Cecilia

by Bancroft, Blair

  “That’s what you think now, my dear,” Lady R had said during one of their many conversations. “But the pain in your mind will pass, though it may take considerably longer than the pain in your body.”

  Since only the lowest minds or most imaginative among London’s ton had ever suggested that Baroness Juliana Rivenhall had taken a lover in the years since her husband’s death, Cecy considered this statement patently ridiculous. “No, it won’t. As you very well know,” she had added with a petulant glare.

  Her amber eyes darkened by Cecy’s thrust, Lady R had blinked then countered, “I can afford to go my own way, Cecilia. You cannot.”

  Which, of course, was all too true. Six months as mistress to the Marquess of Longmere had provided her with enough assets to live comfortably, if modestly, for a year or so, but she was far short of the amount needed to retire to the country and start a new life.

  So what was to become of her? She could remain a sycophant, clinging to the Academy, accepting a position teaching young women the skills at which she had been so proficient. But it would never work. She would end up regaling them with the folly of trusting any male of the species, and that would be that. The Dragon Lady—as the Academy students frequently referred to their headmistress—could not allow such a defection from the ranks.

  Governess? Living the life of a Nonconformist clergyman’s daughter had been austere at times, but she’d had a good education and absorbed the ways of the aristocracy during long summer visits to her grandfather, who had not been a vindictive man, even though his youngest son had strayed so far from the fold. But a position as governess was out of the question. Even if a respectable female could be found to write her a glowing reference, no woman in her right mind would add a striking beauty like Cecilia Lilly to their household. Not even if she went back to the perfectly horrid name she’d been born with—Chastity Singletary.

  A position as housekeeper was beyond her reach for the same reason. And anything less, she had to admit now that she was thinking with more clarity, was an offense to her inborn arrogance, no matter how dire her situation. A sob welled up, taking her by surprise. She was the one who’d flirted and teased, practically taunting the squire’s son to take her on the soft grass by a rushing stream, the stain of strawberries still on their lips. He’d been almost as inexperienced as she, fumbling and inept, leaving her, instead of revolted by the messy process, eager to discover the something better she knew must be out there somewhere, just waiting to be discovered.

  And she had. Oh yes, she certainly had. Before violence destroyed her sweet nest, fractured her confidence, and left her tossed up on the shores of disbelief and disillusion.

  So there, she accepted it—this debacle was all her fault. She could never again go as a mistress, nor could she accept one of the marriages Lady R was so good at arranging. (It was surprising how many impecunious young gentlemen were willing to welcome a wife of dubious background if she came with an eye-opening dowry.) She had also rejected life as a companion with a shudder. Surely anything was better than life at the beck and call of a demanding elderly lady, likely with ten or a dozen cats!

  The stage? Odd, but it seemed less daring to be a courtesan than an actress. Perhaps it was her Methodist upbringing. And, besides, she had no talent for it, more’s the pity.

  Yet another impasse.

  Drooping more than her physical condition warranted, Cecy dragged herself out of the depths of the chair and rang for a maid. Lady R, as usual, was right. She needed to get out of bed, do something with her face and hair, consider exploring her old haunts at the school, perhaps even meet some of the new girls. Not today, she qualified hastily, but soon. Certainly there were no answers for her here in the confines of her room.

  “Chastity Singletary!” Nick echoed, lips twitching, his customary imperturbability pierced by the absurd.

  “God’s truth,” the somewhat scruffy man standing in front of his desk swore. “Her pa’s a Methodist preacher, would you believe? Son to the Earl of Kingsbury—now there’s a fine kettle of fish! Ma’s gentry too. Comes from a long-time county family. Girl’s got a younger brother and two sisters, all as proper as you please. None of ’em acknowledge her existence,” he added. “Got most of my information from the townsfolk.”

  “Including what led her astray?”

  Nick’s investigator squirmed a bit. “Well now, sir, there was some said ’twas the other way round.”

