Cecilia

by Bancroft, Blair

  “Dinner will be at eight,” he told her as the carriage pulled up to the house on Princes Street. “It’s time you met the rest of the household. Proper eveningwear,” he added. “And consider–ah–adjusting my men’s manners as part of your duties.”

  Devil! He was outside the carriage, holding out a hand to help her down, and she couldn’t move. Arrogant swine, who did he think he was to put her in charge of the manners of his bully boys?

  Your employer. The man who is going to ruin Longmere. For you.

  But when Pike, the butler, opened the front door, Cecy pulled away from Nick Black’s firm grip on her arm and rushed up the stairs, where she threw off the hated cloak and bonnet and cast herself into a comfortable chair before a well-tended coal fire. Warmth, light, security. Food on the near horizon. All the comforts a girl might want. Except for the man who dominated her vision, no matter which direction she looked.

  She was chattel, as much his property as his house, his carriage, his horses . . .

  As much as if she were his wife . . .

  Almost as much as if she were his mistress . . .

  Which was why she’d been so delighted to become a graduate of The Aphrodite Academy, to be offered the opportunity to rise to the rank of courtesan of the first stare. A woman who was her own mistress, not the property of anyone.

  She had failed. On her very first foray into the world of high-flyers, she had stumbled and fallen, disastrously so. And now . . .?

  Her independence was submerged under the dominance of a man far more dangerous than Longmere. A man who seized what he wanted and never let go. Her choices were few. She could run back to Lady R. She could change her name and appearance and run as fast and far as she could go. Or she could stay, tolerating the insufferable beast until she could delve behind the mask—

  Oh no, not a good thought. For that would require skills she no longer cared to use. Actions she had vowed to turn her back on forever.

  A soft knock, and Emerson entered the bedchamber. “Time to dress for dinner, miss. And I must say it smells a treat,” she added. “Friendly they are, the kitchen staff. Not what I expected, I must say. Mr. Black has a valet, would you believe?”

  Cecy grimaced. Her only ally, seduced away by camaraderie, good food, and a touch of snobbery. She heaved a sigh and reminded herself Nick Black had plans to ruin Longmere. Surely, for that alone she owed him good service.

  After a careful perusal of her gowns, she chose the most demure evening gown she owned, a forest green silk trimmed with four-inch cream lace. With it she wore a necklace of emeralds and pearls Jason had given her in better times. Her hair was held back by a matching green silk bandeau with a rose fashioned from the cream lace.

  After a last look in the pier glass. Cecy’s lips curled in a satisfied smile. The gown’s décolletage was carefully hidden by a fichu of cream gauze. If she had to correct the manners of Nick Black’s minions, then she would be certain they were listening to her and not allowing their eyes to stray below her neck!

  “Merde,” she muttered, echoing Lady R’s favorite profanity. It was time to discover what brave souls dared sup with the Devil.

  Chapter 8

  Nick slammed into his bedchamber, shrugged out of his greatcoat, tossing it onto his bed. His tophat followed with such vehemence it skidded across the broad black satin coverlet and plopped onto the floor. Hell and the Devil! How could he have been such an ass? He’d spent a lifetime creating a man whose whisper was more feared than other men’s roars. A man who wore an imperturbable mask and kept his head even when chaos churned around him. Yet he’d let the sight of that fucking worm Longmere explode his control into fiery fragments. He’d put his hands on the girl, come close to smashing her face into the window. A fragile abused female, for all she was a whore, and he’d used her to get to Longmere. Without a single thought to how she must feel when confronted by the man who’d nearly killed her.

  Deuce take it! Why shouldn’t he use her? She worked for him, did she not? Cecilia Lilly was just another tool in his vast arsenal of useful people and clever tricks. Shite! Nick’s scowl lessened for a moment as he recalled he could now include Darius Wolfe, the City’s most clever financial genius, on his list of allies.

  And for anything more he had his bully boys.

  Nick slammed his fist onto the top of a chest of drawers. Gawd! The way he’d grabbed her, shoved her in Longmere’s face, took him back twenty years, to the days when being the head of an ever-increasing gang of young toughs was his pinnacle of achievement. When the name Nick Black was just beginning to find its way onto people’s tongues.

