Cecilia

by Bancroft, Blair

  “Sir,” said Mrs. Emma Mackey some two hours later, dropping a respectful curtsy to her employer.

  “Well?” Nick demanded, not bothering to hide the irascibility of a man who had been up twenty-four hours straight and imbibed more freely than usual.

  “The doctor’s been and gone, sir. She’ll do, poor lamb, though recovery will take time.”

  “And?”

  Mrs. Mackey’s round face colored beneath her white cap. A housekeeper for the likes of Nick Black could have few illusions, but nonetheless the topic was more than a trifle delicate. “She’s one of Lady Rivenhall’s girls, sir. Seems she thought she had a grand catch in Longmere. Until tonight.” Mrs. Mackey studied her toes before adding in a rush, “Evidently, she has no fancy for–ah–multiple partners.” The last was added so softly Nick barely caught it.

  “Ah.” After a few moment’s silence, he said, “Thank you, Mrs. Mackey. I shall write to Lady Rivenhall immediately.” Another curtsy and the housekeeper was gone. Nick retrieved a sheet of paper from a desk drawer, dipped his quill in the standish, and, scowling, began to write.

  Sprawled across his bed, Nick was enjoying some much-needed sleep when the Baroness Rivenhall came pounding at the front door of the house on Princes Street. Since he had spent a quarter century learning to be the gentleman he was not born, Nick greeted his guest in his bookroom a scant half hour after her arrival. Unfortunately, rather than appear grateful for his letter, the lady seemed ready to chew nails, preferably of the Nick Black flavor. She was, however, a grand sight—a woman about his own age, stylishly garbed, her bronze hair perfectly coiffed, amber eyes sparking fire. A woman of intelligence and independent spirit. Lord! If Darius Wolfe hadn’t already hung a “Keep Off” sign around her neck, Nick just might be interested.

  Not that Wolfe seemed to be doing very well in that direction. Rumor said—and the on dits collected by Nick Black’s extensive network of spies tended to be very reliable indeed—Lady Rivenhall and her man of business had been communicating by nothing more intimate than correspondence for the last five or six months. A sad state of affairs, Nick thought, for a woman reputed to train the finest courtesans in England.

  “Lady Rivenhall. A pleasure.” Nick inclined his head, taking a seat behind the polished expanse of his desk. A man needed protection when dealing with Juliana Rivenhall.

  “What have you done with Cecilia?” she demanded. “No one will tell me. Nor a word about how she got here.” Here definitely implying, this den of iniquity.

  “Surely a woman as secretive as yourself, Lady Rivenhall, must be aware that discretion is what has brought me all this.” A wave of Nick’s hand encompassed the elegance of the entire house, not just the quiet tastefulness of the bookroom.

  “But of course,” she murmured, backing off her high horse ever so slightly. “Nonetheless, I need to know how Cecilia came to be injured.”

  So he told her, from the accidental nature of his discovering her protégé in Cavendish Square to what Mrs. Mackey had told him about how Miss Lilly landed in such a predicament.

  “Merde!” At the lady’s profanity, Nick’s lips threatened to curl into a smile. “I warned her, I told her to have nothing to do with that man, but even I had no idea he would stoop so low. To beat her because she would not play his game . . . Ah, the poor child.” Lady Rivenhall’s head and shoulders squared into a militant posture. “Is she fit to travel? I will, of course, take her with me. The Academy protects its own.”

  “Truthfully, I have no idea.” Nick pulled the bell-rope behind him. “I will have my housekeeper take you to Miss Lilly, and you may decide for yourself.”

  “Thank you.” The baroness stood, nodded stiffly, then paused, her militant attitude mellowing. “Mr. Black, you have surprised me. I confess I did not expect such kindness.”

  “Yet you were prepared to confront the beast in his den.”

  A slight nod, a swift glance from under her lashes. “Indeed. I tremble at my temerity. Your name tends to strike fear in a great many hearts.”

  “A reaction I carefully cultivate, Lady Rivenhall,” Nick returned blandly. “It frequently comes in handy.”

