by Alyson Chase
But it burned his insides to do so.
“Is there a reason for the X, or merely artistic license?”
Robert flushed. “It’s a cross. He said if I didn’t pay, you might not find my body to bury properly. Marking me with it was a favor to my eternal soul.”
Right. Revenge had just moved to the top of his list. This had to be an attempt to intimidate not only Robert but John, as well. A warning to heed his instructions.
John hated acts of intimidation unless he was the one committing them. “You are going to Stonesworth House,” he told Robert. “Alan Hampson has been in need of a new assistant manager for the smelts there, and you will take that role. We have three months’ worth of chromite ore stored on site, and I don’t want production to be interrupted whilst I resolve our Sudworth problem.”
Robert gaped. “You wish me to work under Hampson? Under your servant? I am the second son of Summerset. If I decide to dirty my hands in business, it will at least be as the man-in-charge.”
John chuckled, although there was no humor behind it. “You truly are an insufferable prat. You think birth gives you any claim to importance? I trust Hampson. He is a smart man who has proved himself time and again. You have done nothing but fail. If you want me to pay off this last debt and recover your estate, you will do what I say. You’ve gone too far this time.”
“You would know all about going too far.”
They glared at each other, the room becoming thick with memories.
“I will say this for the last time,” John said quietly. “I am sorry for the hurt I caused you. If I could take it back, if I could be the one to have mixed those chemicals and suffered the explosion, I would. But what is done cannot be undone. And having scars on your face doesn’t give you leave to act an arsehole.”
John dug his fingertips into his hips. He’d been so sure of his calculations. Certain the mixture would be stable. He hadn’t thought twice about directing his younger brother, his assistant, to concoct the new mixture of gunpowder.
The dreadful irony of it sucked the breath from John’s lungs. The British government had bought barrel after barrel of his new gunpowder because of its stability. The soldiers in the field had a better chance of avoiding misfires because of the new formula he’d developed.
And because of one dropped decimal point, that extremely stable gunpowder had exploded in his brother’s face.
It should have been John with the scars. John with the months of agonizing pain. But he couldn’t let that excuse his brother’s behavior, not any longer. “You’ve thrown away not only your future, but mine and all the future heirs of Summerset.” He shook his head. “How dare you.”
Robert dropped his chin to his chest. “I should have won. I’m a better player than he is.”
“Hazard is a game of chance. There are no better players.”
“There is skill in calculating the odds of the roll.”
John kept his gaze level on his brother, not trusting himself to respond to that drivel.
Robert cleared his throat. “Do you think you can get the deed back? Our brother has inquired about visiting me at Crowhaven. He will be disappointed if he finds out it’s gone.”
Their youngest brother would be disappointed Robert was gambling. Kevin was studying to be a clergyman, and detested that sin more so than John. He had much love and charity in his heart, an amazing feat considering the family he’d been raised in, but even that charity would have its limits. Watching Robert devolve into the same profligacy as their father would break his heart.
John turned to stare out the window. “I will get it back. I promise you.”
Robert gathered some of his old haughtiness about him. “Of course. My brother not only is the genius who saved the earldom from financial ruin, but he is also a great spy. No trial is too great for you.”
“A fact for which you should be grateful.” John rubbed his eyes. His anger was spent and fatigue tugged at him. That nap he’d recommended for Netta would serve him well also.
Christ, he was getting old. First sending Netta to bed and now himself.
He pursed his lips. Although, taking a nap with Netta sounded like a fine idea. Her plump little body nestled tight against his. Her mess of curls tickling his chin.
Such a nap wouldn’t garner him much rest, but it would be delightful.
“Go,” he told his brother. It was time to tuck his brother away. At Stonesworth, not only would he remain safe, but he wouldn’t be able to cause too many new problems. “Go pack. My driver will pick you up tomorrow morning. And you will stay at the estate until I tell you otherwise.”