  Yet even then they’d confined their violence to men. Nick groaned, throwing himself into a wingchair in the front of the fire. Contemplating the tips of his boots with disgust, he ran agitated fingers through his short dark hair.

  “How’d it go, Guv? T’lady get an eyeful?”

  “Go away!” Nick didn’t even look up. There were times he wished he’d left Fetch on the street.

  “Coo! That bad, was it, Guv? Too hoity-toity fer ya, is she?”

  “Out!”

  “Lor’, Guv, that’s no way to take on, even if t’mort’s as foine as a fivepence.”

  “Miss Lilly has no part of my thoughts,” Nick lied with the ease of long practice. “We encountered Longmere in the Square.”

  Considering this an invitation, Fetch crossed the room and plopped himself down on the hearthrug, tucking his thin legs under him. His blond wavy hair gleamed in the firelight, framing his thin face; his blue eyes shining with eager intelligence. “Why ain’t y’ set the boys on him then? If ever a cove deserved a beating . . .?

  Nick’s lips curled downward. “This is your idea of ‘out’?”

  Fetch flashed a cheeky grin. “Sorry, Guv. Y’looked like y’ needed some sympathy.”

  After several moments of seething silence, Nick said, “You may be wise beyond your years, young Fetch, but I doubt you’re ready to understand the complexities of male-female relationships. Suffice it to say, a man may spend the day in the company of a highly attractive woman and consider the experience torturous.”

  Fetch snorted. “Lor’, Guv, you got it bad, ain’t y’? Never thought I’d see the day.”

  “And just how long have you been in my employ, O wise one?”

  “One year, five months, six days.”

  “Which makes you an expert, does it?”

  “Ain’t never seen y’ bowled over by no female, Guv. Leastwise not ’til now.”

  “I am doing Lady Rivenhall a favor.”

  “Tell me another one, Mr. Black,” Fetch scoffed.

  “I’m using Miss Lilly to get Longmere?”

  “Your getting Longmere because of wot ’e done to ’er,” Fetch shot back, then paused, looking thoughtful. “Though I reckon there was bad blood between y’ before now and oi jes didn’t see it.”

  Nick sighed, vividly recalling why he’d taken Fetch into the house on Princes Street. The boy was quick, with a deep reservoir of intelligence to back it up—though he clung to the dialect of the streets, stubbornly refusing to speak the language of the “nobs,” as he called it, in spite of more than a year of tutoring. Yet Fetch was so much like the boy who’d once struggled out of Thames mud into the back alleys of Seven Dials, gradually expanding his influence into every nook and cranny in St. Giles, that Nick had been unable to resist the challenge of seeing what he could make of him. Better to raise an ally, he’d told those who objected, than sit back and watch a rival grow.

  Abruptly, Nick stood. “Go dress for dinner, brat. And attempt some semblance of manners at table. Miss Lilly will be joining us.”

  The boy’s eyes widened, a knowing smile spreading over his pale face, though he wisely chose to keep his thoughts to himself. “Right, Guv.” He unfolded from the floor and after a two-finger salute to his forehead, scurried out.

  Nick heaved a sigh and rang for his valet. What good was all his wealth if he didn’t enjoy all the trappi
ngs of a gentleman? But as for dinner, he feared the worst.

  Cecy was not prepared for so many men, though logic told her she should have been. She was living in the headquarters of an empire, and empires needed management. When a footman ushered her into a small salon adjacent to the dining room, it appeared to be filled to the elaborately painted ceiling with men. Loud men. And, good heavens, a boy! Voices died away, one by one, as they saw her.

  Nicholas Black, one of four in proper dinner dress, proffered a minimal bow. “Will you have a glass of punch, Miss Lilly? Or would you prefer sherry? I must warn you the punch tends to be strong.”

  “Sherry then,” Cecy murmured. A glass appeared so quickly, she suspected it was already poured and waiting her arrival.

  “And now, allow me to introduce my other assistants.” Other. He was including her among his minions. How very strange.