  After exchanging mutually respectful bows, they parted, each well satisfied with the encounter. Except . . . Nick frowned, his carefully cultivated mask of indifference cracking now that he was alone. Cecilia Lilly. The beauty he had coveted ever since Longmere first paraded her in the park. And now it was likely too late. Nick Black, the man who never took no for an answer was letting her go. Bloody fool! Not that it mattered. The girl would likely never let a man within ten feet of her, ever again.

  Cecilia took one look at Lady Rivenhall and burst into tears. Ten minutes, two handkerchiefs, and many gasping repetitions of “I’m so sorry, I’m an idiot” later, she hiccuped, wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her borrowed nightwear as the second handkerchief was too soggy, then clasped her hands tightly in her lap. Shrinking into the pillows, she waited for the scold that was sure to come.

  Lady R’s amber eyes remained solemn, even sad, without a speck of “I told you so.” “My dear child, it is I who am sorry. If I had the slightest inkling that Longmere could be violent, I would never have let you make such a fatal error. As it was . . .” She shrugged. “I thought him merely a thorough-going rake, a man who would soon break your heart but not before showering you with gifts that would ease your way to finding someone who might be kinder.” She sucked in an agonized breath. “My deepest apologies. I promised you a better life, and I have failed you.”

  “My lady, no! I insisted.”

  “More the fools, the both of us,” Juliana Rivenhall ground out, anger returning to the golden eyes that were her most striking feature. “Though I suspect that with last night the marquess has reached the pinnacle—or should I say, the nadir?—of his misbehavior.”

  “My lady?”

  Lady R’s lips curled into a smile that sent a shiver up Cecy’s spine. A kind of feral grimace Cecy had never before seen on his mentor’s deceptively benign face. “I have friends, my dear, gentlemen friends who will not be pleased to hear this tale. And perhaps most significant of all, your rescuer was none other than Nicholas Black, a man whose name sends ripples of fear from the East India docks to Kensington.”

  “That he does,” Mrs. Mackey promptly agreed. “A bad man to cross is our Nick.”

  In response to Cecilia’s wide-eyed stare, Lady Rivenhall added, “He said little when I spoke with him, but I received an impression of anger boiling beneath that surface of that cool, even indifferent, composure. Frankly, it warmed my heart. I would not choose to be in Longmere’s boots for all the tea in China.”

  “He’s the one found you on the walkway, dear,” Mrs. Mackey offered. “At the foot of his nibs’ front steps. And brought you here.”

  Nicholas Black. Nick Black frowns and London shivers. That Nick Black. Cecy had heard tales of the mysterious, and supposedly deadly, Nick Black since shortly after coming to London. How very odd that he was the one who had saved her . . .

  She closed her eyes, struggling to remember. She’d burst through Longmere’s front door. Hurting. Weak. Cold, so cold. Falling . . .into nothingness.

  More . . . something more. Warmth. Safety in someone’s arms. Waking as she was laid on the softness of a mattress, clinging, not wanting to let go . . . A sudden sharp image of a man—rugged face, fathomless eyes, grim lips . . . severely straight dark hair . . .

  “Are you up to traveling, my dear?”

  “What . . .?” Cecy dragged herself back to Lady R’s question.

  “I would like to take you back to Thornhill Manor with me. You may recover at your leisure, and when you are ready, together we will find a new path for you.”

  Cecy hung her head. “Your kindness overwhelms me, my lady. I do not deserve it.”

  “Nonsense! My doors are always open to my girls.”

  “Then I should like, above all else, to go with you, my lady. But not,” she added quickly, “bef
ore thanking . . . Mr. Black, was it?” She turned inquiring eyes toward Mrs. Mackey.

  “I’ll fetch him, miss,” the housekeeper said and scurried off as fast as her short legs would carry her.

  “I have nothing to pack,” Cecy confessed to Lady R. “My gown was ripped to pieces. Even my nightwear is on loan.”

  “Which I’m sure Mrs. Mackey will not begrudge you. Nor the blankets we must wrap you in for the journey. Never fear, I’ll see that all is returned.”

  Cecy gasped. “I completely forgot! I have all manner of things at the cottage in St. John’s Woods. Gowns, jewelry, a horse and carriage—”

  Lady Rivenhall, ever practical cut her off. “The direction immediately, Cecilia. With any luck, we shall have your things retrieved and brought to Thornhill before Longmere realizes you have disappeared.”

