The Virgin who Bewitched Lord Lymington

by Anna Bradley

“But then she turned up at the Pink Pearl.”

  “Yes. I brought Lovell to London for the season for Lady Flora, but I also came for Caroline Francis. I hoped she could tell me something about the circumstances under which she left Lymington House, and how she ended up in a London brothel. The scoundrel who seduced her—”

  “Is very likely the same man who took Amy and Kitty, and the same man who has Caroline now.”

  “I don’t see how it could be anyone else. But you seem to know a great deal about Caroline’s business.” And, by default, a great deal about his family’s business. “Why is that, Lady Emma?”

  She gave him a tight smile. “Helena Reeves is Caroline’s only friend at the Pink Pearl, Lord Lymington. Caroline has confided in Helena, and Helena has confided in me.”

  Damn it. That’s what he was afraid of. “Listen to me. If Helena knows Caroline’s secrets, then she’s in as much danger as Caroline is.”

  Emma hesitated, then to Samuel’s shock she reached out and grasped his hand. “I need your help, my lord. If you agree to assist me, I’ll return the favor.”

  Until she asked, Samuel would have claimed he’d never help Lady Emma, who’d caused him nothing but trouble since he’d first laid eyes on her. But all at once, helping her was the only thing that mattered to him. “What can I do?”

  “I need to see Helena at once, but Madame Marchand knows I want to persuade her to leave the Pink Pearl. As you can imagine, Madame doesn’t look upon me with a friendly eye. You, however—”

  “You want me to go to the Pink Pearl and fetch Helena for you.”

  “Yes, but I’m afraid it won’t be as simple as you imagine. Helena doesn’t know or trust you, and she’s learned to be wary of noblemen. She won’t go with you.”

  “What, then?”

  “Go to the Pink Pearl, and, ah…engage Helena’s companionship for the evening. You can be certain Madame Marchand will be delighted to accommodate you. Once you have Helena alone, tell her Lady Emma wants her to come to the library, then return to your carriage at once and wait for us. I can persuade Helena to come with me, but we’ll need to leave quickly once she’s out. Will you help me?”

  “That depends, Lady Emma, on whether or not you’ll help me. Once you free Helena from Madame Marchand’s clutches, I want to speak with her. I don’t mean her any harm, but I insist she tell me everything Caroline told her. The truth this time, and every word of it.”

  Emma inclined her head. “She will.”

  Samuel studied her, looking for any sign of deception. “Don’t lie to me, Lady Emma.”

  “She will. I promise it, my lord.” She met his gaze without flinching, with truth in the deep, blue depths of her eyes.

  “Well, then. It looks as if we’re paying another visit to the Pink Pearl.”

  * * * *

  Don’t lie to me, Lady Emma.

  The words echoed in Emma’s head as she waited in the carriage after Lord Lymington had disappeared inside the Pink Pearl.

  Lord Lovell was wrong. Every word out of Lord Lymington’s mouth didn’t sound like a command. He’d said those word to her in a soft, almost pleading voice, one that made Emma wish she could give him the truth he asked for.

  But it was only that, a wish, destined to remain unfulfilled, no matter how much her heart urged her to tell him all she knew.

  She now believed Lord Lovell was innocent of any crime, despite Caroline’s accusations, but she couldn’t be certain the real culprit wasn’t another member of Samuel’s family. What if Lady Lymington had somehow had a hand in it? And what of Felix Humphries? He had unlimited access to Lymington House. At this point she couldn’t even rule out Lady Lovell. It seemed unlikely she’d implicate her innocent son in a crime, but Emma had seen wickeder things than even that.

  After twenty minutes had passed, Emma left the carriage and made her way through the back garden to the terrace doors. She peered through the glass into the library, her hand on the latch and a prayer on her lips that Helena was there, and had unlocked the door.

  She sucked in a breath, then let it out again in a heavy gust when the latch turned in her hand. “Letty?”

