by Darcy Burke
He cleared his throat. “Tell me you did not cultivate a relationship with me to recruit the girls at Stipple’s End.”
Her hand fluttered to her ruby-clad neck. Despite the dimness of the hallway, he could see the apprehension in her eyes. “Relationship is a rather strong word.”
Fox slammed his fist against the wall. “Dammit, Polly! We were friends!” He couldn’t bring himself to catalogue the history because he was afraid to look too closely. “Or was your kindness after Jane married Stratham a lie too?”
She stepped toward him, but he backed away. Anguish lined her tired face. A face he’d found pretty until tonight. “I’d like to think we’re still friends.”
His skin felt dirty. “And Rose coming to work for you was a coincidence?”
She flinched and then looked away, unable apparently to withstand his glare any longer. “When I visited you one day at Stipple’s End, she talked to me. She knew who I was and—”
“And what you are.” He let the insult hang between them.
Her eyes flashed. “Yes. I have no shame about that, Fox. I’ve done what I had to in order to survive. You do the same for your precious orphans.”
Fury crested in his chest, made his lungs ache. “I don’t prostitute myself.”
Polly moved toward him, her hand set provocatively on her hip. “Can you honestly say you never slept with me hoping I might leave a donation?”
Her question stabbed straight into his gut. She’d befriended him after Jane had married Stratham, and a physical relationship had naturally bloomed. He’d never paid her for her favors. She’d given money and goods to the orphanage. He’d judged her a kind and caring woman. But at some level, had he expected her to repay his physical attention with charity for Stipple’s End? As if he was the whore?
Refusing to answer that question, even in the darkness of his own mind, Fox pushed past her toward the door, intent on leaving. Mrs. Gates had been right about Polly all along. “I can see now our objectives were completely different.” He put his hand on the knob, then spun on his heel to face her. “Your money—or anything else—is no longer needed at Stipple’s End. You will cease all interaction with me or any of my charges.”
Her lips quirked up. “You can’t stop them from coming here.”
He squeezed the doorknob as though he might tear it from the wood. “I just did.”
“If she wants to badly enough, she’ll come back.”
Fox shook his head. “She won’t. Want to, that is. Miranda will see to it.”
Polly tapped a painted fingernail against her chin. “‘Miranda’? What makes you so certain?” Her voice dipped. “Or is she your lover now?”
Fox released the door. “Certainly not, she’s a lady.” His body quickened. Miranda might not be his lover, but God, how he wanted her to be. “She cares for those girls. Genuinely cares.”
Polly arched a shoulder. “The way Flora told it, your precious Miranda encouraged her to seek my way of life. Said the girl could do quite well for herself as a courtesan in London. You claim to have been wrong about me, what makes you think you aren’t wrong about her?”
He couldn’t believe Miranda would do such a thing. She wasn’t that careless.
Doubt laced through his mind, but he shook his head. He couldn’t be wrong about Miranda. She’d rushed back to Wootton Bassett tonight when she didn’t have to. And it certainly hadn’t been for him. She had to have come back for the children.
Emotion darkened his voice. “I’m not wrong about her.” Fox pivoted and opened the door. The cool night air provided a welcome balm to his heated flesh, but he detected dampness. Rain threatened.
He went to the post where he’d tied Gawain. Stratham would have to do without his horse for the remainder of the night.
Once astride, Fox pointed the animal toward Stipple’s End. He started out fast, but slowed his pace. Why hurry? After depositing Flora at the orphanage, Miranda would have continued to Birch House. At least she would if she had any sense.
Which meant she’d be at Stipple’s End waiting for him.
It was just as well for he’d several things he wanted to say to her. First and most importantly: go away. She’d all but turned him down again during the waltz—after staring at him with barely concealed lust—and then she’d driven him to complete sexual frustration. She was going to kill him.
Which meant she had to go.
