of his residences. The club was a demanding mistress—and it wasn’t as if he had a wife or family to return to at the end of the day. While it hadn’t bothered him before that he had only work in his life, now he had to push aside an uncomfortable pang.

  A knock heralded the arrival of the refreshment. Dismissing the footman, Andrew rolled in the cart himself. It contained a cold collation and selection of pastries artfully arranged on tiered plates.

  Primrose removed her bonnet, peering at the cart’s offerings. “That looks fit for a king.”

  “A prince, actually. My pastry chef once worked in an Austrian royal household.” He lifted the silver tongs. “What would you like?”

  “Oh, nothing for me, thank you.”

  He caught the wistful way she eyed the desserts. Especially the slice of chocolate sponge layered with apricot
jam and glazed with dark chocolate icing.

  “Not even Chef Franz’s special torte?” he said. “Some of the club members swear they come for it as much as for… the other entertainments.”

  He didn’t know why he bothered with the euphemism. She knew the nature of his business. Her lack of aversion to being in a pimp’s company was a constant source of surprise for him.

  “I’m sure it is delicious,” she said with a sigh, “but I cannot afford the indulgence.”

  He frowned. “You’re as slender as a reed.”

  “Because I watch what I eat. At any rate, my dietary habits are inconsequential when disaster,”—her dramatic pause did not bode well—“has struck once again.”

  He set down the tongs. “Will I need whiskey for this?”

  When her blonde curls bobbed vigorously, he went to pour drinks. He settled next to her on the sofa, his whiskey in one hand and a ratafia for her in the other. She took the glass from him, her gaze narrowing.

  “Would you prefer something other than ratafia?” He’d assumed she would want the sweet peach-flavored liqueur, which was generally favored by ladies.

  “Ratafia is fine, but as I recall you don’t stock it in your office.” Her mouth had a sulky curve. “Why do you have it here in your private suite?”

  He must be nicked in the nob because he found her feminine possessiveness absurdly endearing. He chucked her beneath the chin. “Because I like to keep a well-stocked bar, silly chit. Now what is this matter of life and death you wished to speak about?”

  She stopped pouting. Drew in a breath. “Daltry’s will was read yesterday.”

  “Indeed.” Andrew took a swallow of whiskey, wondering how on earth she managed to make mourning look so damned sensual. The way the black crepe clung to her nubile curves ought to be a sin. “Did he leave you anything of interest?”

  “I suppose. If you would call one hundred thousand pounds interesting.”

  He coughed. “Pardon?”

  “You heard me. What in heaven’s name am I supposed to do?” she cried.

  He could think of a lot one could do with that astronomical sum. He also understood the tangled workings of her mind. “You feel guilty taking the money,” he guessed.