“Let’s get down to business. Corbett,”—Black pinned him with a hard black stare—“Todd says you’re violating the terms o’ the accord and poaching on ’is territory. Is this true?”
“No, sir,” Andrew said.
“That’s a lie,” Todd snarled at him from across the table. “You’ve opened a place, brazen as can be, a stone’s throw away from my club.”
“The Accord specifies that no one shall operate a competing business within another’s territorial lines. As I’ve explained to you, I indeed own a property close to your club, but it is not a competing business. It’s not a business at all.”
“You got a ’ouse full ’o whores. What’s that, if not a brothel?” Todd retorted.
“E’s got you there.” Black stirred his coffee. “Where there’s smoke, there’s usually a fire.”
“All the wenches living in the Nursery House are with child,” Andrew began.
“That so?” Black’s bushy brows inched toward his wig. “No telling what gents fancy these days, eh?”
“The Nursery House is not a brothel,” Andrew said with emphasis. “It’s a place for my pregnant employees to have their babes and recover before returning to work.”
“You expect us to believe that? That you’re running some sort o’ charity?” Todd jeered.
“I don’t think of it as charity but innovation. A sound business practice.” How many times do I have to explain the facts to this idiot? “If I look after my workers, I’ll attract and retain the best. If I give them a safe place to go during pregnancy, they’ll come back afterward, healthy and ready to work. In the end, it saves me time and money—and improves the lives of those who work for me.”
“That’s bloody preposterous!” Todd sprang up—not that he had far to go. Standing, the little tyrant was not much taller than Andrew was sitting. “Wench ’as a bun in the oven, you find a new one. Wench expires having a brat, you find a new one. Way o’ the world. What you’re doing is setting a bad example. Giving the whores ideas.” He spat the word like an epithet. “Next thing you know they’ll be wanting ’igher wages, a decent place to live, time off to spend with their brats. Your buggering Nursery is going to cause a mutiny—and I won’t stand for it!”
Andrew decided now was not the time to disclose the second phase of his plan: to partner with a school to educate the whores’ bastards.
Instead, he said levelly, “I don’t tell you how to run your business, and you don’t tell me how to run mine. That, Todd, is the way of our world.”
“You uppity whoreson—”
“I am the son of a whore,” Andrew acknowledged, “which explains why I view whores as human beings. Try that perspective, and you might find your business improves. What won’t improve your business, however, is trying to intimidate me. Three nights ago, I was attacked.”
He slid in the last fact—and watched for Todd’s reaction.
He saw surprise… followed quickly by glee.
“Can’t lay that at my door,” Todd said smugly. “Can’t say I’m shocked, though. Bastard like you is bound to ’ave more enemies than a dog ’as fleas.”
“My enemies better know that I fight back. And when I do, I go for the throat.”
“Is that a damned threat?”
“Enough. Both of you.” Black’s command cut through the tension. “Todd, sit your arse down.”
Todd sat, his beady eyes aglitter.
“Way I see it, Corbett ’asn’t violated the Accord,” the King of the Underworld pronounced. “’E ain’t operating a business that interferes with yours, Todd, so you got no bone to pick with ’im. Understand?”
“But—”
“Terms ’o the treaty are clear. The aggressor in any unwarranted conflict will answer to me.”
Black’s warning was unmistakable.
Todd gritted his teeth, remaining silent.
“As for you, Corbett,”—Black transferred a gimlet-eyed stare to him—“if I smell a whiff o’ wrongdoing from that Nursery o’ yours, it will be razed to the ground before you can blink twice. And you know from experience the fire of my wrath.”
Even after all these years, the memory of the inferno that had been Kitty’s club burned in Andrew’s head.
“There will be no wrongdoing, sir,” he said.
“Then we’re done with business.” Black’s majestic nod ended the conversation. “Finish your coffee. Nightingale’s makes the best in London.”
Todd stood abruptly. “I ’ave matters that require my attention.”