  A shape detached itself from the deep shadows in one corner of the room. Helena darted forward and threw herself into Emma’s arms. “Emma? Oh, thank goodness you’re here. Caroline’s gone, and Madame Marchand is on a tear, and Lord Lymington—”

  “Shh. I know, dearest, I know.” Emma stroked a hand down Helena’s back. “But it’s all right now, Letty. It’s going to be all—”

  Emma was interrupted by a faint click, and both she and Helena jerked their heads toward the library door. Light spilled through the gap, illuminating a tall, spare figure. “You should know better than to make promises you can’t keep, Emma.”

  Emma froze at the sound of that cold voice, dread overwhelming her at the sight of the narrow chin and sharp, beaky nose that haunted her nightmares.

  She was no longer the same helpless, frightened girl she’d been that awful night five years earlier, when she’d left the Pink Pearl behind her, but no matter how old she became, or how many years she put between that night and the present, Madame Marchand’s voice still had the power to make her shudder with horror. No sooner would she hear that harsh voice than the memories would come flooding back, as if some hidden lever in her brain had been wrenched, warning her to flee.

  “How remarkable, Emma, that you imagine you can just stroll into my establishment and leave with one of my young ladies.” Madame Marchand pointed a bony finger at Emma. “I’ve already lost Caroline. Do you suppose I’ll let Helena go, as well?”

  Helena’s shoulders hunched, and she shrank into herself. “I beg your pardon, Madame. We were just—”

  “Such disloyalty, Helena.” Madame Marchand tutted. “I didn’t believe it when Clarissa told me you’d been sneaking in and out of the library, yet here you are, and after all I’ve done for you.”

  “Madame, I—”

  Madame Marchand cut her off. “Get out, Helena. I’ll deal with you later. As for you, Emma, this will be your last clandestine visit to the Pink Pearl. Charles won’t be available to assist you anymore.”

  A hoarse gasp tore from Helena’s throat. “What do you mean? What have you done to Charles?”

  Madame Marchand didn’t even spare her a glance. “I told you to get out.”

  Emma’s stomach lurched as she stepped between Madame Marchand and Helena, but by some miracle, her voice was steady. “Go through the terrace doors behind me, Helena, and out to the front. Lord Lymington’s carriage is there, waiting for you.”

  Light filtered from the open doorway behind her, leaving Madame’s face in shadows, but there was no mistaking the steely thread of menace in her voice. “Upstairs this instant, Helena. Don’t make me tell you again.”

  Helena looked between Emma and Madame Marchand, her face a chalky white. Madame’s cold gaze remained fixed on Emma, but Emma met Helena’s eyes, begging without words for Helena to do as she said, and leave this place now, before she no longer had the choice.

  “The seed pearls sewn into that silk gown on your back were very dear, Helena,” Madame Marchand said in a matter-of-fact tone, as if she had chests of seed pearls in her bedchamber upstairs, casks of precious jewels, and stacks of golden guineas secreted in every hidden corner of the Pink Pearl, and the loss of these were of little consequence to her.

  But they were of grave consequence to Helena.

  “Altogether the gown with the trimmings, gloves, and headdress cost me a small fortune,” Madame Marchand went on, circling gradually closer to Helena. “Tell me, Helena. Can you pay me what is owed for your ensemble tonight?”

  Emma’s lips twisted with disgust. Of course, Madame Marchand’s first thought was for the money. “Don’t listen to her, Helena.”

  Madame Marchand shrugged, unconcerned. “You
may do as you choose, of course, Helena, but if you set foot outside that door, I’ll have you taken up for theft before you’ve taken two steps toward Lord Lymington’s carriage.”

  “Emma?” Helena cast a stricken look at Emma, her chin wobbling.

  “It’s all right, Helena,” Emma said evenly, her gaze on Madame Marchand. “Lady Clifford will bring you your money tomorrow, Madame.”

  “By tomorrow, Helena will be locked in the debtor’s prison at Newgate. Have you ever been inside Newgate, Helena? It’s rather unpleasant, I’m afraid.”

  Madame Marchand’s smile chilled Emma’s blood. “Helena, listen to me. She’s only trying to frighten you—”

  “If the idea of Newgate doesn’t appeal to you, Helena, you may return to your bedchamber like a good girl, and we’ll forget this incident ever happened.”

