Her Quicksilver Lover: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 6

by Lynne Connolly

  “Indeed.” His attention sharpened. “Is she, or did you just make that up?”

  Lightfoot’s grin widened. “Yes, she is, but as far as I know nobody else knows it.”

  “Lady Samson brought a lot of money to that marriage.”

  Lightfoot nodded. “And she is taking it with her. The family was very careful about the marriage settlement. The money was put in a fund, not given to her husband. They knew he was a wastrel.” He shot Amidei a sly glance. “Did you have anything to do with her decision?”

  Amidei pursed his lips, thinking. “Perhaps.” Lightfoot would know Amidei had dallied with Lady Samson last year. “We did not spend all our time in bed. I spoke to her between bouts, although the lady was insistent and extremely energetic. Part of that was because her husband had used lovemaking as an incentive and a punishment. I saw the beginning of her enlightenment. She came to me when in distress, and I saw the marks he’d inflicted on her.” Remembered anger rose in his soul. “But I could not intervene.”

  “How could you come between husband and wife?”

  “Oh, I could do that readily enough, but she asked me not to. I was her first lover outside her marriage, and she was somewhat ashamed of herself, but relieved to discover her husband was not normal.”

  Lightfoot inclined his head. “It is hard for women who are kept secluded.”

  Amidei grimaced. “She is anything but that now.” While he found pleasure in the lady’s news, he could not recall her features in any detail. He remembered every delicious inch of Joanna’s skin, to the tiny mole covered by the fold under her breast and he couldn’t wait to discover more.

  If she allowed it.

  He had to remember that, for his own peace of mind. He refused to push her, even though that was exactly what all his instincts urged him to do. “Tell her about Lady Samson tomorrow. The news will be all around town next week, so a few days early will not cause any undue fuss.”

  Lightfoot bowed, but that did not prevent Amidei seeing the censure in his eyes. “My lord.”

  “Stop ‘my lord’ing me. Do as I say. If she is in a happy frame of mind, she’ll be more open to my reading her. And if she provides her father with some juicy society gossip, she will be in a more relaxed frame of mind.”

  “Not to mention more open to you.” Grinning, Lightfoot headed for the door, but turned around, resting his hand on the back of an upholstered chair. “By the way, I almost forgot to tell you. There’s a new guest in the club. I believe you wanted to know when Apollo arrived?”

  Cursing, Amidei strode in the direction of his bedroom. He had indeed, but he would not appear in his daytime grime. The man would probably still be the most handsome man in creation.

  *

  “Ah, Joanna.” Her father appeared almost genial as Joanna stepped through the doorway of their house. It led directly on to the main offices, the tiny lobby having been disposed of long before they rented the place. His bulk filled her vision.

  The journey home had never flown so fast, dreaming, as she was, about the man who had kissed her and made her feel special and wanted. She could allow her imagination to take flight, so long as she did not forget that they had no bearing on reality. The most she could expect from the lofty and aristocratic owner of the Pantheon Club was a tumble or two. Even if he swore he would wait until she was ready, he would still have her and then grow bored with her in rapid succession.

  She was so far gone on him that she would even agree to that. After all, she had no reason to save her virginity. Nobody else would want it. Her only concern would be potential consequences, but she could even cope with that. Move house, claim to be a widow, and who would bother to question her? So she greeted her father with a respectful nod and a smile. Usually she had to fight to hide her exhaustion at the end of a tiring day, but now, resting was the last consideration on her mind.

  Resting alone, that was.

  “My dear, do come in. I have the kettle on the hob, and I shall make your tea tonight.”

  As she removed her hat, he patted her head, something she disliked exceedingly. Not that she had told him, because she knew what a person owed her parents. Her surviving parent, that was. The gesture made him happy, so she let it be.

  She murmured a reply, hung her hat and cloak on the peg next to her father’s coat, and was about to turn when she noticed a new smell in the air.