“You do indeed. You keeping an eye on that granddaughter o’ mine?” Black demanded. “What’s this I ’ear ’bout Tessie skipping lessons and carrying on like a hoyden?”
Todd looked annoyed. “I’m a busy man. I leave the domestic affairs to my wife.”
“Well, your wife is my daughter, and we both know she ain’t got the wherewithal to ’andle Tessie. So you’d best do your part, or you’ll answer to me.”
With a sullen jerk of the head, Todd departed through the curtain.
“God Almighty,” Black muttered, “what kind o’ man don’t look after ’is own blood?”
Andrew wondered if he was expected to respond. He drank coffee instead.
“Tessie may not be my flesh and blood, but she might as well be. Girl takes after me. Got looks, brains, and deserves nothing but the best.” Black pounded a fist to the table, making the cups jump in their saucers. “You understand, Corbett?”
“Er, yes. Of course.”
“My Tessie’s a fine lady.” Black jabbed a finger at the framed paintings that lined the alcove walls. “Accomplished, ain’t she?”
Andrew took in the cheerfully terrible watercolors. “She has… a unique talent.”
“Exactly.” Black sat back, slurped his coffee, fingers drumming on the table. After a moment, he declared, “I like you, Corbett. More so since you finally cut ties with that blowsy bitch, Kitty Barnes. So this is why I’ll spare you a word o’ advice.”
A chill permeated Andrew’s gut. He shouldn’t have been surprised that Black knew about his personal affairs; the other had an eye on most everything. His trepidation wasn’t over Kitty but Primrose. Did the King know about her?
“What advice?” he said warily.
“You’re a decent cove and rare man o’ principle. That said, every man’s got a weakness.” Black’s gaze held a shrewd glint. “Beware o’ females, Corbett—they’re yours.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Do you think this gown is too much, Odette?” Rosie asked.
She was examining herself in the gilt-framed mirror on the wall of her new sitting room. She’d moved into the house on Curzon Street two days ago, and Andrew would be arriving shortly for a cozy midnight supper. In the reflection, her eyes sparkled with anticipation. She hadn’t been alone with him since the shooting, and she couldn’t wait to see him again.
Behind her, Odette paused in the act of arranging the flowers on the intimate table set for two. Rosie had been torn about whether to keep the maid on; she didn’t like the fact that Odette had betrayed her trust by being a spy for Andrew. The maid was exceptional at her job, however… and an absolute genius with hair. Moreover, Odette had apologized, and Rosie couldn’t stay angry at the other for helping Andrew to keep her safe.
Now the Frenchwoman inspected Rosie with the precision of a sergeant-at-arms scrutinizing a cadet. “Your ensemble—c’est parfait, my lady,” was her verdict.
For tonight’s special occasion, Odette had taken extra care with Rosie’s toilette. Rosie wore a gown of violet taffeta so dark that it was nearly black, and it bared her shoulders, displaying the merest hint of her bosom. The bodice fit her torso like a second skin, ending in a point that was echoed in the cuffs of the full sleeves. The skirts were overlaid with black silk netting which caught the light and gleamed with her movements.
Odette had fashioned her hair into an Apollo’s knot, violet ribbons woven into the complicated braids. Ringlets were left
to frame Rosie’s face. She’d kept her jewelry to a minimum: a cameo on a black ribbon nestled at the base of her throat.
She wanted to be beautiful for Andrew and hoped he would find her so.
Too restless to remain still, she went over to the table, inspecting the silver domed dishes on the cart beside it. “Do you think Mr. Corbett will like the menu?”
“Mais oui, my lady,” the maid replied. “Cook has selected all of Mr. Corbett’s favorites.”
“And Cook would know his preferences,” Rosie said dryly.
Cook—and the rest of Rosie’s household staff—had been sent over the day before by Andrew. As the accompanying note had indicated, each of the servants had been personally vetted by him, having either worked in one of his clubs or private residences. If Rosie had found his actions a tad high-handed, his closing lines had dispersed her irritation like dandelion fluff in the wind.