  Helena was inching toward the door that led back to the hallway, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Emma.”

  “Helena!”

  Emma darted after her, but Madame Marchand stepped in front of the door, blocking her way. Before Emma could jerk back, Madame grabbed her chin and tilted her face toward the light, studying the angles and curves as if calculating the value of it. “Ah, that face.”

  The grip of those cold, claw-like fingers made Emma cringe away, but Madame held on, her fingernails leaving deep scratches in Emma’s skin. “Such a beauty. I would have made you one of London’s greatest courtesans. You might have been a legend, Emma, but you destroyed my plans and your future with a foolish swipe of a blade.”

  Emma opened her mouth, but no words came.

  Madame Marchand released her chin, but she snatched Emma’s hand in hers, stripped off her glove and shook her head over the scars. “It’s a great pity, but then you never had the temperament of a proper whore. For all your loveliness, you’ve never been pleasing, Emma.”

  Pleasing. By that, Madame meant obedient, and Emma had never been that. Not then, and not now. “Yes, if only I’d been quiet when your lord pressed a blade to my throat, instead of making such a fuss. After all, no gentleman wants an uncooperative harlot.”

  Madame Marchand smiled, but her face was as cold as ice. “You’d be surprised. Tell me, when did you become Lord Lymington’s plaything? I can’t help but be impressed. A marquess, no less, and a wealthy one at that. I’m proud of you, Emma.”

  Madame’s words sank in, rushing like poison through Emma’s veins.

  Madame Marchand laughed, but it was an ugly sound, edged in cruelty. “Ah, still so haughty, despite your humble beginnings. What you’ve never understood, Emma, is that once a woman has been a whore, she will always be a whore. No matter how Lady Clifford might dress you up, or how many marquesses you charm with your pretty face, you’ll never be anything but a whore.”

  Emma opened her mouth, but none of the denials inside her head made it to her lips. Something was there, cold and hard, blocking her throat, stealing her voice.

  “I’m afraid Helena will be unavailable for the rest of the night, both to you and to Lord Lymington.” Madame Marchand nodded at the terrace doors. “Do feel free to go out the way you came in, Emma.”

  Madame Marchand didn’t bother to wait for a reply. She turned, the hems of her magnificent bronze silk gown sweeping across the floor, and left Emma in the dark, cold library, more alone than she’d ever been in her life.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Emma was right about Madame Marchand. The bawd had been delighted to turn Helena Reeves over to Samuel for the evening. Helena had been less pleased to find herself at his mercy, but when he explained he’d come at Lady Emma’s request, she’d allowed him to escort her to the library.

  The entire maneuver went as smoothly as Emma predicted. For a sheltered young lady who’d never left Somerset, she had an oddly well-developed talent for intrigue.

  When Samuel reemerged from the Pink Pearl after securing Helena, Emma was hovering beside his carriage, her anxious gaze fixed on the entrance. She waited only long enough for his nod, and then she was gone, the hems of her hooded cloak dragging along the ground as she vanished into the darkened garden behind the townhouse.

  A strange emotion welled in Samuel’s chest as he watched her go, a sort of dull heaviness he didn’t understand. He knew only that the Pink Pearl loomed very large, and Emma looked very small as she was swallowed into its depths.

  There was nothing for him to do but wait for her return, the darkness pressing in on him as one moment dragged into the next, until it seemed as if they’d spun into an eternity.

  When Emma did emerge from the brothel’s back garden, she was alone.

  No Helena Reeves, despite Emma’s promises.

  Samuel couldn’t read her expression, as her face was hidden inside her hood, but she cast more than one glance over her shoulder as she hurried toward him, her skirts clutched in her hands. When she reached the carriage, she climbed inside without a word, and without sparing Samuel a glance.

  He climbed in after her, pulling the carriage door closed behind him, but he made no move to signal his driver. Instead, he turned to Emma, who’d tucked herself tightly into the opposite corner of the bench, her head turned away from him. “Where is Helena Reeves?”

  No answer. It was as if he hadn’t spoken at all.

  Samuel tried again. “I left Helena waiting for you in the library, just as you asked. Where is she?”