  They were lined up like a row of statues, Cecy thought. Their expressions, however, were not so bland. To a man—even the boy—they appeared wary. And could she blame them? She was the interloper here. “Miss Lilly, may I introduce Charles Stark, my secretary?” A young man not much older than herself stepped forward, smiling and offering a most proper bow. Everything about him spoke of a gentle upbringing, a good school, and a generally quiet demeanor. And yet . . . if he was secretary to Nick Black, he must be privy to God alone knew what.

  “Guy Fallon, my man of business,” Nick said, moving on to a dark, sharp-eyed gentleman of perhaps forty, with a surprisingly open smile for a man who dealt primarily with money. Undoubtedly another person very high on Nick Black’s scale of trust.

  The third man in full evening dress was younger than Cecy, slender and earnest, looking for all the world like a lamb lost in a pack of wolves. “Andrew Lovell,” Nick said, “the long-suffering tutor to this miscreant,” he added, clapping the boy on the shoulder. “And this is Fetch, who has informed me he’ll name himself when he’s ready. Meanwhile, he’s just Fetch.”

  Cecy inclined her head to Mr. Lovell, murmuring the expected words of greeting, then turned her attention to the boy. “Do you mind my asking why you are called Fetch?” she asked.

  “Not a bit of it, miss,” he responded, blue eyes alight with mischief. “That’s all I ever heard when I was little, me living in Mrs. Latimer’s bawdy-house and all. It was ‘Boy, fetch this ’n’ ‘Boy, fetch that’ from morn ’til night. Finally Fetch it was—that’s all anyone called me.”

  Cecy knew she shouldn’t ask, but somehow the words slipped out. “You didn’t care to take your mother’s name?”

  “Stabbed she was when I was two, but I was took in by some of t’others,” Fetch pronounced with what to seemed like unnatural cheer. “Warn’t too bad ’til the old lady figured I was big enough to make ’er some money. So I was gone. On the streets ’til the Guv sent me an invite, saying he wanted to talk.”

  It took a moment to process what Fetch had just said. Had he actually intimated the mistress of a bawdy-house had wanted to sell him for sex? Or rent out his services, as she did with her whores? So the boy had run away, then years later Nick Black, for some inscrutable reason, had considered Fetch worthy of his notice.

  “He was running a street gang,” her employer offered. “One too successful at all manner of thievery not to catch the attention of some very bad people. We made an agreement. If Fetch came to me, his friends would be safely tucked into the house in St. Giles.”

  “Apprentice to Nick Black?” Fetch said, grinning hugely. “I never looked back.”

  Good God. And what else? Cecy wondered. Had an opportunity to work for Nick Black changed Fetch’s mind about sodomy? For it seemed more and more likely that was why the man was so cold—he truly had no interest in women.

  “And these two,” Nick said, moving on, seemingly unaware of her shock, “are Ned Towner and Ben Rivers, the men who keep us safe, along with a dozen or so stalwarts who prefer to eat in the kitchen.

  “Mr. Towner, Mr. Rivers.” Cecy, though still stunned by her conversation with Fetch, inclined her head politely to the men who were clearly the heads of Nick Black’s infamous bully boys. The scourge of London, north, south, east and west.

  Nick removed the sherry glass from her hand, offered his arm, and they led the way into a dining room that would have accommodated twenty with ease. More fine furnishings and classic paintings, though all a bit dark for her taste. She suspected Mr. Black had acquired the house fully furnished.

  She found herself at the foot of the table, looking down its great length at her employer, hostess to six men and a boy. Enough to make any proper London hostess faint.

  If only her parents could see her now.

  Cecy confided a secret smile to her pea soup with bacon and picked up her spoon.

  Unfortunately she was not allowed to eat in peace, as sounds of slurping from both sides of the table brought her head up and she caught sight of her employer’s glower. Oh no! She blinked, but the inelegant noises did not miraculously go away. Cecy set down her spoon and spoke to Fetch in a tone that, however ladylike, was pitched to carry the length of the table. “Young man, if you wish to rise above fetching and carrying, you must learn to eat as quietly as a cracksman sneaking through a house. With all the noise you’re making, I’d expect Runners at the door at any moment.”

  Fetch gaped. The room went silent. Head down, Cecy resumed eating her soup. She absolutely refused to look at Nick Black, though she suspected everyone else was. He must have given a nod of approval, because there was a sudden clink of spoons. And not a single slurp.