  “Ah, of course . . . he likely thinks I simply found my way back home. If he’s even out of bed yet,” she added with a sniff of disdain.

  “Exactly.”

  “Allow me to take care of that little matter for you, Lady Rivenhall.” Nicholas Black stepped into the room. “I have any number of men lying about with time on their hands. They will be happy to transport Miss Lilly’s belongings.” He raised an eyebrow. “To Thornhill Manor?”

  “Indeed.” Juliana proffered a modest curtsy. “You are most kind.”

  Cecy winced as he turned to face her, well aware of how dreadful she must look. “Miss Lilly.” Her rescuer offered a cool nod. “I trust you are feeling more the thing.”

  Oh yes, this was the face she remembered. Pale face and hands, the visage of a creature of the night, though far from effete. His rugged face might have been sculpted from white marble, his piercing eyes the gray of distant storm clouds. He was lean of build, an inch or so under six feet, she guessed. With an intensity of purpose that radiated from him like searing rays from a black sun. Wounds forgotten, Cecy shivered. Nicholas Black was the Prince of Darkness, come to life.

  Somehow she burbled her thanks—for her rescue from near certain death, for his retrieving her worldly possessions from the cottage in St. John’s Woods. All the while, his face never changed expression. He was a cool, competent man of business accepting gratitude for something he would have done for a tweeny or a kitchen maid. The upstart from the gutter—if she had correctly interpreted Lady R’s attitude—practicing noblesse oblige.

  Surely the most remote man she had ever met.

  Indeed, his attitude was so distant, she couldn’t help but wonder if he were a molly man . . . Cecy made a mental note to ask Lady R when they were alone.

  Lady Rivenhall’s response as her carriage made its way toward Richmond was a tiny frown, followed by a rather severe, “With pederasty a capital offense, my dear, I make every effort not to hear such rumors. But, truthfully, in regard to Nick Black, the stories about him have nothing to do with romance of any persuasion. As far as I know, he either lives a monastic existence or is remarkably discreet.”

  Oh.

  Cecy cried out as the carriage hit a particularly nasty bump and blinding pain ripped through her from jaw to ribs to stomach and thighs. Lady Rivenhall clasped her tight, offering stability and comfort. They rode the rest of the way to Thornhill Manor, home of The Aphrodite Academy, in silence.

  Chapter 3

  Juliana Rivenhall—known to her students as Lady R and sometimes the Dragon Lady—stared out the sparkling glass of the tall windows in her drawing room, part of a new wing she had added to the fortress-like sixteenth century walls of Thornhill Manor shortly after her husband had bequeathed her his fortune, making her the wealthiest woman in the realm. The expanse of grass leading down to the river was winter pale, still gleaming with dew left behind as the morning mist retreated toward the Thames.

  Her heart felt just as wintry, and heavy enough to sink like a stone in river’s dark waters. She did not tolerate failure. The whole point of The Aphrodite Academy was to help young women who had plunged into difficulties, sometimes through no fault of their own. Or, as in Cecilia Lilly’s case, through youthful folly. From London’s lost she chose the cream of the crop—not always the most beautiful but the most striking, the most intelligent, the most articulate. She trained them, mentored them, arranged respectable marriages, respectable ways to earn their living, or, if the young woman desired it, the skills to succeed in the world of the courtesan. And if they chose that world, Juliana Rivenhall left nothing to chance, providing her girls with instruction in every manner of sexual proclivities, including what many considered shocking deviations.

  None of Longmere’s sexual practices should have come as a surprise to Cecilia Lilly, who had been on the town for some time before Juliana discovered her one night at Drury Lane. Therefore, she had to find out what had happened. Not that there was any excuse for Longmere’s behavior—she would make certain his shocking violence did not go unpunished—but the details leading up to the beating? Those she needed to know, and understand, so she could help her young women avoid such disasters in the future.

  And then, of course, there was the problem of Darius. That, too, must be dealt with. Though truthfully, she had no idea how. Just one slim thread to cling to—the chivalrous instincts that would bring him running if he thought she actually needed him. And she did. As much as she’d sensed Nick Black’s fury, he was a stranger. Darius Wolfe was the only man she could truly trust to make the Marquess of Longmere pay the piper. Yet she’d sworn hell would freeze over before she’d see Darius Wolfe back at Thornhill . . .

