The Virgin who Bewitched Lord Lymington

by Anna Bradley

  Starting with…well, with a courtesan, ironically enough.

  But she was simply a precaution, a final wild oat to settle Lovell, who’d been cooped up inside their London townhouse in a sick bed for weeks.

  “Go on, then.” Samuel elbowed Lovell, and nodded at the brunette courtesan. “Your seraph is waiting for you.”

  “She is, isn’t she? Very well, but do find something to do with yourself until I return, Lymington. I won’t have you stand about glaring like a gargoyle all evening.”

  Lovell approached his choice, offered her a courtly bow and a charming smile, then took her hand and led her toward the staircase. Samuel watched them go, his chest pulling tight as his cousin struggled to negotiate the stairs. The surgeon insisted Lovell’s limp would hardly be noticeable once it was fully healed, but there would never come a time when Samuel wouldn’t notice it, no matter how indiscernible it became to everyone else.

  Guilt lodged under his breastbone, sharp and heavy.

  Lovell had never berated him for leaving, had never uttered a single word of blame, but the coldness between them now was as palpable as icy fingers squeezing Samuel’s heart.

  The duel, Lovell’s injury—they should never have happened. If Samuel had been here, if he’d remained in England as his mother had begged him to do, it wouldn’t have.

  There’d been more than one painful scene with Lady Lymington, more than one bitter maternal tear shed in the weeks between Samuel purchasing his commission in the Royal Navy and his hasty departure, but not even Samuel’s mother had been as devastated as Lovell when Samuel announced his intention to leave England.

  Lord and Lady Lovell certainly hadn’t shed any tears for him. His aunt and uncle had been delighted to see him go. No doubt they’d prayed he would never return. Lovell stood to inherit the Lymington title and fortune if only Samuel would have the good grace to drown, or get himself blown to bits by cannon shot.

  In the end, it was his Uncle Lovell who’d had the good grace to die, and Lovell who’d nearly been blown to bits—

  “Such a fierce frown, my lord. You look as if you’ve just shot your favorite horse.”

  A soft touch on the sleeve of his coat made Samuel glance down. A small hand rested there, with dainty fingers curled around his forearm. A trio of ladies—one fair, one dark, and the third red-haired—had sidled up to him, suggestive smiles on their painted lips.

  “He looks bereft, doesn’t he, Nellie?” The brunette gave Samuel a flirtatious wink. “Pity, but perhaps we can cheer you. Come upstairs, you poor man, and tell us all about your dead horse.”

  “We may even be able to coax it back to life again,” the redhead put in with a smirk. “Your horse, that is.”

  Samuel disentangled his arm from the brunette’s grasp. “There’s no dead horse.”

  “Your favorite hunting dog, then? It must be something. We don’t often see gentlemen wallowing in misery here at the Pink Pearl, do we, Clarissa?” The brunette turned to address the red-haired lady beside her.

  “The married ones often look miserable when they arrive, but they’re cheerful enough when they leave.” The redhead fluttered a pair of pale lashes at Samuel. “I daresay you’re very handsome without that scowl. Shall we go upstairs and see?”

  “No, thank you. I’m not looking for female companionship this evening.” Samuel had another matter to attend to, one he hadn’t shared with Lovell.

  “You do realize you’re in a brothel, do you not?” The blonde’s red lips curled in a mocking smile.

  Samuel frowned. “I’m aware, madam. I’m looking for a lady—”

  “Ah.” The brunette clapped her hands. “Now we’re getting somewhere. What sort of ladies do you prefer, my lord?”

  “Not ladies. Just one lady, by the name of Caroline Francis. Do you know of her?”

  “Must it be Caroline, or will any dark-haired lady do?” The brunette trailed her finger down his arm.

  Samuel blinked down at the teasing finger. “No, it must be her.”

  The brunette’s lips turned down. “Pity.”

  Rather a pity for Caroline Francis, yes. Samuel doubted she’d be pleased to see him, once she found out who he was, and the reason he’d come here. Ladies weren’t usually eager to discuss the story of their ruination, particularly when it ended with the heroine on her back at an infamous London brothel.

