Stoo-pid.
Courtesans—even ex-courtesans—knew the code. They honored their debts.
After a swift change to evening wear and allowing Emerson to tame her hair, Cecy pinched her cheeks and descended the stairs. Anne Boleyn on the way to the chopping block.
The dining room was so still Cecy could swear she heard Fetch breathing. As for the others, they might as well have been part of Lord Elgin’s collection of marbles. The seething silence continued until a footman popped through the door, clutching the handles of a large soup tureen, which he set on a sideboard.
An infinitesimal nod from Nick Black and the soup was served. Though certain she wouldn’t be able to swallow a drop, Cecy picked up her spoon, a signal that the others might begin to eat. Her hand shook, however, clinking the spoon against her soup bowl. The noise seemed loud as a cannon. Cecy lowered her spoon, ducked her head, and clasped her hands tight in her lap. Every other soup spoon followed hers into the bowl. Except Nick Black’s. He continued to dip up soup and swallow as if the atmosphere were not so tense it was a wonder he could move his hand.
Finally, he paused, his spoon in mid-air. “Miss Lilly, Gentlemen, is the soup not to your liking?”
“A bit hot, Guv,” Fetch called from his place next to Cecy. “We wuz jes lettin’ it cool.”
“How odd that I find it barely warm enough.” Collective sucked-in breaths echoed through the room. “Miss Lilly,” Nick added on a less biting note, “perhaps you would be good enough to attend me in my study after dinner. We have unfinished business.”
“Yes, of course,” she managed, though a shiver penetrated all the way to her soul.
“And now,” Nick snapped out, “we’ve starved long enough.” Soup spoons clinked. There was even a surreptitious slurp or two. The footmen were serving the third course, a fine roast fowl with rosemary dumplings, before conversation returned to some semblance of normal.
Nick never took his eyes off her as she sailed into the bookroom, head high. She hadn’t called for a carriage yet—the stables had his orders about that—but he was certain she wanted to run. She always ran. Cecilia Lilly’s solution to any problem: run away. Well, not this time. He needed her. No . . . his plot against Longmere needed her. He didn’t need anyone.
“Cecilia, sit.” He waved his hand toward her customary chair in front of her desk.
A slight flutter of her eyelashes was her only acknowledgment of his use of her given name. “We need a truce, you and I. At least long enough to finish our business with Longmere. After that . . .” He crossed his arms, leaned back in his chair, allowed his lips to curl into a grimace. “After that we will settle our–ah–more personal business.”
A shiver, followed by a rush of excitement, shot through with terror. Cecy squeezed her eyes shut, swallowed, but words refused to form. Meekly, she nodded.
Apparently satisfied, Nick sat up and plunged directly into the matter of Jason, Marquess of Longmere. “Darius Wolfe tells me he believes Longmere is about to fall into his trap—investing far too much in an African diamond venture that is solely a product of Wolfe’s imagination.”
“Does Mr. Wolfe not risk his reputation on such fraud?” Cecy asked.
“Not if he allegedly loses as much as Longmere, both of them being fooled by the elusive person who set up the scheme.”
“A-ah.”
Her thoughts were all too clear to him. Cecilia Lilly had no difficulty accepting that Nick Black and Darius Wolfe knew every in and out of setting up such machinations. “I have also seen to it that Longmere is the subject of a number of rumors. It seems he has suffered severe losses at gaming, the race track, a cock fight. Enough that he may have resorted to cheating at cards. And,” Nick added in the insinuating manner of a proper gossip, “his latest mistress believes he may be poxed.”
“That’s diabolical!” Cecy cried. “And on top of that, you’re going to steal his money. I almost feel sorry for him.”
“I never do anything by halves,” Nick assured her. “Nor does Wolfe.”
“He’s your brother.”
“So my mother said, but I’ve always wondered if she really knew.” And where had that bit of honesty come from? The truth was, he’d never know for sure. “To get back to business,” Nick announced abruptly, “I need you with me, looking adoring—no matter how much you might wish to slit my throat. You are the crowning touch to our plot—not some passing fancy but a woman I have taken for my own. To have and to hold, and all that nonsense.”