  “Did they now?” Nick studied the polished surface of his desk. The vision of an eager, daring, incurably curious young girl, imprisoned in the drab world of Methodism, rose before him. Though why he was attracted to the so-called Cecilia Lilly he could not have said. His tastes, though firmly controlled and seldom practiced, tended toward the more spectacular. Striking women with dark hair, exotic eyes, and full figures. Women with sass. Not petite females with hair some indeterminate color between blonde and brown, with blue eyes, pale skin, and the bad taste to accept carte blanche from Longmere.

  Nick waved a hand and the investigator hastened out, grateful for not having his pay docked for saying what he likely shouldn’t have said. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the Guv quite so tetchy. A cool cove was Nick Black. Least most of the time.

  Nick removed a carefully folded piece of paper from a desk drawer and spread it out, reading it for perhaps the tenth time.

  Dear Mr. Black, I wish to thank you for the return of my possessions, which arrived today. It was most kind of you to make these arrangements, as you had no more obligation to do so than to rescue me from Longmere’s wrath. There can be little doubt that of the two of you, it is you who are the gentleman. As for my horse and carriage, you must not take on the burden of their care. It was never my intention to add to my already grave obligation to you. Please sell them and consider the profits recompense for your kindness to me. Most sincerely, Cecilia Lilly.

  As happened with each reading of this particular missive, Nick’s eyes grew dark. No insult had been intended, he was almost certain, but the implication that he accept money for doing what he’d done . . .

  She’d called him a gentleman. That assuaged the sting a bit.

  But the chit had the soul of an aristocrat—she couldn’t help but see him for what he was. A child of the streets aping his “betters.” A man who expected to receive money for services rendered.

  Just as she did, whispered his inner voice. No matter the yawning gap in their origins, they were each paid, and paid well, for their services. Absurd to expect her to actually treat him as a gentleman.

  Nick crumpled the letter in his fist, lobbing it into the fire with a vicious toss. So much for the aristocratic little tart. Why he’d bothered—or let her bother him—he didn’t know. She’d gone with Longmere. She deserved what she got.

  Chapter 4

  Darius Wolfe drifted through the cellars of Thornhill Manor with the smooth precision of long experience, just as he had traveled through the tunnel from the river, built in Tudor times. Yet as a small lantern swung from his left hand, his dark eyes swept left and right into the shadows, as if he expected an enemy to leap at him at any moment. After all, the man who handled business affairs on such a grand scale as Juliana Rivenhall’s had ample reason to be cautious.

  When she built the new wing on Thornhill Manor, cutting all connection to the suite of rooms she had shared with her husband, the widow Rivenhall had extended the cellars and added a secret staircase which opened into her private study, not far from the drawing room. Darius, considerably pleased by what appeared to be an invitation to continue his nighttime forays to Thornhill Manor, soon learned his mistake. His Jewel, as he called her, was quite happy to enjoy private discussions on matters of business, spiced by bits of gossip from City and ton, but bedsport had gone extinct, and had not even been resurrected after a proper year of mourning.

  Not even after he’d made the stubborn woman a most proper offer of marriage.

  Well . . . perhaps not as proper as all
that. They had hedged around it, Darius not expressing himself as well as he might, his Jewel pushing him away, declaring herself damaged goods.

  When he was among those who’d done the damage.

  Softly, Darius swore. Head bent, shoulders hunched protectively against whatever he was going to find on the other side of the wall, he pressed the hidden lever and the panel slid open.

  He’d sneaked up on her in the past, but not tonight. Every bit of Juliana’s flesh, every cell in her brain, her very soul was on the quiver. Listening. Waiting. Knowing he would come—only to be bitterly disappointed once again when she explained why she had summoned him.

  Six months, twenty-one days. A long time, when he had spent at least one night in her bed each sennight for nearly the full length of her marriage. Five years, in fact. But in the more than two years since, nothing. Guilt swamped her. She was a fraud, a charlatan, no better than the smooth-talking thieves who manipulated the weak-minded into giving them their very last penny.