  Still, better to turn up at a brothel than not to turn up at all. Did Caroline Francis have any notion how fortunate she was not to have met a much grimmer fate? If not, Samuel intended to make her aware of it, and of what she owed to the two other girls who hadn’t been as lucky.

  “It seems Caroline’s in luck tonight.” The redhead touched the tip of her tongue to her bottom lip as her gaze wandered over him. “You’re a big, strong one, aren’t you? Such a shame, but I suppose our loss will be Caroline’s gain.”

  “Indeed, but perhaps all hope isn’t quite lost. I haven’t seen Caroline at all this evening. Now I think on it, I believe she mentioned she had a private engagement, and would be gone all night.”

  All night? Damn it, what cursed luck.

  The brunette gave Samuel a smoldering look from under her lashes. “If you have a penchant for dark-haired ladies, my lord, I’d be pleased to accompany—”

  “That won’t be necessary, madam.”

  Her lips turned down in a sullen pout, and she turned away from him with an offended flounce of her skirts. “As you wish.”

  Not having any place else to go, Samuel wandered down the nearest hallway, pausing when he reached the music room. A trill of notes spilled through the open door, and he peered inside and found one of Madame Marchand’s young ladies performing on the pianoforte, accompanied by a soprano in a yellow silk gown so tight he couldn’t imagine how she had the breath to sing.

  At another time he might have stayed to listen, but he didn’t care to fend off any more eager courtesans. He didn’t fancy returning to the drawing room either, so he moved toward a door at the end of the corridor. He half-expected someone to follow him and demand to know where he was going, but it seemed Madame Marchand’s guests were permitted to wander where they pleased.

  The door latch gave under his hand, and he entered the dim space. It was deserted, the fire burned down to embers, but despite the chill Samuel wandered over to a large, overstuffed chair in the corner and dropped into it.

  Ah, yes. This would do nicely. He might bide his time here without anyone disturbing him until Lovell was—

  Click.

  Samuel peered through the gloom, his eyes widening when a figure appeared on the other side of a pair of glass doors leading from a garden terrace. She was small—certainly a lady—but her face and hair were hidden by a dark, shapeless cloak with a deep hood.

  He remained still, watching as the slender figure slipped inside, closed the door behind her, and glided further into the room, her movements so fluid not even the faintest shuffle of footsteps marked her progress. It was as if she were a wraith, floating inches above the ground, or some sylphlike creature too ethereal to bother with anything so mundane as footsteps.

  Sylphlike, ethereal, footless wraiths?

  Samuel grimaced at his fanciful thoughts. He was just about to rise from his chair and make his presence known when the wraith stopped him with a whispered word.

  “Letty?”

  Samuel stilled. The velvety timbre of her voice slid over his skin like the stroke of a palm, leaving shivers in its wake.

  “Drat it, Letty, I haven’t time for this tonight.”

  Good Lord, that voice. It was soft, huskier than was usual for a young lady, and so smoky at the edges it made his mouth water for whiskey. If she’d approached him in the drawing room, he’d have followed her anywhere.

  “Letty? Are you in here?”

  He froze, breath held as she peered into the
gloom, but he was tucked into a corner, hidden by shadows, and her gaze skimmed right over him.

  She let out a faint huff when silence was the only reply, then lowered her hood with an impatient tug. He caught a glint of moonlight on a lock of pale hair and leaned forward, eager to see if her face matched that decadent voice.

  He squinted into the gloom, but most of her face was still lost in shadows.

  Curious that a throaty wraith should be creeping about a darkened library in a notorious brothel, but whatever secrets this lady was hiding, they had nothing to do with him. If he could have left without attracting her attention, he would have done so, but as it was…

  One by one, the muscles that had pulled taut when she emerged from the darkness loosened. Samuel let his limbs relax against the chair, and prepared to wait.

  * * * *

  The Pink Pearl was an explosion of light and sound, but the noise faded until there was only the faint crunch of her boots on the grass as Emma drifted through the shadows to the deserted library at the back of the townhouse.

  She didn’t want to think about how many people would be furious with her if they knew she’d come to the Pink Pearl tonight.