Her wince was slight, but he caught it. He’d done it again—put his foot in his mouth. He could negotiate with the most devious criminals, with members of parliament, even cabinet ministers, but when it came to Cecilia Lilly, his brain withered and died.
“Very well,” she was saying. “I am not insensible to what I owe you. And I am glad enough to play my part.” She frowned. “Though I would wish you to not be too ruthless. Except for that one time, Longmere was not a bad man.”
“Women who think like that,” Nick snapped, “crawl back to their men and end up dead.”
“You’re probably right,” Cecy murmured, clearly making an effort to adhere to the truce he’d requested. “Mr. Black?”
“Nick.”
“Nick . . . I wondered if I might take Fetch with me on my next visit to Soho. He has friends there who ask about him.”
“No.”
Her head jerked up. She stared. “What do you mean, No? That’s absurd.”
Truce. She had agreed to stay on, at least until the plot against Longmere had run its course. Which, devil take it, meant he too was obliged to compromise. “His friends may not be the right influence,” Nick offered, well aware his argument was weak.
“You’re touting Fetch as a model of propriety?” He’d swear the girl’s eyebrows met her hairline.
“Fine! He may go. Just make sure he returns with you.”
“As if he wouldn’t. The boy fair dotes on you, and well you know it.”
“He’s not mine, if that’s the latest maggot you’ve got in your head.”
“He could be.”
Nick stood, placed his palms flat on his desk and leaned in until they were nearly nose to nose. “Fetch was all of twelve before he came to my attention. Believe me, if he were mine, he would have had a roof over his head and good food in his belly from the day he was born. And never doubt it.”
“I beg your pardon,” she murmured, pushing back her chair. “We seem doomed to being forever at sixes and sevens.”
As she walked to the door, her shoulders not quite as stiff and defiant as usual, Nick sank back into his chair and closed his eyes.
Three days later Cecy found herself begging dispensation for children bolting from their classrooms with joyous shrieks and hollers as they caught a glimpse of Fetch. Merciful heavens, it must be true. Fetch was their leader, their hero, and he not yet fifteen.
Mrs. Bailey, the matron, heaved a sigh. “Happens every time,” she said. “Which is why Mr. Nick’s only brought him twice before. Wants him to forget his old life, he does. Truthfully, I’m surprised he allowed him to come again.” She favored Cecy with a knowing look. “But then I reckon even Mr. Nick’s got a soft spot for a pretty face.”
Cecy barely heard her, her gaze fixed over the matron’s shoulder at Fetch and the girl he’d just winkled away from the others, scooting her into a far corner where they stood facing each other, so close they looked more like a courting couple than a pair of fourteen-year-olds. Mrs. Bailey followed her gaze. “Our Cathy,” she said. “Cried herself to sleep for a month after Mr. Nick took the boy. Told me she knew it was the right thing for him, but nobody could keep her from grieving, now could they?”
“Is she his sister?”
“No.” The matron primmed her lips, abruptly excusing herself to shoo children back to their classrooms.
She did not, Cecy noticed, go near Fetch and his Cathy.
Cecy did a quick tour of the children’s sleeping areas, whos
e renovation she planned to tackle next, but when she looked back on it later, she realized she didn’t remember a thing she saw. The image of Fetch and Cathy nearly nose to nose wiped out all other memories of the day’s visit.
“Your friends were delighted to see you,” she said to Fetch as their carriage turned back toward Princes Street.”
“A fair treat it were. Thankee, miss.”
“Your English, however, has suffered a relapse.” Cecy ameliorated the sting with a teasing smile. Fetch cut his eyes in her direction, but the expected defiant grin wasn’t there. “Fetch,” she continued carefully, “I saw you talking privately with a girl. Is she a special friend?”
“My dollymop.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Special friend. All the boys had them, even the youngest. That’s the way it is in the rookeries, miss. The way to survive.”
“I–I don’t think I understand . . .” At least she hoped not.
