by Alyson Chase
She slid the window open and leaned her head out. She frowned. There was no convenient trellis below, nothing to give her a solid handhold. Closing the window, she went about her room extinguishing all the lights. In the dark, she pressed her cheek against her door.
Only silence greeted her. With a stealth borne of experience, she cracked open the door and slipped out. Making her way unseen down the back staircase was child’s play. She escaped out the side door, tip-toed through the gardens, and exited onto the street.
Flipping up the collar of the coat, she hurried to the cross street, keeping an eye out for hackneys.
For now, she would trust Summerset. Trust that he’d keep his word. But she’d move forwards as though the four thousand pounds were merely speculative. She would continue her real employment at night, and during the day she’d allow Summerset to believe he was gradually improving her. A sensible compromise even Cerise would condone.
And no matter how charming the earl was, she would keep both eyes open for any tricks on his part. Eyes open and legs closed.
She’d pretend to learn to be a lady, sleep in his satin sheets, eat his fine food, and after she collected her fee, she’d shake the man’s hand and bid him farewell.
It was a neat plan.
Pretending to learn the manners she’d had instilled from birth. Living in the lap of luxury until she was called upon to wink and shimmy as a distraction. If everything went as planned, it would be the easiest money she’d ever made.
Chapter Seven
Netta yawned so widely her jaws cracked.
Summerset winced, and belatedly she covered her mouth with her hand. She shifted on the parlor’s settee, a niggle of unease slipping through her. That breach in etiquette hadn’t been intentional. She’d never settled into a character so thoroughly, and while she enjoyed playing guttersnipe-Netta, she needed to remember it was only a role. A means to an end.
He paced in front of her, annoyance tightening every muscle in his lithe body.
Her belly fluttered as she watched him prowl. He was like a large cat, ready to take down his prey. Perhaps if she provoked him a bit more, he would turn his wolfish attentions on her and—
No. He was only a means to an end, and she couldn’t let her mind wander down that path, no matter how delightful her imaginings. Besides, she was mixing up her animals now. He couldn’t be both a cat and a wolf.
Summerset paused by the empty fireplace and rested one jeweled boot on the brick ledge. He wore breeches today, a lovely Pomona green silk, and nearly as tight as his pantaloons. The fabric gripped the firm muscles of his thighs, and molded to the long bulge trapped behind his falls.
She swallowed and averted her gaze.
He ran a hand up the back of his head, his hair getting a delightfully rumpled look. “Is there a reason for your fatigue? Is your bed not to your liking?”
She stifled another yawn. “The bed is fine.”
“Is my company not engaging?”
“Cor, what are you on about now?” She slouched back on the settee. She could pretend many things, but acting wide awake wasn’t one of them. Not after sneaking out of the earl’s house for the past three nights for each of her shows. The promise of four thousand pounds was heady, but the reality of three pounds a show was not to be dismissed.
Besides, she enjoyed acting. She hadn’t thought she would. She’d been raised knowing the theatre was where disreputable women went to make their livings. But when she’d been alone, hurting, and with nowhere to sleep, the people at The Burns had invited her into their family. And putting on a costume each night, having the freedom of a disguise, was a thrill unlike any other.
Except, perhaps, putting one over on pompous earls. She eyed him carefully, trying to measure just how far his patience would stretch. A perverse part of her enjoyed needling him, relished when those full, sensual lips of his pressed flat into a hard line. And when those deep-blue eyes went all squinty, she got a decided tingle in parts of her that hadn’t tingled for quite some time.
But this was business, she reminded herself for the thousandth time, and she couldn’t risk him throwing her out. “You’re fine, the bed is fine. It’s jus’ being in a new place. I’ll sleep better tonight."
“Just.”
She pushed through the fog in her brain. “Wot?”
“Just, not jus’.” He pushed away from the fireplace and stood before her. “What, not wot. Are you even trying?”