Fox’s landau stood in the drive at Stipple’s End when he arrived. He asked the coachman to take care of Gawain and then turned to the manor. Entering the great hall, he noted the chill, but continued toward the library, certain she waited there.
Light spilled from the open doorway into the corridor. Fox paused at the threshold, scanning the room. She sat tucked into the green wingback chair by the fire—the one he’d been sitting in when she’d happened upon him here the night of the assembly. Her head rested against the side and her chest rose and fell with the gentle breath of sleep.
He wanted to move closer, but didn’t dare. She was a vision. Her golden hair framed her face, so perfect in sleep. Too perfect. It lacked the animation and passion that made Miranda, well, Miranda.
But he couldn’t let her sleep there. He stepped into the room. A floorboard creaked and her eyes opened. Blinking, she rolled her shoulders back and brought her feet out from under her. She looked up at him and froze. The beauty of her face twisted as she jumped out of the chair.
“How could you befriend a woman like that?”
Fox nearly staggered backward at the ferocity of her anger. In response, his own fury rose anew after cooling almost completely during his ride and upon finding her sleeping so peacefully. So innocently. Hah.
“How could you go charging off to a brothel? Good God, Miranda, did you know your brother is planning to go there tonight? What if he’d seen you there?” Fox knew he shouldn’t discuss such things with her, but he wanted her to understand the foolishness of her actions.
She blanched. “I was merely trying to rescue Flora.”
“Which I would have done.” In retrospect, he should have sent Miranda and Lisette to find Mrs. Gates while he raced off to Polly’s, but he couldn’t change what had happened. “Do you ever think of the consequences of your actions?”
She didn’t answer for a moment. Fox wanted to roll his eyes. Now, she took the time to think. “Fine, I shouldn’t have gone.”
Fox momentarily deflated. He had been so sure she would argue with him.
It was a brief respite. The virago reared her head once more with hands on her hips and aqua eyes flashing. “But those girls see that woman as your friend. Or more than your friend. They feel comfortable with her, and Flora was ready to entrust her entire future to her. A future as a…a harlot.”
Fox ground his teeth. His words came out like a growl. “Polly said you’d encouraged her, that Flora acted on your suggestion.” He could still scarcely believe this was true.
Miranda took a deep breath. She fidgeted with the sides of her dress. Her nostrils flared. “I may not have appropriately discounted the potential of life as a London courtesan.”
Fox lunged forward. “What?”
She took a step back, her eyes wide. “Flora told me about her friend Rose and how she’d made a nice place for herself in London at a brothel. I only told the girls they needn’t consider such a life. I never imagined Flora was serious about it. Things are so different here. Any young girl in London would have known better.”
Did she not realize these girls idolized her? “You aren’t in London!”
“I’m quite aware of that fact, thank you!”
They stood there glaring at each other for a moment. She didn’t flinch, and neither did he.
“You never answered my question about Mrs. Danforth. How can you befriend someone like her, allow her access to the girls?”
He lowered his voice, but his fury did not diminish. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
At length, she huffed. “I
suppose you don’t. I believed we were friends and knowing you share a relationship with her…well, it bothers me.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
Fox sputtered. “You’re jealous? You’ve no right to be, not when you could easily have had me.”
She dropped her arms. “I did want you. At the brothel.”
He laughed, but it was as hollow as his storeroom in January. “For a tup.” He watched her face register his coarse language, her eyes widening, the subtle parting of her delicious lips. “I want more than that. If you do too, I’m right here.”
With her fists clenched at her sides and her eyes blazing in the firelight, she was more stunning than he’d ever seen her. He could feel her anger, her doubt, her confusion, her desire. He willed his body to stay cold, not warm to her passion, to her very presence.
“My father will never let me choose you. Your station is unacceptable enough, but knowing you keep time with the local bawdy house owner further demeans your credibility.”
“My credibility? Every nobleman I’ve ever known has a mistress—and often a wife at home. Even now your brother is enjoying the very bawdy house you just came from. Next to you and your kind, I’m positively sedate. With your reputation and penchant for reckless behavior, any man who marries you will likely regret doing so.”