Do this for your own good. And mine. For I won’t rest easy until I know you are safe.
—A
How could she stay annoyed when he was so gallant?
The ormolu clock on the mantel chimed a whimsical tune, announcing the midnight hour. As if on cue, a rapping sounded on the door. Odette went to open it, and Andrew came in.
He looked as out of place in the peach and gold chamber as a lion prowling through a pet shop. He removed his hat, setting it down, his eyes smoldering in his godly face. Her heartbeat thundering in her ears, Rosie barely registered the maid’s discreet exit.
Andrew came to her, his arms enfolding her, his mouth descending with crushing force.
She kissed him back with all the pent-up longing inside her.
When the kiss ended, he rasped, “Now there’s a greeting for a man. Miss me, sunshine?”
Since her hands were fisted around the lapels of his greatcoat, she thought his might be a rhetorical question. She smoothed the thick wool back in place. “Perhaps a little.”
“Well, I couldn’t wait to see to you.” He took her hands one by one, brushing his lips over her knuckles. “How ravishing you look.”
Feeling unaccountably shy, she ducked her head. “Thank you for arranging to have your guards work tonight. A clandestine meeting would have been difficult had Papa’s men been on duty.”
“Kent’s men might not be on duty, but I doubt we’re pulling the wool over his eyes.”
“Pardon?” she gasped.
Andrew’s head canted. “Sweetheart, your father is a fine investigator. Your mama is known for her cleverness. I wouldn’t be surprised if they knew I was here.”
“Oh, no!” She panicked like a thief caught in the act. “What will we do? Should you go—”
“Primrose.” His big hands framed her face. “Calm yourself.”
“Calm? How can I be calm? It’s one thing for Mama and Papa to suspect that we’re lovers, but for them to actually know that you’re here… ” Hearing herself, she knew the distinction was ridiculous, yet she’d worked herself up into a state. Then another disastrous thought struck her. “Dear God, do you think Mr. McLeod and Mr. Lugo know as well?”
Andrew stared at her—and burst out laughing.
“What on earth is amusing?” she cried.
“You, love.” Still smiling, he kissed her on the nose. “Some sophisticated widow you are. You so convincingly stated the case for your independence and living on your own that I forgot what an innocent you are.”
“I’m not innocent. You took care of that—remember?” she said tartly.
“Every night, sweetheart. Every night.” His wicked grin dissolved her pique.
Still, she bemoaned, “Just because I’m independent doesn’t mean I want my parents knowing about our affair. What if they disapprove—”
“They know about us,” he said, “and they’re not standing in the way. Why do you think they allowed you to move into this house?”
She blinked as the truth sunk in. “You mean they approve… of us…?”
“Approve might be overstating the case,” he said dryly. “I’d say they accept the circumstances for the time being and trust that I will keep you safe.” He studied her. “Does their approval mean that much to you, then?”
“I want them to be proud of me,” she said in a small voice.
The admission made her feel vulnerable, like the innocent he’d said she was, and sudden fear swirled in her. Andrew was a worldly and experienced man. What if he found her naiveté unappealing, what if he tired of her, wanted a more sophisticated lover—
“Your parents are proud of you. They love you.” The tenderness in his brown eyes stemmed the flow of her anxiety. He kissed her forehead. “Now I hate to be rude, but I’m famished. Could we continue our conversation over supper?”
Feeling reassured, she nodded.
At the table, he seated her and then himself. He served them both from the covered dishes on the cart: partridge pie with a golden crust, sturgeon cooked with parsley and lemon, and a ragu of veal flavored with truffles.
“That’s too much for me,” she protested when he set the plate in front of her.
“Eat what you want to,” he said.
Seeing him dig into his plate with gusto, she picked up her fork and took a bite of the sturgeon. Mmm. Warm and buttery, the fish melted in her mouth. She suddenly realized how hungry she was. Taking small bites of the delicious food and sipping the wine he poured for her, she savored the intimacy of having supper with her lover—of feeling like an adult.