She decided to show him a little progress. Slowly, and overly enunciating each word, she said, “My lodgings here are most delightful. I just need to become accustomed to sliding all over those satin sheets of yours. I almost slipped right out of the bed last night.”
He hooked his thumb in his waistcoat pocket, his eyes going hooded.
“What?” she asked, shoving that H in there hard. “Was my diction not correct?”
“It was fine,” he said gruffly, “but now I can’t get the image of you slipping about in my bed out of my mind.”
Netta stilled. He stood several feet from her, yet she swore she could feel the heat rolling from his body. Or maybe that was her own body acting like a furnace.
Summerset was so perfectly put-together. His cravats were always knotted just so. His stockings matched his waistcoat. There was never a crease or a wrinkle anywhere on his person.
Her fingers itched to disorder his perfection. To put some well-earned wrinkles in those breeches.
He turned his head aside, and the connection pulsing between them broke. “I have an idea to help you with your elocution.” He strode to a sideboard and pulled a jar from the bottom shelf. Glass marbles rattled inside, glinting in the sunlight. He returned and sat beside her. “Have you ever heard of Demosthenes?”
Her father had a library full of Greek classics, but she couldn’t admit to that. She shook her head.
“He was an orator who lived two thousand years ago.” Summerset rested one arm along the back of the settee, his thumb just brushing the shoulder of her gown. “Legend has it that as a child he was a very poor speaker. In order to improve, he put pebbles in his mouth. If he could learn to speak clearly and understandably around the pebbles, then his speech when his mouth was free would be exemplary.” He raised the jar, and the sea-green marbles clinked against each other. “I quite forget why he felt so compelled to improve his speech. Something about a lawsuit, I believe, and he had to act as his own attorney.”
He exhaled, his nostrils flaring. “It always comes down to money.”
She glanced around the parlor. The sheer curtains appeared to have spun gold threaded through them. The chairs and side tables were all made from the finest rosewood. Gems glittered on Summerset’s cravat pin, the buttons to his jacket, the ring he wore on the thumb of his right hand.
Money didn’t seem to be a problem. But if it was…. “You will have the four thousand pounds you promised me, won’t you? I don’t want to go through this performance only to have you claim poverty.”
“Have no worries, my money isn’t the issue.” He cocked his head. “That sounded quite good, Netta. You didn’t drop one H. Perhaps there’s hope for you yet.”
Drat. She’d forgotten herself. She gave him a cheeky grin. “You toffs always give my kind too little credit. Wot’s the use of ‘anging around you lot to lift a bauble now and then if I can’t mirror ‘ow you talk?”
“Right.” He sighed. “Marbles it is. Open up.” He plucked a round ball from the jar and held it in front of her mouth.
“I don’t think—”
He pressed the marble between her open lips and dug out another.
“Oy!” The glass clicked against her teeth and she shifted it to her cheek. “That’s right—”
He popped another one in. “Don’t worry, they’ve been washed. Now, repeat after me. The grey fox found himself a bit of fun and hardly had a happier time in his life.”
She pinched her mouth shut and glared at him
.
“No?” He lifted a lock of her hair and twirled it about his finger. “How about the headstrong hen hated when the furtive fox fired up her fury.” He tugged on her curl, and her scalp tingled. “I dare you to say that three times in a row.”
“Yur da fox an’ mm da ‘en, I s’pose?”
His lips stretched into a wide grin, the edges of his eyes crinkling.
Her lungs stalled.
It was the first true smile she’d seen from him. The first one spawned from sincere amusement instead of affectation.
It was beautiful.
How much of himself did Summerset hide away? How much of his insouciance was pretense?
She was all too familiar with disguises. She should have recognized he wore one sooner.
A door banged shut, and footsteps pounded down the hallway.
The earl’s shoulders tightened and he swiveled his face to the parlor door, the happiness evaporating from his expression.