Robert sketched a deep bow. “Of course, my lord. Your word is my command.”
It hadn’t been in the past, but it damn well would be now. No more coddling. It was time his brother stopped using an injury as an excuse to ruin the rest of his life. “You jest, but let this be a reminder. The consequence of birth seems to hold import to you. Since that is the case, remember you are a second son.”
John stalked forward until they stood eye to eye, chest to chest, and pounded the point home. “You have nothing but what I give you.”
Chapter Eight
Netta peeled off the wax nose. She loved wearing a costume, but she couldn’t deny the relief when she washed off the heavy makeup of the theatre.
“What happened to you zis evening?” Cerise floated into their changing room, her long, frothy gown billowing out around her ankles, making it look as though she walked on air. The remnants of her French heritage lingered in her words. “You missed one of your lines.”
Netta blew out her cheeks and stared at herself in the mirror. “I know. The audience didn’t notice, did they?”
“Harold covered it well.” Cerise pulled off her wig of long blond hair and turned her back to Netta. “Help me from zis, would you?”
Netta stood and worked at the gown’s buttons. “I’m tired of this play. Do you think Jarvis will produce a new one soon? It isn’t as though we’re packing the house with The Merry Wives.” The Burns Theatre was several blocks off The Strand, where the fashionable playhouses were. It catered to the lower middle class, delivering solid entertainment to those who couldn’t afford Covent Garden prices. Netta never had to worry about someone from her past coming to one of her shows, though that didn’t stop her from only taking roles that required heavy face-paint.
Cerise stepped out of the gown, her tawny skin glowing in the lamplight. “He is talking of bringing back Henry V, foolish man. The fees he must pay to perform Shakespeare are cutting into his profits. We should turn to those musical productions like they show at the Sans Pareil.”
Netta ignored her friend’s familiar lament. “A different play but I could still play Bardolph.” Netta pulled on her bottom lip. “And he has a death scene in that one. That would be diverting.”
Her friend pulled on a silk wrapper and knotted the belt. “You have never been restless before. What has changed? And where have you been zis past week? I went around to your apartments twice. I even brought those Pomfret cakes you like so much to have with tea.”
“Pomfret cakes?” Netta sighed. She did love those confections. “Well, it couldn’t be helped. I have a new job.”
“At another theatre?”
Netta found her boots and bent to pull them on. “It is an acting job, but not at a theatre.” She contemplated how much to tell her friend. She could already hear the lecture. There were too many variables, too many unknowns to be safe, Cerise would say. Unless she knew every point to the earl’s plan, Cerise would never want her to participate.
And Netta didn’t want to be talked out of it. She had four thousand reasons not to.
She also enjoyed her time toying with the earl. Received a thrill each time he believed her little deceptions.
Liked when his eyes went hooded when she stood just a little too close.
The tips of her breasts tingled. Summerset dressed bet
ter than her, styled his hair with more care. He even smelled better. His expensive eau de Cologne was a scent she looked forward to more than her morning’s chocolate. It was light and peppery and blended so well with the bergamot scent of his soaps that it made her mouth water.
He had the power to give her everything she needed, and an ego to match. He wasn’t the sort of man she should be attracted to, but her body paid no heed to her sensibilities.
Cerise narrowed her eyes. “You gamble too much with your safety, ma cherie. I worry for you.”
Netta kissed both of her friend’s cheeks. “Don’t. Everything is finally going my way.” She slid on her coat and picked up her reticule. “I’ll be by for tea as soon as I can. And save some of the Pomfret cakes for me,” she shouted as she skipped out the door.
On the street, she hailed one of the waiting hackneys. “The corner of Wimpole and Marybone streets, please.”
The driver, a regular for the after-theatre crowd, nodded and set the buggy into motion.
Netta settled back with a contented sigh. She loved this time of night, when she was still basking from her performance and the streets were full of gaiety and evening revelers. She felt like part of the crowd yet still completely anonymous.