  Juliana sucked in a sharp breath. She hated ménage and as a young bride of less than six months, had not hesitated to tell her husband exactly that. Geoffrey, ever good-natured, had simply shrugged and taken his eclectic inclinations elsewhere. Until the night he brought home his man of business, dangling Darius Wolfe before her like a prize in the Christmas pudding . . . Within the space of hours she’d been lost.

  Juliana firmed her mouth, shifted her back from merely stiff to ramrod straight. Those days were gone. Forever. Darius was just going to have to accept it.

  He was here. She could feel the shift in the air, the crackling energy of his presence. And in that instant she knew why she’d stooped to sending for him. She had encountered this strange phenomenon not long ago—in the bookroom of the man even the criminal bosses of London’s rookeries held in respect. Nicholas Black. Yes, he had reminded her of Darius—she’d felt the attraction in spite of the great gap in class. Felt his power. Enough to bend her principles and send for the one person she should avoid at all costs.

  Juliana waved her hand toward a comfortable wingchair, newly re-upholstered in forest green velvet. He looked like a king on his throne, drat him, his waves of black hair haloed against the deep color of the chair and framing a handsome face with skin several shades darker than most of his compatriots, a face that held a goodly dash of Italy, Egypt, or more likely Romany.

  Dark eyes, like shiny chestnuts, stared back at her. “Well, my Jewel, I’m here.” He gazed at her expectantly, though not without a strong dash of indifference, as if he’d only left her the night before. He crossed one leg over the other, resting his hands lightly in his lap. “How may I be of service?”

  Cecilia, garbed in a simple sprig muslin that was one of her few gowns that didn’t cry, “Courtesan,” found her way from her bedchamber to the older portion of Thornhill Manor, now used for The Aphrodite Academy. Not that she would know any of the new girls, but there were bound to be familiar faces among the teachers. An unexpected blush swept over her, as her inner voice added, Familiar bodies as well. Not that she was going to peek at the demonstrations, of course. They were no use to her now. Except . . .

  She wouldn’t mind a refresher on whips, chains, and other torturous devices. A vision of Longmere suspended in a dungeon rose before her, herself with leather whip raised to strike. Again and again and again.

  As if that was ever going to happen. Nonetheless, if that lesson was being taught today, she just might look in. Perhaps she could find out which whip would do the most damage. She’d heard the navy’s cat-o-nine tails could be truly deadly . . .

  Cecy turned the knob on the door to the students’ common room and walked in. Six startled young women bobbed to their feet, staring. Cecy suddenly felt every one of her twenty-two years. These were students, she a graduate. Before her spectacular fall from grace, she had actually been the mistress of a peer of the realm. She’d done it, almost as much the pinnacle of achievement as Belle who had managed to marry her viscount.

  “Oh, miss, please come in,” a dark-haired girl burbled. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”

  Cecy tolerated them crowding round, finding it oddly warming as their eager questions tumbled out. In spite of what happened, they seemed to consider her a success.

  Oh, miss, did he buy you ever so many gowns and jewels?

  Have you ever been to Carlton House? Is the Prince as fat as they say?

  A horse and carriage? Ah, miss, how grand!

  How many servants did you have? Three? Oh my!

  Never you mind, miss, me da beat me near every day. Jes turn your face for’ard and never look back.

  Cecy’s face crumbled, she gulped back tears. The girls swooped in, touching her hair, patting her hand. A glance through watery eyes showed them all looking stricken.

  A new kind of guilt seized her. After all Lady R had done for her, and she was repaying the kindness by sowing panic among her students. Mortified, Cecy mumbled her thanks and fled back to room.

  Few things disturbed Nicholas Black. Finding a young woman beaten half to death but a block from his doorstep qualified, as did his butler’s announcement that Darius Wolfe had come to call. Devil take it! What brought the City’s most renowned and hard-headed man of business to his doorstep?