Watching him polish off his plate, she marveled, “How can you eat like that and stay so fit?”
“I take regular exercise.” He helped himself to more pie.
“What sort?”
“Boxing, mostly. I like to stay in fighting shape.”
That explained his physique. Thinking of his hard, disciplined form, she had to squeeze her legs together to quell a wicked tingle. “Why do you have to stay in fighting shape?”
“Brawls, mainly. My customers may be fine gents but throw spirits and wenches into the mix…” He shrugged, as if no further explanation was necessary. “My guards generally keep the peace. I only step in when I have to.”
She gnawed on her bottom lip. “What if you get injured?”
He paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. “You’re worried about me getting hurt when you were shot at?”
“I have you and Papa to protect me. I’m perfectly safe,” she said confidently. “You aren’t, however, if you’re wading into the thick of things.”
He set down his fork and reached for her hand. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Trusting me with your safety.” His gaze was heated, intense. “Caring about mine.”
“You’re welcome,” she said softly.
“Speaking of your safety,”—he let go of her hand to pull something out of the greatcoat he’d slung over his chair—“I have something for you.”
Brimming with curiosity, she took the white silk pouch from him. She untied the strings and pulled out the contents.
Her gaze bounced to his. “You brought me a pistol?”
“For added protection. It’s a ladies piece, designed to fit in a purse or skirt pocket. Don’t judge it by its size: while small, it shoots as well as any gun.”
Fascinated by the petite weapon, she turned it over in her hands, admiring the fine craftsmanship. “What a darling mother-of-pearl handle. And are those flowers stamped in the metal?” she said in delight. “Why, this would look most fetching with my silver reticule…”
At the silence that greeted her, she looked up. Andrew had those crinkles around his eyes, the ones that made him look even more dashingly attractive.
“What is so amusing?” she said.
“You.” His mouth twitched. “You do realize that the pistol is more than an accessory?”
“Well, yes. But it doesn’t hurt if something looks pretty and has a sensible function, does it?” She gave the pistol a loving pat. “Thank you for the lovely and thoughtful gift.
”
“You’re welcome.” He smiled slowly. “I’ll teach you how to shoot it, too.”
After that, conversation turned to everyday topics. Andrew was easy to talk to and apparently interested in her mundane (compared to his) existence. As she told him about how she was settling into the house, she was reminded of a problem—one that she wanted to give him fair warning about.
How on earth do I bring this up… without sounding forward?
“I’ve been trying to decide what furnishings to keep and what to have, um,”—her cheeks warmed as a specific item flashed in her mind—“… removed.”
He glanced around the feminine sitting room. “This room is quite tasteful.”
“To use Mr. Mayhew’s discreet turn of phrase, Daltry used this house to entertain his special friends,” she said dryly. “I do believe the previous occupant was one of his mistresses.”
“Ah. Does that bother you?”
“Not at all. I’m just glad that, whoever she was, she had excellent taste. For the most part,” she amended, thinking of the glaring exception in the bedchamber.
Andrew set down his napkin. “The meal was delicious.”
“What can I say? Your cook is talented.” Buying time, she said quickly, “There’s dessert, if you want it.”
“I do.”
“The blancmange is on the bottom of the cart—” Her words ended in a gasp for he’d risen and swept her easily into his arms. “What are you doing?”
“Having dessert.”
~~~
“There’s something I ought to tell you,” Primrose said.
“Let’s talk in bed.”
Andrew thought his a fair suggestion considering they were in her bedchamber, her clothing strewn in a trail behind them. He drank in the sight of Primrose: her golden tresses had fallen free of its fussy coiffure, her firm, pink-tipped tits giving a saucy bounce with each backward step she took. Six more, he judged, and she’d hit the edge of the bed—an oversized affair surrounded by gauzy white curtains that hung from the ceiling.
The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6) Page 19