  Still nothing, or at least, not an answer. Emma made a sound—a strangled breath, or a sigh—but she didn’t speak.

  Slow anger began to burn in Samuel’s chest. “We had an agreement, Emma. I trusted you to keep your promise.” Foolishly, it seemed. He should have known better than to believe a word she said, given that she’d lied to him before. But somehow, this time her lie tore at him in a way Samuel could never have imagined, had never thought possible.

  Had he truly believed a few kisses in a rose garden would change anything between them? He was as ridiculous as every other gentleman who’d fallen victim to her red lips, her dark blue eyes. “I’m waiting for an explanation, Emma.”

  Emma gazed down at her hands folded tightly in her lap, her deep hood hiding her expression, and remained silent, as if Samuel wasn’t even there.

  “Nothing to say, my lady?” His harsh voiced seemed far too loud inside the closed carriage. “No wild justifications this time, no lies or excuses?”

  Emma turned toward him with her lips parted. “I-I…”

  Samuel waited, but when nothing more emerged, his last shred of patience snapped. “Take off that hood, and look at me,” he growled, pushing her hood back. She tried to flinch away from him, but he caught her chin in his hand and turned her face to his. “I did as you asked, and you—”

  The words froze on Samuel’s lips, and his stomach dropped.

  All the color was gone from her cheeks, her eyes wide, dark pools in that pale face, fear and shame in their blue depths.

  He stared at her, stunned. The vulnerability he’d seen in her face in Lady Tremaine’s rose garden, that glimpse of the truth that had made it impossible for him not to kiss her, had been only the barest hint of what she was hiding from the world, a mere shadow of the darkness there.

  This was what lurked beneath those devastating eyes, that charming smile.

  An overwhelming, inexplicable ocean of pain.

  Dear God, what had happened inside the Pink Pearl?

  A thousand different questions leapt to Samuel’s lips at once, but he didn’t ask them. He said nothing, his fingers gentling on her face, and his thumb creeping up to stroke her cheekbone.

  The anguish in her eyes, those scars on her hands, the remnants of a painful, violent past—how could they belong to Lady Emma Crosby, the sheltered, indulged daughter of the Earl of Crosby? How could they belong to London’s reigning belle?

  Samuel’s gaze dropped to her hands. They w
ere buried inside the folds of her cloak, covered by the tight silk of her gloves. Hidden, always hidden, but he could see them still, the thin scars etched into her pale flesh. Now he’d seen them once, he could never forget they were there, no matter how she tried to disguise them under layers of linen and silk.

  Samuel didn’t think about what he did next. He didn’t plan it. He simply reached for her, his movements slow so as not to frighten her, and lifted her into his lap.

  Emma went rigid in his arms. “I-I can’t—”

  “Shhh.” Samuel cupped her neck in warm, gentle fingers. “It’s all right.”

  It wasn’t, not at first, but gradually Emma’s hectic breaths slowed, and she began to relax against him, the tension draining from her body bit by bit, until at last she went limp in his arms, and let her cheek rest against his chest.

  Samuel closed his eyes then, a long, slow breath leaving his body. He rested his chin on her head, the soft, golden wisps of her hair tickling his skin, and let the truth break over him like a wave unfurling onto the sand, no less inevitable for the slow, gentle drift of it.

  I could hold her like this forever.

  He traced her jaw, then tipped her face up to his with a finger under her chin. He waited for one breath, two, to give her a chance to pull away, but she only gazed up at him, her blue eyes soft, her lips open, and just like that, he was lost. Time narrowed and contracted until there was just the two of them, her face tipped up to his, their breath mingling.

  He pressed his mouth to her forehead and let them linger there, his heart pounding at the sensation of her smooth skin against his lips. He stroked his thumb down her cheek and teased it across her lower lip, the merest brush against that tender skin, once, and then again, and then his lips were on hers, his kiss gentle, coaxing her until she opened her mouth with a soft moan.

  He kissed her deeply then, his hands sinking into her hair as he urged her mouth against his, coaxing her lips apart so he could slip inside and tangle his tongue against hers, each slick caress driving him wild until he tore his mouth away at last, his chest heaving. “Emma?”