Fetch blew out a breath, cast a glance at the carriage ceiling as if seeking help from the Almighty, or maybe just wishing for counsel from Nick Black. “There’s some on the streets, miss, scarce bigger than toddlers. The only way they survive is if someone takes ’em in. Some are snatched up for climbing boys, some fer kitchen slaves, some fer kiddy brothels, some fer training up as cracksmen, pickpockets, and God knows what.”
Fetch drew breath, his face grim. If a kid is lucky, he’s taken in by a gang of other children, where he don’t get used fer bad things by grown-ups. And cuz life is hard, there’s a lot of pairing up within the gangs. I mean, miss”—Fetch paused, clearly searching for the right words before he suddenly rushed ahead. “Everybody needs somebody, don’t y’ know? Not just being part of a gang, but having someone of your very own. I guess you could call it a companion. We go out on the streets and try all the harder because we know there’s someone else goes hungry if we don’t bring home somethin’ to eat. Do y’ see, miss? Do y’ see?”
She did, God help her. Children taking responsibility for other children because that was the only protection they had—each other.
“And you became Mr. Black’s . . . ah, apprentice, in return for your gang being safely tucked up in the home in Soho?”
“I wanted to go with him, miss. It was an honor to be chosen, and they all knew it. Not a peep out of them, I promise you. But . . . sometimes, like today, it’s hard. As I said, miss, everyone needs a special friend. I don’t want to be like Nick, all alone up there, with no one to warm my bed. Or my heart.
“’Course I have hopes,” he added, his face lightening. “If you’d just stop pickin’ quarrels with the man and give ’im a bit of what yer good at—”
“That’s enough!”
“Yes, miss.”
They rode the rest of the way to Princes Street in silence.
Chapter 14
The Most Honorable the Marquess of Longmere. Cecy wrote the address in flowing script then slowly returned her pen to the standish, never taking her eyes off the words the old Cecilia would never have written.
When had she ever cared about anyone but herself?
When had she begun to think of Lady R as a friend instead of someone who was going to raise Cecilia Lilly to the pinnacle of the world of high-flyers?
When had Holly, the tavern wench, begun to matter? Fetch and two houses full of abandoned children? Nick Black’s minions, right down to slim, unassuming Andrew Lovell, the tutor?
And Nick himself . . .
Dear God, he was going to kill her! At the very least, she’d be out on the street again, homeless, despised . . .
But she couldn’t let him do it. She simply couldn’t.
Cecy slipped down the servants’ stairs into the kitchen and had a few words with Jed, the kitchen boy. He flashed a smile as a shiny coin changed hands, and then he slipped out the back door while Cecy, the picture of innocence, regaled Cook with a carefully crafted explanation for sending the boy on a short errand.
Late that afternoon, on her way back from Boone Farm, Miss Lilly surprised her escorts with a sudden urge to take tea at the Duck and Drake, a not-too-shabby inn where they sometimes paused to rest the horses. She swept inside, leaving her guards to gaze after her, undoubtedly hesitant to follow as they suspected her true need was to visit the necessary. Just as she’d planned.
A brief inquiry to the landlord and he ushered her to a private room, rapped on the door, opened it, and discreetly withdrew. Jason, Marquess of Longmere, unfolded from a chair by the fire.
“Longmere.” Cecy curtsied then took a chair opposite his.
“Cecilia.” He sat back down, his blue eyes assessing her, making no effort to hide his curiosity. There was also, she hoped, a tinge of guilt.
She had thought she could do this . . . knew she must do this, but now the moment had come, her stomach roiled, she couldn’t breathe . . . She ducked her head, fighting for control.
He took matters out of her hands. “Cecilia, I am sorry. I don’t know what happened that night. Perhaps I was trying to prove something to Pinkney and Upham. Certainly, we’d all had too much to drink. Only later did I realize I was angry with myself—I have no taste for orgies. Yet that night I went mad, did things, allowed things that sickened me. And to top off my insanity, I took it out on you.”
Longmere clenched his fists. Cecy sucked in a sharp breath. “Sorry.” Jason tucked his hands into his lap. “Afterwards,” he continued, “I slept like the dead, I didn’t know how badly you were hurt, I didn’t know you’d gone out. And yes,” he added on a groan, “the whole story finally got back to me. And I’m grateful to Black for saving you. His gain, my loss.”