She couldn’t say she was glad for her flight from her family, but she never would have experienced the freedom she had now if she still lived under her father’s roof. Being the daughter of a viscount was a stifling affair.
“We’re ‘ere, miss.” The driver pulled the buggy to a stop and turned to look back at her. “Shall I wait for you again?”
“Yes, thank you.” Netta raised her skirts and hopped down. The porch lamp on the third house down Marybone Street remained lit, but the rest of the home was dark. She turned her back on it and strode down Wimpole. Finding the path behind one of the houses that she knew so well, Netta slipped into the yard and made her way to the rear of her own. She and her sister had long ago discovered the small break in the fence, and she crawled under it now.
Shaking out her skirts, she stared at the back of her former home. Even in the moonlight she could see her father still hadn’t painted the rear of the house. The front façade he meticulously maintained, but the back was left to peel and rot.
She hiked her reticule high up her arm and applied herself to the ivy-covered trellis by the back porch. The ropey green vines gave her make-shift ladder a strength the thin wood did not, and in no time she was scuttling onto the roof of the porch and crawling towards one of the windows. She slid up the pane and slithered inside.
The small figure in the bed shifted but otherwise made no sound.
Netta smiled. She always was a heavy-sleeper. Tiptoeing to her sister, she lay next to her and brushed a hank of hair from the girl’s face. “Eleanor,” she whispered. “Wake up, sleepyhead.”
Eleanor swatted at her face and wiggled her nose, but her eyes remained stubbornly closed.
Netta picked up one of her sister’s curls, only a few shades darker than her own, and teased her sister’s nose with it. “Oh my Lord,” she whispered. “What a huge spider!”
Eleanor shot straight up, and Netta pressed a hand over the girl’s mouth as silent laughter shook her body. “It was only a jest, you goose. But, oh, you should have seen your face.”
Eleanor narrowed her eyes and pulled Netta’s hand off her mouth. “It wasn’t amusing.”
“It was to me.” Netta rolled back and stared up at her sister. She tried to visit a couple times a month, but every time she saw her now, a new change appeared. Eleanor was at that precarious stage in life, no longer a girl but not quite a woman. Her face seemed thinner than it had Netta’s last visit, and she mourned the loss of the child her sister had been.
“Stop growing,” she told Eleanor. “Or soon our ruse won’t work.”
Eleanor lay on her side, her hands pressed together under her cheek. “You forget. As I grow older, so do you.” She smirked. “You’ll always look old enough to be my mother.”
Netta pinched her sister’s side. Netta was not quite ten years her elder, hardly a dotard. But ever since they’d decided to flee England as mother and daughter, Eleanor had teased her about her age mercilessly.
“It is only through my extensive knowledge of face paint that any one will believe it.” Netta rolled to face her sister and propped her head in her hand. “And even so, people will still remark how unfortunate it is that such a homely child was borne to such a beautiful, entrancing young woman.”
Eleanor’s snort was cut off by a wide yawn. “We only”—she yawned again—“let you believe you’re the handsome sister. We didn’t want to suffer your lamentations if you realized the truth.”
Netta rolled her eyes. “Go back to sleep, goose. You’re dreaming in any case.” She kissed her forehead. “I’ll come back soon.”
Eleanor nodded and soon was puffing out small, even breaths.
Netta watched her several minutes more. They had been speaking in jest, but Eleanor wasn’t wrong. Her sister was developing into a beautiful woman. She swallowed, the back of her throat burning. And fine looks were a currency their father traded upon.
She pressed a kiss to her sister’s forehead then rolled from the bed. Soon it would be just her and Eleanor. They’d have the rest of their days to tease and share confidences. But now she needed to return to her job, the one that would make all of their dreams come true.
She closed the window behind her and crouched down on the porch roof, scouring for a pebble of appropriate size. Her fingers closed upon one and she stood and took aim. She winced at the slight plink as the stone hit the window above Eleanor’s and then sounded again as it plopped back down to the porch roof.