She flung an arm out as her features deepened with anger once more. “So you don’t deny she’s your mistress?”
Fox could scarcely credit her question. “After everything I just said, this is what you fixate on?”
She recrossed her arms over her chest. Her cheeks were flushed, and he could practically see steam rising from the top of her head. “I’m leaving after Lord Norris’s party.”
“Good.” He said the word, but every emotion behind it was the complete opposite. He reached for her, intending to finish what they’d started. He couldn’t let her go like this—
“Did I hear yelling?” Beatrice walked into the library and Fox swung around.
Fox wanted to push Beatrice back out of the room so he could put Miranda in a position from which she couldn’t deny him. A position like the one they’d shared at the brothel. “No.”
“Oh.” Beatrice looked at Miranda. “Are you ready to leave?”
Miranda dropped her arms to her sides. Gone was any hint of their emotional exchange. “What are you doing here, Beatrice? The party hasn’t concluded, has it?” She looked stricken, as if it would be a horrible crime for the party to be over when the clock hadn’t yet chimed one.
“No, my parents made me leave.” She rolled her eyes. “It wasn’t well done of them because we hadn’t completed the auction accounting. Since Mrs. Gates and Fox had already left, there is no one there to finish save Mrs. Knott, and I do believe she and Mr. Knott are having far too much fun at the party to conclude the business. Your brother said you’d come here with a sick child and asked if we’d fetch you to Birch House. Very conscionable of him.”
Miranda glanced at Fox. He quirked a brow at her. She seemed a bit surprised, or maybe she was thankful, that Fox had covered for her with Jasper. “Mrs. Gates is here to care for Flora, so I suppose I can leave. Still, perhaps we’d better return to Stratham Hall to finish up.”
Fox cleared his throat. “I’ll see to it.” He needed to return Stratham’s horse anyway. Furthermore, he was suddenly nervous about no one overseeing the accounting besides Rob and his wife.
Miranda’s shoulders slumped. “Thank you, Fox. Let’s go then, Beatrice.”
Beatrice nodded. “Good night, Fox.” She turned to Miranda as they fell into step beside each other walking out of the library. “It was a splendid evening even if I did have to leave early.”
Miranda glanced back over her shoulder. She looked at him as she’d done during their waltz. As if she wanted to devour him. As if she simply wanted him. Regret pierced his heart, and he turned away.
He stared into the orange flames of the fire for longer than he knew. When he finally moved, his neck ached. He rolled his shoulders to relax his muscles.
He needed to get back to Stratham Hall. At least the night hadn’t been a complete disaster. Now he could fix the roof and pay for a myriad of other necessary things. And he could finally use his own money for Bassett Manor. Clinging to the positive, he turned to go.
A loud crash sounded from the great hall and he sprinted into the corridor. Immediately he felt the cold air rushing toward him and smelled the moisture. The rain had come.
And it fell in bucketfuls, directly into the hall through a brand new gaping hole in the roof.
Chapter Fifteen
MRS. Gates flew down the stairs and rushed into the great hall. “Good heavens, Fox! The roof!”
Fox stared, speechless, at the dark night sky bleeding rain all over the already ruined wood floor. The barrel sat useless, catching only a portion of the torrent.
Mrs. Gates halted beside him and shivered. “What are we to do?”
Fox pushed his shock away. “I’ll have to hire architects and carpenters.”
She glanced at the floor, shaking her head. “Oh, Fox, it never ends. I suppose we’ll need to replace more than just the roof.”
Yes, this would be far more expensive than the original repair. It was a damned good thing they’d had the benefit. His anxiety over the money returned. He should’ve been there to count it and take it away. Instead, he’d been chasing Miranda all over hell and yonder.