  “Cecilia, my dear,” Juliana said brightly, pasting on smile when, a day later, she found her protégé lying in bed, idly turning the pages of the latest La Belle Assemblée. Cecy’s face was still swollen, as if she were suffering from a severe case of the mumps, and the skin on the left side of her face had gone an ugly mix of blue, green, and mud brown. Her hair hung lank, any semblance of its glossy golden brown as faded as the dull green of her eyes. Nonetheless . . .

  Juliana pulled a side chair up to the bed and sat down, meeting Cecy’s inquiring gaze full on. “My apologies,” she said, “but I must speak with you for a moment as headmistress rather than friend.” She paused, not quite sure where to begin, finally settling on, “You saw several demonstrations of ménage à trois during your time at the Academy. You knew this was—”

  “Not ménage à six!” Cecy spit out. “And you said we had a choice, that we could say no. Well, I said no a hundred times, and let me assure you it didn’t work! In fact,” she added harshly, fury flooding her face with color, “I screamed no. And not a soul listened.”

  Speechless, Juliana sat with head bowed, body shaking, a host of memories flooding her brain. She too had hated multiple partners, using her husband’s basic good nature—always shockingly full of adventurous twists—to opt out of all orgies. Except the one triumvirate that had gone on forever, a staple of her world. Until, more and more, Geoffrey simply watched while she and Darius . . .

  Dear God!

  Juliana blinked and returned to the present to find Cecy staring at her, clearly concerned. “I did indeed say you would have a choice,” she admitted. “And clearly I was overly optimistic. Although Longmere was not on my list of gentlemen candidates, I should have questioned him more closely. I promise you I will not let such a thing happen again.”

  “Men lie.”

  Juliana heaved a sigh. “You are, of course, quite right. Nonetheless, I shall make more of a point of preparing the girls. Some, of course, will welcome the adventure, but always, always, they should be given a choice. Truly, Cecilia, I am appalled that I failed to consider that members of the ton can be as violent as a navvy with a doxie.”

  Geoffrey had never been violent—that ugly aspect of sexual congress she had been spared. Though Darius, ever a realist, might have warned her about Longmere. If she hadn’t sent him away. If she hadn’t wanted to shut that part of her life away forever and ever.

  “I can’t do it,” Cecy choked out. “Never again.”
A strange echo of Juliana’s own thoughts. Poor child. She knew all to well how the girl felt.

  Juliana placed a firm hand over Cecilia’s, managed a warm, reassuring smile. “I perfectly understand, my dear. For now, rest and become yourself again. We’ll talk about the future when you’re feeling more the thing.”

  A few minutes later, Lady Juliana Rivenhall sat at the desk in her bookroom and, after a good many false starts, produced a note of unprecedented brevity: Mr. Wolfe, kindly call on me at your earliest convenience. J.R.

  She had become accustomed to the finer things in life, Cecy realized after ten days of rest and pampering brought color back to her cheeks, a sheen to her waves of golden brown hair, and a cool spark of intelligence to her green eyes. A spark that said she had passed beyond being wholly absorbed in the determination to survive and was now, very carefully, embarking on the difficult road of assessing her future.

  Fortunately, only one blow had struck her face. The swelling was gone, the discoloration nearly so. Her cracked ribs were mending, if slowly, the tight strapping hidden beneath the flounces of the many boudoir ensembles the marquess had purchased for his delectation. Cecy allowed herself a tiny smile of satisfaction, both for the irony of the marquess paying for the garments she wore during her recovery and at the thought of the mysterious benefactor who had made certain every last bit and bob she possessed was delivered to Thornhill Manor. With the exception of her horse and carriage, which, a brief note from Mr. Black assured her, were now safely stabled in the mews behind his house on Princes Street.

  Cecy’s shoulder slumped. She was sitting in a wing chair near the warmth of a fire in a guestroom of lavish proportions. She was warm, comfortable, well-fed, only a few twinges remaining from her ordeal. But thought of her much-prized horse and carriage brought a stab of painful reality. What did Cecilia Lilly need with a horse and carriage when she would rather go into service than let a man touch her?