A figure came to the third-story window and nodded before disappearing.
Netta scrambled down the lattice and met Dollie in the darkest part of the yard.
The older woman grasped her shoulders. “How are you, child?”
Netta pressed her lips into a rueful smile. Dollie would always see her as a child, no matter how old she became. The woman had been both her and Eleanor’s nursemaid before transitioning into their lady’s maid. She’d kissed all of their scraped knees and bruised elbows. Cooed over them when they’d learned a lesson well. Doted over them as a mother would.
“I’m well.” Netta squeezed the woman’s arm. “Better than well. I have new employment.” She reached into her reticule and pulled a small pouch from its depths. She pressed it into Dollie’s hands. “Take it. Put it with the rest of your savings.”
Dollie pulled open the drawstring, a coarse, grey strand of hair escaping her cap. “Lawks alive. Wherever did you get this, child?”
Along with the coin she could spare, Netta had included something else for Dollie, and the woman pulled out a platinum cravat pin. The diamonds encrusted on it shimmered in the moonlight.
A twinge of shame pinched her heart, but Netta ignored it. “I lifted it from a man who can well afford another. He has at least three more, just as gawdy.” She hadn’t been able to resist the temptation when she’d found his silk cravat, pin stuck through the fabric, abandoned in his study. Did he tug off the restraining garment late at night as he read by the fire? Did the frills he loved so much start to choke even him?
“You’ll need it more than its previous owner,” Netta said firmly. “When I take Eleanor, you’ll be out of a position. I want to be sure you’re provided for.”
Dollie nodded and replaced the pin in the pouch. “When do you think that will be? Soon, I hope.”
“Why?” Netta darted a look at her sister’s window. It remained dark, her room unmolested by any visitors, but a chill rolled down her spine. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing that I know for certain.” A breeze rose, and she chaffed her arm with her free hand. “But I’ve heard your mother and father arguing again. About Eleanor. I think…”
Netta clenched her hand. She remembered those arguments. Arguments where
Netta had prayed her mother would prevail.
She never had. “Think what?”
Dollie shifted on her feet. “He’s had that man back for dinner. You know his wife passed two years ago. I think he’s looking for another.”
A vise clamped around Netta’s lungs. Black spots danced before her eyes. “But she’s only fourteen,” she rasped out.
No. Not him. She’d known her father would want to marry Eleanor off to a man of means, but she hadn’t thought it would be to him. Not after how things had ended the last time. And not now. Netta had thought she had at least two more years before she and Eleanor needed to flee the country.
“Women have been married younger.”
Netta shook her head, not wanting it to be true. Yes, women had been married younger, but not anymore. Not in this modern age.
The peeling paint on the house mocked her. The rotted wood on the back porch making her face the horrifying truth.
Her father needed money. Eleanor was the only asset he had left to sell.
“It will be soon.” Netta took several deep breaths before setting her shoulders. She had a plan in place, and the means to implement it would soon be in her possession. Everything was under control. “I’m staying at Lord Summerset’s home on Grosvenor Street. If an engagement should be announced, send me a note at once.”
Dollie nodded. “Take care, child. I have faith everything will turn out right in the end.”
Netta embraced the woman then turned and slipped out of her family’s yard. She made her way back to the street, a pit of dread opening in her stomach. This job of John’s was now the only thing to stand between her and disaster. And the job remained too uncertain to bring any comfort.
She skirted a house and popped out on Wimpole Street. She looked left and right but the carriage was nowhere in sight. The blasted driver must have accepted another fare.
She blew out a breath. Well, it wasn’t overlong of a walk. Head down, she set her boots to the ground and hurried for the earl’s home.
She didn’t see the man peel out of the shadows at the next cross street, only heard his footfall a moment before he grabbed her arm.