The earl’s brother stopped in the doorway. As before, he wore a suit of drab brown. The high, starched collar covered the sides of his chin, but couldn’t hide his scars.
“Here he is.” He tossed his hat to the footman who came rushing up. “I told you I could find him on my own.”
The distressed servant looked from his master to the intruder, clearly uncertain of what action to take.
Summerset nodded to the man. “It’s all right. Tell cook to send some refreshments up. My brother appears uncommonly rapacious today.”
The servant bobbed his head and retreated. Summerset’s brother sauntered into the room, giving Netta a disinterested glance.
As discreetly as possible, she turned her head and spat the marbles into her hand.
“Was there something else you wanted, Robert?” Summerset lounged back and crossed one leg over the other, the picture of nonchalance. “I thought I’d told you I’d contact you when our business had concluded.”
“You did.” Robert strolled about the room, poking at the small figurines on the mantel, leaning in to peer at the life-sized painting depicting the birth of Venus that spanned one wall. “But as I suspected, our business seems to have slipped your mind.” He turned and shot her an insincere smile, the puckered skin on his left cheek pulling tight. “Charming as your lady friend appears, I don’t think you’ll find my lost deed between her legs.”
Summerset shot to his feet. “Watch your mouth. Fraternal affection won’t stop me from darkening your daylights.”
“Why, John,” Robert said, his tone mocking, “attempting to protect a woman’s sensibilities? Whatever has the world come to?”
John. His given name was John. It was the first time she’d heard it, and the name rolled around her brain. She wasn’t sure such a common name suited the flamboyant peacock. It was too dependable when the earl seemed eager to forbear responsibility.
Although he was helping his brother. Whatever this scheme was that he’d involved her in, she was certain it stemmed from the brother’s problem.
And the earl had stepped in to prevent her from receiving a beating. She wasn’t his responsibility, but he’d placed her under his protection.
Perhaps he had hidden depths. The desire to peel away all the man’s layers spread like an itch beneath her skin, one that she really, really wanted to scratch.
John turned and extended his hand. “My dear, will you excuse my brother and I? Perhaps it is a good time for a nap.”
She frowned. A nap? Now, when the house was becoming interesting? It had been three dull days of pretending to be a guttersnipe practicing to be a genteel miss. Three days of monotonous speaking exercises and dining lessons. A glimpse into the earl’s jumbled life was the first bit of entertainment she’d had.
He crooked his fingers, indicating she should rise, and she blew out a breath.
She rolled the marbles into her other hand and placed her left into his right. The slight moue of disgust when her sticky palm met his lifted her spirits. “Am I free until this evening?” she asked, exaggerating her enunciation for John’s approval.
Apparently, she didn’t merit it. He shook his head. “We still have more to work on. I’ll find you in a couple of hours.”
Her shoulders slumped. “Fine.” And with a nod to the men, she trudged from the room.
John pulled the doors shut behind her.
A door opened down the hall, and Netta slipped into an alcove as a footman walked past her holding a tray of cold meats and rolls. He scratched at the door and walked in when John called out. She waited for the servant to exit, pulling the doors shut again, and disappear down the hall before abandoning her hiding place. On tiptoe, she crept toward his study, adjacent to the parlor, and slipped inside.
The lingering scents of orange and spice told her John spent much of his time in this room. She wandered past the rows of books arranged on shelves lining the walls, pausing as one of the titles caught her eye. De re metallica. On the nature of metals. She ran her finger along the spine. A very serious work for such a flippant coxcomb. Another crack in his mask.
She tapped the bookcase and turned back to her object, the window facing the small garden behind the townhouse. It’s sister in the parlor had been open when she’d left that room, and she hoped in the warm air sound would carry.
She tugged at the window pane, and winced at the creak of wood sliding against wood. Cocking her hip on the sill, Netta swung her foot as she listened to the soft murmurs. Did Summerset say ‘marriage’? That wouldn’t make any sense. Carriage, perhaps? Why couldn’t the brothers be shouting at each other? This dulcet conversation didn’t help her at all.