  She would rather call it a scent, a very light floral aroma, but underlaid with something else, heavier, more spicy. She was surprised that she could detect it over the pungent scent of printer’s ink and machine oil. It drifted to her nostrils as if insistent on being noticed.

  A man stood by the printing press. She had not seen him before because of the bulk of her father. It was the man she’d met that morning briefly, their new patron. As good manners demanded, Joanna sank into a curtsey, and lifted her head as she rose. She met his eyes with a slight shock.

  He came forward, his feet striking the boards of the bare floor, and held out his hand. She put hers in it, and he lifted it to his lips.

  To her shock, instead of hovering over it, his lips met her skin. But the contact did not shiver through her as a touch from Amidei might have done. It left a damp patch on the back of her hand. On rising he did not immediately release her fingers, but pressed them before he let her go.

  Joanna became horribly aware of her plain dress and her dishevelled appearance. Although she had done her best to neaten herself up, about the only tidy part of her was the fichu which Amidei had arranged for her. She had never quite achieved the knack of a neat appearance, always assuming one needed a maid for that. Under the hateful enveloping white cap, her hair would be sticking out at all angles and the bun lopsided.

  Mr. Gough was handsome, that was without a doubt. His sharply delineated jawline added the finishing touch to features she would describe as patrician, were she to be writing about him. His slightly too large nose added a note of masculinity to his fine eyes and full mouth. A fashionable wig covered his hair, but from the colour of his finely arched brows, she’d guess he had dark hair. He must be a full six inches taller than Joanna, but her decidedly average height lent itself to that fate with most men.

  Very few had broad shoulders and strong thighs, the like of which tailors must vie for the joy of dressing. But he stirred nothing in her but curiosity. Yet, at any rate. Joanna liked to judge as she found, as her mother used to say, and she would do this man the courtesy of the same service.

  “I shall leave you with my father, sir,” she said, “as I imagine you have business to discuss.”

  “I would not hear of your leaving, ma’am,” was his reply, “as long as you do not have a pressing appointment to get to. Your father has already told me of your signal help in his business.”

  Her father grunted. “She’s a good girl, sir. Our present difficulties make it impossible for me to employ a suitable runner, but Joanna performs the art to perfection.”

  A runner took messages from one place to another. Admittedly she had done that, but Joanna did far more to help her father. She bristled up, but remained silent on that point. “I do my best, sir.”

  “And she is a most excellent hostess.” Her father beamed. “Although we do not at present own an oven and must go to the bakery for our bread and pies, she manages very well with an open fire and a spit.”

  As long as he didn’t expect her to do that tonight. “There is hardly time for me to roast food for our guest,” she said, wondering where her father was taking this. He would hardly offer to feed his patron, at least not in a grand manner. Their dining table upstairs was folded away, they used it so infrequently. More often they would dine at one of the nearby chop houses, or even off plates on their laps, if they were too tired to eat properly. Some days they ate just enough to keep body and soul together.

  And yet her father had given up a comfortable existence for her mother, and ultimately, for Joanna herself, and he never complained, never uttered a word of regret.
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  “Indeed, Joanna. We have already eaten at Mrs. Croft’s shop, and I know you would have had sufficient at the Pantheon.” He turned to Mr. Gough with a bright smile. “You see, sir, we are busy about your business.”

  “I would discuss the matter with you both, once we go upstairs.”

  So they were going upstairs, then? She would have to talk to him when she would far rather sleep. Exhaustion dragged at her and her bed, narrow and shabby though it was, called to her.

  “Sir, we work hard to make the journal as true as we may. Both of us do our part. Of course your patronage has helped us immeasurably.”

  Her father patted the printing press with affection. His first concern was the maintenance of it, but since it was their only asset, she could not blame him for lavishing his time on it. The plate was up, and the great screw that swung down in the air, nearly touching the ceiling, the two counterweights securely latched. The swing mechanism meant they did not have to literally press every item that came out, and the pressure was more even than any human hand could bestow on it.