The marquess picked up a wine bottle from a small table beside his chair, poured a glass, and handed it to her. “Ironic, is it not? The bastard, the hero of the hour? The peer of the realm, the villain.”
Cecy took a sip, while she used his apology as a catalyst to regain control of her emotions. “Thank you,” she murmured. “I did not come here for an apology, but I appreciate it. It helps me get through what I planned to say.” She took a deep breath, gripping the wine glass in both hands. “Have you invested any money in the diamond mine proposed to you by Mr. Wolfe?”
Jason’s shoulders straightened from their dejected slump, his blue eyes flared. No one could ever accuse the Marquess of Longmere of being a dullard. “I meet with him tonight for the final bit of paperwork.”
“I would advise you to withdraw. Diamond mines can be a risky business.”
Long moments of silence and then he said, “Lord, I am such a fool. I never thought . . . Wolfe is Lady Rivenhall’s man of business, and Juliana Rivenhall would defend any of her chicks to the death.” He heaved a sigh. “I suppose Black is in on it too.”
“It’s . . . possible.” Cecy focused her gaze on the glowing coals in the fireplace.
A bark of bitter laughter. “The rumors, damn him! Very inventive. My latest inamorata has decamped, finding some fat Cit preferable to me.”
Cruel, Cecy thought. Justified perhaps, but cruel. They’d had some good times, some precious moments when she’d truly thought he’d cared . . . “Perhaps a sojourn in the country, or some months on the continent?” she suggested. “Give the gossip time to dissipate, be obscured by the next scandals to come along.”
“Why?” he asked softly, his blue eyes sharp and penetrating. “Why warn me?”
Cecy gazed into her wine glass, drew a shuddering breath. “I’ve been so frightened, so terrified. I was existing, not living. I finally realized I needed to face you, face my fear. And besides . . .” She lifted her chin, forced herself to look directly into his deceptively clear blue eyes. “I recalled that in all the months we were together you only went mad the one night. And though I would never chance it again, I did not feel you deserved to be totally ruined. Nor do I want to see Nick bring down his brother. And even if you are no relation at all, I feel the punishment is too harsh. It’s very female of me, I know, but there it is.” She took a hasty sip
of wine, handed her glass back to the marquess, and stood up. “I must go now. They’ll be looking for me, and I’d prefer to put off the day of reckoning until another time.”
She curtsied. “Goodbye, Jason. Thank you for meeting me.” She hastened out the door, huffing a sharp breath as she found her stalwart guards standing one on each side, arms folded, looking grim. She could only pray the door was stout, her conversation with the marquess inaudible, for when Nick found out she’d met Longmere secretly, warned him away from the carefully baited trap . . .
Time to run back to the Academy . . . except it seemed likely Lady R had helped hatch the plot against Longmere. Darius Wolfe was her man of business, was he not? She would likely be as angry over Cecy’s defection as Nick was bound to be.
Hopefully she had a little time before her role was discovered . . . but when she passed through the outside door, there was Longmere’s carriage waiting in the courtyard, his crest emblazoned on the door.
Too late.
And besides, she had nowhere to run.
Cecy allowed Tim Riggs, the younger guard who never glowered at her, to hand her into the carriage. She arranged her skirts, sat tall and proud. Unlike her friend Belle who had no way to avoid the abuse her father showered on her, Chastity Singletary had plunged, headlong and heedless, into this life. She deserved whatever punishment came her way. Why Nick, Lady R, and Darius Wolfe couldn’t see that, she truly didn’t know.
It was a long chill ride back to Princes Street.
Nick sat at his desk, scowling. Cecilia had looked ill at dinner, pale and tired. Had he asked too much of her, jaunting about from pillar to post on his business? Was there an unseen injury from her beating that the doctor had not discovered? Or had there been some incident he knew nothing about?
He shook his head. Fool that he was, it was likely nothing more than her time of the month. Yet he couldn’t keep himself from worrying. The ruthless, all-powerful Nick Black, felled by a pair of green eyes . . .
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