She leaned forwards, her upper body hanging outside the window.
And jerked back in surprise when the window next to hers was slammed shut. Her head hit the top of the frame and she rubbed the ache.
Perfect. Another lump. And no intelligence gained because of it.
She sniffed and hopped down from her perch. A nap didn’t sound like a bad idea, after all.
***
John pressed his palms on the windowsill and shook his head. The little street urchin was going to get into a bind one day that she couldn’t get out of. Not everyone was as indulgent as he was.
“Why did you close the window? It’s warm in here.” Robert paced across the room, tugging at his cravat.
“This is a private conversation.” John turned and leaned back against the sill. He crossed his arms over his chest. “I want to prevent little ears from listening in.”
“What?”
“Never mind.” John cocked his head, watching his brother. Something about the way he moved was off. Stiff, especially when he turned. “What’s happened?”
Robert shot him a dark look. He pinched his lips together and narrowed his eyes and looked so much as their mother had when she’d caught John doing something he oughtn’t, that John’s chest squeezed.
It had been twenty-six years since her death, but the wound didn’t seem to heal. If she hadn’t died giving birth to their youngest brother, how different their lives might have been. Their father wouldn’t have begun his descent into drink and gambling, and he would never have passed that particular vice down to Robert.
Or so John imagined.
If Robert’s gambling wasn’t inherited from their father, then the blame lay squarely on John.
It had been his experiment, his arrogance, that had scarred Robert, turning his sweet-tempered brother bitter.
“Can’t a man visit his loving family?” Robert asked.
John ignored the sarcasm. “You’re walking stiffly. You’re agitated, or more so than usual. And this is your second call to my house in less than a week. Cut the horse shit. What’s happened?”
Robert paused, breathing heavily. “Fine.” He unbuttoned his waistcoat and pulled his shirt from his trousers. “You wish to see what’s happened? Sudworth has added another scar to my collection.”
Hiking his
shirt up over his ribs, he turned, exposing the left side of his torso to the light.
John stared at the fresh wound, keeping his expression level, but inside he was seething. It wasn’t a scar, not yet. But the red and blistered flesh that formed a neat ‘X’ would become one.
“A poker?” Jesus, sometimes the indifference in his voice chilled even him. But John prided himself on maintaining a dispassionate demeanor. Showing the world he cared only gave people a tool to cudgel him.
His brother dropped his shirt and shoved it back into his trousers. “Yes.”
“Why?” John needed to have another talk with Sudworth. This one wouldn’t be as friendly.
His inquiries into Sudworth had yet to yield anything of import. He might have to plant the letter in Raffles’ file as Sudworth wanted in order to discover his game. His list of action items was growing. Retrieve his brother’s deed. Stop whatever scheme Sudworth was up to. And exact revenge for his brother’s injury.
Robert busied himself rebuttoning his waistcoat. “I couldn’t pay,” he mumbled.
John pushed off the window. His body was taut with need. The need to hurt someone, to pound out his frustrations. Sadly, only his brother was available. “Why did you have to pay? You already lost your home.” But a sinking feeling in his gut told him what he didn’t want to hear.
“I tried to win it back, didn’t I?” Robert started pacing again. “I didn’t want to leave it up to you. I thought I could win it back. I should have won it back. I don’t know how he rolled that five. The chances against it were colossal.”
“How much?” John’s jaw ached from clenching it. Of all the asinine, impetuous, imbecilic things to do.
“Five thousand. Not too much.”
Blood pulsed behind John’s eyes. Not too much? He clenched his hand, willing it to remain by his side and not plant itself in his brother’s face. No, John could pay five thousand pounds. He’d already paid twenty times that saving Robert from his scrapes. His businesses had been lucrative through the years, and none more so than the gunpowder mill during the war. He could pay the debt.