  Mr. Gough spared the press a glance. “Indeed, I do believe that, which is why I have come to you.”

  Putting her thoughts of an early night and indulging in her dreams aside, Joanna put on her best smile. “Would you like to come upstairs to the parlour, sir? I can bring your tea up there.”

  “Pray do not make the effort on my account,” he said. “Only if you desire some. I brought a good bottle of brandy for your father, and I was looking forward to taking a glass.”

  Brandy. Joanna hated brandy. But she kept her smile in place and led the way up the narrow staircase to the floor above.

  At least the fire was lit, which she had not expected. Her father must have come up earlier and set it ready, because the mismatched chairs were ranged neatly around it and the rug spread out. She tutted when she saw he had forgotten to set the guard in front. A spark could easily take hold, and then they would lose more than the rug.

  “Please sit, sir. If you would excuse me, I’ll return directly.”

  Mr. Gough nodded, and watched her move away before taking a seat on the sofa. Luckily, he took the side that did not have a loose arm. The glue had given way, and Joanna kept promising herself she would have it repaired. Chairmen passed the shop every day, but she had not been here recently when they were about. The walk to and from the club made for even longer days than when she’d worked at the coffeehouse.

  She hurried upstairs to her tiny bedroom behind the one her father occupied. After tossing the dirty water from that morning out of the window, she poured a new basinful from the pitcher of cold water by the rickety washstand. Taking the bar of green soap, she washed herself vigorously, ignoring the shivers that ran over her skin and the burn from the cheap soap.

  After patting her face dry, she gazed into the tarnished mirror above the stand and sighed. She was not an attractive sight. Even worse when she removed the cap and saw her hair. Part of her bun tumbled loose, curling over her shoulder. She put the cap aside. She’d have to wear it again in the morning, instead of rinsing it out as she had planned. Her visitor would take all that time up. She had another cap, a more becoming one. After combing out her hair—not without a few winces as she encountered tangles—she bundled it up once more and secured it firmly, popping the smaller, finer cap with the lace edging on instead. She had slaved over that lace, creating it with her mother’s tatting shuttle. Since lace was so expensive she might as well wish for the moon as a piece of Méchlin.

  After stripping off the caraco jacket and skirt, she found her one gown, and donned it hastily, fastening the hooks at the front with dispatch, if not deftly. She replaced her plain white apron with a smaller, more decorative one. That was the best she could do. Her green wool gown was not fashionable, and was even somewhat crumpled after storing it folded carefully in her clothes press, but it would have to serve. No lace, but a puff of linen adorned the ends of her sleeves, and a fancy petticoat was not available. At least the gown was longer than her daywear and came down almost to the floor. Then Mr. Gough might not notice she was still wearing her practical outdoor shoes. The club provided her with a pair of softer shoes for working above stairs, but she did not own them and she had to leave them behind every night.

  What did that man want? He was evidently prosperous. A man might, however, want to cast calumny on an enemy by seeding the papers and journals. Had they sunk so low that her father would consider doing that? Something would turn up—it was bound to.

  The tidbits of gossip at the club were hardly pouring in, although she had hopes for the morning. As she was leaving, the porters had brought several leather-bound trunks in, monogrammed on the lid. The new guest in the club was obviously prosperous and could bring his or her own scandal. New blood always invoked gossip. At this time of year society was beginning to trickle back to town, even though Lent was not yet over and the season not started, but tailors and mantua-makers would be humming with business.

  Inertia seized her. If she went down, everything would change, she knew it. Equally, she did not want anything to change. At the moment, she was happy, coasting on a current of unexpected pleasure.

  With a sigh, she turned away from the mirror and left her room. The door closed behind her, and it felt like something ending.