  Charles Stark, who was seated to her left, leaned close and murmured, “Well done. Lord knows we’ve tried, but it appears the female touch was needed.”

  Gratified, Cecy managed a smile. At least there was one gentleman at the table.

  The remainder of dinner—a nicely seasoned grilled mackerel, followed by rare roast beef and root vegetables—passed without further incident, although Cecy didn’t have the heart to criticize the boisterous enthusiasm with which the men polished off a large trifle. She told herself she would have stepped in if one of them had attempted to lick the serving bowl—which at one moment had seemed likely.

  Cecy excused herself, as was the custom, leaving the men to port and cigars, or whatever habits were practiced by men of the London Underworld. To her astonishment, they all stood, with Fetch scrambling to his feet only a few seconds late. After acknowledging the courtesy with a gracious nod, she found her way to the drawing room with help from one of the footman. This was the moment when ladies were supposed to converse, exchanging the latest on dits, shredding characters. Possibly one or two might play the piano, though it seemed more likely any such skill would be saved to impress the gentlemen when they joined the ladies.

  To Cecy’s surprise, she discovered the well-appointed room held not only a pianoforte but a harp. The absurdity of the notorious Nick Black occupying a house with these accouterments of upper class civility almost inspired a giggle. Would he expect her to play and sing, soothing the savage beasts?

  A huff of breath, a shake of her head . . . a grimace. If he expected nimble arpeggios rippling from the harp, he was sorely mistaken. But as for a song or two . . . at that she was rather proud of her skill.

  Oh, no no no! She was not going to ply her courtesan skills for Nick Black and his minions. Not even her musical abilities.

  You’re bought and paid for. If the man wants music, you’ll sing your heart out.

  No, I won’t!

  But she would, of course. Because playing and singing was so very little compared to what Nick Black could ask of her, if he chose.

  Chapter 9

  As February progressed to March, Cecy’s cheeks finally took on a bit of natural color and her eyes lost their constant wariness. She pursued her acquaintance with Mrs. Mackey, the housekeeper, met Cook and the housemaids, and Jed, the kitchen boy, whose blatant admiration for Nick Black outstripped Fetch’s. Gratitude for being rescued from the streets? C
ecy wondered, or did he too share her employer’s bed? Oddly, each day the question pained her a bit more.

  She told herself her discomfort was not only because sodomy was unnatural, it was a hanging offense. And Nick Black had been kind to her, she didn’t want to see him taken up . . .

  Alone in her room, Cecy gave a most unladylike snort. As if anyone dared take Nick Black up for anything. He probably had half the Bow Street runners in his pocket, as well as the River Police, and magistrates from Kensington to Limehouse and the Isle of Dogs.

  Unease rippled up her spine. Something was wrong with her reasoning, she could feel it deep down. Something that said London’s gangs would not tolerate the control, or even the oversight, of a molly man. Yet she had been in the house on Princes Street three weeks now and not one of the inhabitants had favored her with so much as a flirtatious glance, let alone anything that could have been deemed salacious. The men conversed politely, if minimally, at dinner, did not slurp their soup, nor fist their knives and forks. Only Fetch, however, could be termed forthright in his conversation—though, to everyone’s astonishment, his speech had noticeably improved when speaking to his hostess. Cecy suspected it was the precocious boy’s taunting version of: See, see, I can do it if I please.

  After dinner, however, the men unbent enough to applaud her songs with enthusiasm. Once or twice, she thought she caught a fleeting emotion on her employer’s face as he listened. But it was probably nothing more than the flickering candlelight. Or her imagination.

  Nick Black had assigned two sturdy and well-armed guards to accompany her on journeys into the rookeries and to Boone Farm. Burt Higgins, though fast approaching fifty, had once been a pugilist and was still a handy man with his fives. Or so Fetch assured her. Tim Riggs, at eighteen, was one of Nick Black’s newer strong men. But agile and smart as Billy be damned—another confidence from Fetch. Cecy, having learned just how harsh the world could be, welcomed the company of both men, their shotguns, pistols, clubs, and knives as well.