He frowned, worried the proceeds were still at Stratham Hall. He needed to get the money right away, not only to determine how much they’d made but also to ensure its safekeeping. “I’m going back to Stratham Hall to get the money from the benefit. In the meantime, keep the children in their dormitories and close every room up to try and keep the cold out. Tomorrow we’ll start moving everyone to Bassett Manor.”
Mrs. Gates gaped at him. “You want us to live in your home? Fox, you need your privacy. You already do far too much.”
No, he hadn’t done enough. He should’ve moved them all to Bassett Manor back in June. “It’s the only solution until Stipple’s End is repaired. I can’t leave you and the children to live like this. It will take time to move everything, but we’ll manage.”
Mrs. Gates nodded, and Fox took his leave. Outside, he instructed the coachman to fetch Gawain and tie him to the landau for the drive back to Stratham Hall.
Rain, steady and monotonous, drove against the vehicle as it clambered toward its destination. The ride jostled him mercilessly, but the ancient springs had no hope of replacement.
Dammit. He’d expected to finally get ahead after this benefit. Stow money in the coffers instead of trying to stretch each penny past its worth. But tonight he’d been very close to getting his money another way—if he’d stayed in the brothel a little longer with Miranda, perhaps her brother would have arrived and they’d be betrothed even now. Then he’d never have to worry about money again.
Why did he keep coming back to compromising her into marrying him? Rob had suggested it months ago, after she’d first arrived. There were any number of times he could’ve done it. In fact, he had done it—as the highwayman. Hell, even as Fox. Their private waltz the night of the assembly last summer might have been enough to send them to the vicar.
So why didn’t he just do it? After all, he wanted to marry her. He allowed his mind a moment’s luxury while he thought of her body pressed against his. And then her repeated refusals intruded, shattering the illusion. Even though she admitted to wanting him physically, she’d made it clear he wasn’t worthy of her hand in marriage, and never would be. That was why he didn’t compromise her. What kind of life would they have with that between them? His pride demanded that she choose him.
He didn’t want to think about her anymore. He’d tried to let her go, and she kept falling back into his lap. But soon she’d be gone for good. He needed to focus on Stipple’s End. He’d always focused on Stipple’s End. Why was it so difficult now? No need to answer that. He’d already decided not t
o think about her anymore.
Finally, the landau pulled up Stratham’s drive. Though thinned, a group of coaches still awaited their occupants. Light shone from the elegant manor, and as Fox stepped onto the gravel, the revelry coming from inside washed over him, making him feel more alone than he already did.
But he had no desire to join the party. He wanted the money and nothing else. In fact, he would’ve preferred to wait outside while someone brought it to him. With a weary sigh, he climbed the steps, rain dampening his hair and his new clothes. Too bad he couldn’t have worn his highwayman’s cloak. Made from thick wool it provided warmth, and more importantly, covered him from head to boot, er, slipper. Fox glanced down, realizing his shoes had been horribly abused tonight. They were likely ruined, but he couldn’t do anything about it now. Dancing shoe replacement was just about dead last on his list of needs.
The door opened wide and Fox stepped around a couple who were taking their leave. He made his way to the Gold Room. Devoid of people, it contained several packaged auctioned items, though not all. Presumably, some had been taken already. A quick perusal did not reveal the money.
Stratham sauntered into the Gold Room. “I was informed you’d returned. Come to drink more of my brandy?”
Fox barely had patience for the man while in the best of moods, but now, he restrained himself from outright knocking him down. “I’m here to pick up the money. Where is it?”
Stratham clapped his hands together. “I’ve put it in my study. I’ll just go and get it. He crossed the room, but turned back before continuing. “Aren’t you coming?”
“I didn’t realize I was invited.” Fox didn’t really want to go along, but the sooner he got the money, the sooner he could leave. He trailed Stratham to a corner of the house. A low fire burned in a massive fireplace decorated with gold-flecked Italian marble. A huge, gilded mirror hung over the mantel—probably so Stratham could see himself while he counted his ill-gotten fortune.