  Downstairs, the men were waiting. She would have no supper tonight, that was clear. A glass of wine was poured, and sat on the table next to the empty space on the sofa. The men had opted for brandy, and the plain glasses gleamed with the warm, amber liquid. Mr. Gough occupied the other side.

  Pasting on her society smile, she sat when her father indicated her place. “Mr. Gough intends to make the paper the talk of the town.”

  After the first shock of her father’s bald announcement, she tried to put her reactions in order. Several questions she could not ask in their current form, such as, “Who is this man?” Instead, she asked, “And are we to go on as we are?”

  Her father shrugged. “He wishes to invest in a press, and he chose ours. Our chance meeting in the coffeehouse was most felicitous.” He glanced at Mr. Gough, who turned to meet her gaze.

  Mr. Gough draped his arm over the back of the sofa, too close for Joanna’s liking. “Indeed. I have wondered for some time where to start. I have an inheritance I do not need, and I would much rather do some good with it. Sponsoring a newspaper that promises to tell the truth strikes me as an excellent way of accomplishing it.”

  He was so smooth and easy that Joanna did not trust him for a minute. “There is something else, is there not? Another reason for your interest?”

  A smile quirked his firm lips. “Indeed there is.” He took a sip of his brandy before he spoke again, effectively leaving her waiting. Joanna was good at waiting, especially for one so impatient. She’d had to be, and a skill learned was often more effective than one gifted at birth.

  She suppressed the desire to drum her fingers on the chair arm and fixed a polite, interested smile to her face. Inside, her stomach roiled. She hated change that came from nowhere, change that was imposed on her instead of being her choice. When she came home and her father had already packed her bags and told her they were moving on, when he took one of her stories and altered it, or when he told her to change her job.

  But strangely, not when a man with a face too handsome for this earth kissed her and rocked her world.

  “You are a clever woman, Miss Spencer. I tip my hat to you.” Except he was not wearing one. “Yes, there is another point to my sponsorship of this enterprise. Your work at the Pantheon Club?”

  Gough had an air of easy assurance, and she itched to delve below it, to discover the true man.

  “I prefer people not to know, or word would travel and I’d never get another position anywhere. I move around a lot, so people do not guess that I gather information, and so far we’ve been lucky. Getting the job at the Pantheon Club was fortunate. May I ask why you are so interested in it?”

  He studie
d her while he finished his brandy, taking his time. Nothing broke the heavy silence except the crackle of the fire, built up for once, the rumble of the ever present carriages and the tromp of passing feet outside. She would not break the silence.

  Gough put his empty glass down, the subdued click loud in the quiet room. Politeness dictated that silences should be filled, so perhaps fortunately, Joanna never considered herself bound by it.

  The expression on Gough’s face changed subtly. The easy smile left, replaced by a hard-edged alertness. “Very well. This is the truth. I am a wealthy man with connections to the highest in society, but I do not move in society very much. Until recently I served in the army. I do have a rank that I can use in civilian life, but I choose not to, because I am still, in a way, working for the authorities. The British authorities, I hasten to add.” A shade of the smile returned.

  He leaned forward slightly and Joanna forced herself to remain still instead of shrinking back. His presence disturbed her. He flicked his gaze over her face and body, assessing rather than speculative, as if he knew everything about her.

  Joanna shivered. Picking up the wine, she took a hearty gulp. “Your interests coincided?”

  “You could say that,” Mr. Gough murmured. Smiling, he moved closer, as if to confide a secret in a room full of people. “We have good reason to suspect that the Pantheon Club is more than it seems. The unusual activity there means we have been watching, but the people we have placed there were ejected. We have never been able to find anyone there that we can trust.” He leaned back again and met her gaze, his eyes steady under her watchful regard. “When we found you, and realised who your father was, we wanted to ask for your help.”

  “How did you find me?” She was always so careful.

  “Someone visiting the club recognised you. He’d seen you before, at a coffeehouse. While it’s not unusual for London maids to move around, he did wonder why your appearance was so different, and he set up enquiries.”