  She didn’t want to, but her brain rushed merrily along, counting them off, one by one.

  Lady Clifford, Lady Crosby, Daniel Brixton, Madame Marchand…

  She paused on that last name, a shudder jolting up her spine. One did one’s best not to toy with Madame Marchand, in much the same way one would hesitate before threatening a venomous snake with a sharp stick.

  If one couldn’t finish it off with a single blow, it was best not to strike at all.

  Emma slipped through the glass doors, rubbing her gloved hands together to warm them. It was spring in London, but colder than usual. The wind felt like shards of icy needles prickling her skin.

  Where in the world were Helena and Caroline? She’d told Helena half-ten, and she was a few minutes late. She’d hoped they’d be waiting for her. If Emma didn’t turn up at Lady Crosby’s soon, Lady Crosby would alert Lady Clifford, Lady Clifford would send Daniel after her, and then there’d be the devil to pay.

  But she was here now, and there was no sense in leaving until she’d gotten what she wanted. It had taken several weeks of patient prodding, but Helena had at last coaxed Caroline Francis into divulging the details of her liaison with Lord Lovell, and Emma was determined to hear the tale directly from Caroline’s lips.

  Except “liaison” wasn’t really the right word, was it? Seduction, ruination, and abandonment made it sound ugly indeed, but Caroline’s, er…association with Lord Lovell hadn’t been the stuff of romantic fairy tales.

  Far from it.

  Emma appreciated accuracy, especially when one hoped to fit an aristocratic rake with a noose for his crimes. Not that seduction and ruination were crimes, of course. Seducing the innocent was a base, detestable thing to do, but it wasn’t, alas, illegal. If it had been, nearly every aristocrat in London would have found his way to the end of a rope by now.

  But Caroline Francis wasn’t Lord Lovell’s first, worst, or only sin.

  Kidnapping and murder might prove a trifle more problematic for him, despite his noble blood, but one didn’t march a man off to the gibbet without evidence. The Crown was particular that way, especially when the man in question happened to be a viscount.

  As of yet, there was no proof either Amy Townshend or Kitty Yardley had met a tragic end, or even that a crime had been committed at all. Girls went missing all the time, led astray by some rogue or other, then ruined and abandoned.

  But two missing servant girls, and now the third, Caroline Francis, pointing her accusing finger at Lord Lovell? That was the sort of thing that caught Lady Clifford’s attention. Someone had to hold such men to account, and for better or worse, that task had fallen to Emma this time.

  She wouldn’t rest until Lovell’s every foul transgression was laid bare.

  Both Amy and Kitty had vanished from Lymington House without a trace. How Caroline Francis had escaped their same fates and instead turned up at a London brothel was a mystery. A proper villain didn’t leave a witness—not without a compelling reason for doing so.

  The library door squeaked open, admitting a narrow shaft of light and the faintest whiff of a scent that still made Emma’s stomach tighten, even five years after she’d escaped the Pink Pearl. It was a precise balance of candle wax, snuff, rose water tempered with a sharp edge of perspiration, and underlying it all a distinctly musky smell.

  No other place in London smelled like the Pink Pearl.

  The door closed again, plunging the library into darkness, then there was a hurried tap of ballroom slippers rushing across the carpet.

  “I’m here, Letty,” Emma whispered into the darkness, trying not to flinch at the sound of Helena’s disembodied footsteps. She wasn’t timid, and she was accustomed to sneaking about darkened rooms, but everything about the Pink Pearl set Emma’s nerves on edge.

  A small, warm hand encased in a fine kid glove landed on Emma’s sleeve. “I can’t understand how Madame Marchand hasn’t caught you and Charles out yet, given how suspicious she is.”

  Charles was one of Madame Marchand’s kitchen boys. He had an adolescent tendre for Emma, and was willing to see to it the terrace door was left unlocked for her when she required it. “I imagine Madame is rather taken up with emptying the pockets of London’s noblemen.”

  Madame Marchand was a creature of habit, and never ventured from the drawing room during the evening’s festivities.