  Lady Rivenhall, of course, but . . . “Send him in, Pike.” Nick neatened the papers on his desk, leaned back in his chair, and waited. He had never met Darius Wolfe, but they had taken each other’s measure across the tense atmosphere of gaming rooms, the Mayor’s lavish banqueting hall, the green of Hyde Park, the hustle and bustle of Drury Lane. Two powerful men who felt it necessary to keep track of each other.

  “Wolfe.” Nick offered his hand.

  “Black.” They shook with firm pressure, and a little something extra that might have been respect.

  When they were both settled, Nick added, “How may I help you?”

  Lady Rivenhall’s wolf almost smiled, a sight which no doubt struck terror into the hearts of lesser men. His liquid brown eyes gleamed. “Now how shall I put it?” he murmured, clasping his well-kept hands over the wolf’s-head handle of his cane. “Let us say simply that my employer was hoping you might have an interest in teaching Longmere a lesson . . . and if that should happen to be true, she hoped I might be of some help in the effort.” It was Nick’s turn to look amused; their gazes locked. “She does not like to see her girls abused. I’m sure you understand her feelings of responsibility,” Wolfe added smoothly.

  Never cross Nick Black. Clearly, the motto he’d coined for his own at age twelve had spread farther than he’d thought, if even Juliana Rivenhall knew of it. Nick Black’s steel umbrella spread over a thousand employees or more. Cracksmen, innkeepers, bank clerks, students, artisans, actors, painters, the riff and raff of the streets—furtive spies all. And untouchable, as retaliation would be swift.

  Several long moments of silence as Nick considered the matter. “An expert in finances wouldn’t come amiss,” he said at last. “I would prefer to see Longmere spiked on a fence, his blood draining into the gutter, but that’s rather messy and could have repercussions we could do without.” He flicked a dark brow upward. “I’m sure something as exquisitely torturous, though not quite as lethal, can be arranged.”

  “I shall see what I can do in the City,” Wolfe offered. “Perhaps we might conjure a new version of the South Sea Bubble . . .”

  “He fancies the horses,” Nick offered. “Thinks he has a nose for a winner. And a talent for vingt et un.”

  “Do you explore these avenues, or do I?”

  “I can handle the gaming, and find ways to taunt him more openly,” Nick promised with an inner relish that surprised him with its intensity. “I suggest you concentrate on taking down his fortune from the inside.” Nick’s hands dropped to his desktop, his cool ferocity fading in the face of a new thought. It was possible Wolfe might know the answer to a question that refused to go away.

  “Do you know,” he inquired casually, keepi
ng his face impassive, “if Miss Lilly has made any plans for her future. It occurred to me,” he added hastily before Wolfe could jump to the obvious conclusion, “that she might prefer to take up a new line of work.”

  Wolfe studied him with an intensity that would have made a lesser man squirm. “From what I understand,” he finally returned, “you are correct.”

  “When she is ready for work—work as far from a man’s bed as possible—have her come see me. I believe I may have a solution to her problem.”

  Wolfe snorted. “As if Lady R, or Miss Lilly, would believe a word of that!”

  Imperturbable, Nick never moved. “She’ll not go for a courtesan again, but tuck her up in a respectable line of work, and she’d die of boredom in a week.”

  “And how can you possibly know that? She spent what—six hours under your roof?”

  “At least the position I have in mind will be some challenge to the girl’s intelligence, which is more than I can say for most opportunities open to females. Have the girl come talk to me. Let her judge for herself.”

  Darius Wolfe stood, examining the night creature behind the desk with cynical eyes. “Is this your price then? If Longmere is to go down, the girl works for you?”

  “Oh no,” Nick purred, like the deadly panther he was. “Even if you send the chit to some fat farmer in Kent, Longmere is doomed. But it would be a shame to hide Miss Lilly in the country,” he added softly. “A great waste.”

  “It’s been . . . interesting,” Wolfe said, once again shaking hands. “I suspect ours is an acquaintance long overdue.

  “It is that,” Nick agreed, out-wolfing his guest’s signature smile, as he stood to bid his visitor farewell. Predators both, they each considered the morning’s visit well spent.