  “Yes, well, there’s no shortage of pockets to empty tonight.”

  Helena’s tone was light, but Emma heard the edge in her voice, and her shoulders tensed. “Is Lord Peabody here?”

  Helena threw herself into a window seat, heedless of her fine silk gown. “Here, deep in his cups, and growing more aggressive with every glass of port Madame Marchand pours into him.”

  “Promise me you’ll stay away from him, Letty.” The man had a streak of cruelty in him a mile wide.

  But cruel or not, someone would have to have him. Madame Marchand wouldn’t dream of turning away any gentleman. Certainly not one with pockets as deep as Lord Peabody’s, not even if it meant one of her girls would end the evening with a broken finger, or bruises shaped like bootheels on her legs or back. Nothing too obvious, of course—nothing too visible. Lord Peabody knew better than to damage Madame Marchand’s goods, and in return Madame pretended not to notice his violent tendencies.

  Rather a tidy arrangement for all concerned, aside from the women who found themselves on the receiving end of Lord Peabody’s ill temper.

  There was a reason his lordship preferred the smaller, daintier ladies at the Pink Pearl.

  Helena was both, but she was a temperamental handful, for all her apparent fragility. Lord Peabody generally kept away from her, unless he was in a particularly ugly mood, and fancied a fight.

  “He’s taken poor Lizzie upstairs already,” Helena said, a hard, bleak look in her eyes. “Last time she had him he tore a clump of her hair out.”

  Emma’s stomach lurched. “Stay away from him, Letty. Lavish your attentions on another gentleman instead. Is Lord Dimmock here tonight?”

  Lord Dimmock was neither young nor handsome, but he was a courtly old gentleman, and he was safe. The choice between Lord Dimmock and Lord Peabody was like a choice between a plate of sweetmeats and a platter of rotted fish.

  Helena sighed. “Yes, but you didn’t come here tonight to discuss Lord Dimmock.”

  “No.” Emma glanced over Helena’s shoulder, her hopeful gaze on the library door. She willed it to open, and for Caroline Francis to stroll through it, but it remained firmly closed. “Since you’re here alone, I take it our plans have gone awry.”

  Of course they had. Nothing was ever as simple as it should be.

  “My
dear Emma, a nobleman’s lust always takes precedence over everything else. Caroline was suddenly called away to attend a private engagement this evening,” Helena added, when Emma raised an eyebrow.

  “An engagement?” Dash it, what blasted ill luck.

  Helena hopped down from the window seat and grabbed Emma’s hand. “Now, don’t look like that. I’ll bring her to see you tomorrow night. She can tell you her lurid tale then. It’s as shocking as you could ever hope for.”

  “No, tomorrow won’t do.” By this time tomorrow evening, Emma would be at Almack’s, posing as an innocent debutante on the hunt for an aristocratic husband.

  Innocent. The thought brought a derisive snort to Emma’s lips.

  “Why not tomorrow?” Helena asked, studying Emma’s face in the dim light.

  “I won’t be able to return to the Pink Pearl for some time, Letty.” Emma tapped her lip, thinking. “Do you suppose you could get Caroline to write down an account of it?”

  “I don’t see why not. I can ask her, at any rate.”

  “Good. Give it to Charles, and I’ll send Daniel to fetch it from him.” Emma reached into the pocket of her cloak and pulled out a small pouch of coins, which she dropped into Helena’s hand. “Here, take this, just in case.”

  Helena hesitated before stuffing the pouch into the hidden pockets of her silk skirts. “Why can’t you come back? Where are you going?”

  “I’ll be in London, but I won’t be able to risk a visit. If anything happens, send word to Daniel through Charles. Daniel will make certain the information gets to me.”

  “Yes, all right.”

  “If something should go awry on my end, Daniel will come for you. One last thing, Letty.” Emma grasped Helena’s shoulders. “Promise me you won’t do anything to er…upset Madame Marchand while I’m gone.”

  Helena might look as fragile as a tiny filagree snuff box, but her stubbornness had earned her Madame Marchand’s ire more than once. If Helena were to lose that quick temper and be sent from the house onto the London streets…