A Fiery Escort For The Roguish Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency)

by Scarlett Osborne

  Out of sight of the Duke and Duchess, Ernest slipped out of the house and hurried through the grounds, careful to trudge through as many mud puddles as possible to take the shine from his boots.

  It was a long walk from Pimlico to Bethnal Green, but he was determined to play the part, and so dug his hands into his pockets and began to stride through the city.

  He watched the streets change from whitewashed avenues to winding, lightless lanes. Watched suits and embroidered waistcoats replaced by grimy shirts, flower sellers replaced by beggars. How foreign the East End was to him…

  Despite his upbringing, Ernest had never considered himself a sheltered man. He had spent two years marching across Europe in the army and had seen plenty of his own country on holiday jaunts during his university days.

  And yet this part of the city felt like another world. Here, houses were crammed together, and were so crooked they looked to be holding each other up. Through the windows that were not patched with rags, he could see countless people in each room. In the late afternoon light, men stumbled out of taverns and argued in the street. Women sat on street corners with wailing babes in their arms. And the smell, good Lord, that smell…that unidentifiable mix of waste and rot and death. Ernest had never come across anything so vile.

  For a moment, he stood motionless on the corner of the street. How was it possible that so many people might live this way, while the ton swanned about comparing vintages of their favorite wines? The injustice of it began to burn inside him.

  He hoped Unity had not ended up in this part of the city.

  But he was not looking for Unity here, he reminded himself. He was looking for George Owen. A man who was little more than a name. Ernest had no idea where to begin.

  Glancing down a shadowy alleyway, he caught sight of a sign swinging from the awnings. A pawn shop.

  As good a place to begin as any.

  Ernest pulled his hat lower over his ridiculously-neat hair and made his way down the alley. He pushed open the door. The shop was gloomy; its window bathed in dust and partially blocked by an enormous wooden chest of drawers.

  The man behind the counter looked him up and down.

  “Buying or selling?” he asked huskily.

  Ernest frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Are you buying or selling?” the man repeated, impatience in his voice.

  “Ah. Neither, I’m afraid. I’m simply after information.”

  The shopkeeper studied him with narrow, flinty eyes. “Information? It’ll cost you.”

  Ernest nodded and dug into his pocket. He hesitated. What was an appropriate sum for such a thing? Offer too little, and the man would refuse to speak. But offer too much and his ruse as a working-class man would be destroyed. He pulled a penny from inside his coat and dropped it on the counter. The man took it, sliding it into his pocket. He looked at Ernest knowingly.

  “You got plenty more where that come from, don’t you now?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Ernest. “I’ve had little work this week. I’ve been too ill to venture down into the mines.” He could feel his cheeks flushing at the ridiculousness of his lies.

  “Too ill to venture down into the mines,” the man echoed. “You’ve a tongue like a king, yet can only manage a penny?”

  Sighing, Ernest dug into his pocket and produced a shilling. He’d only been at this game five minutes, and already his cover was blown.

  The man grinned. “That’s more like it.” He scooped up the money. “Now what is it you want to know?”

  “George Owen,” said Ernest. “Do you know him?”

  The man flashed him a row of crooked, yellow teeth. “No, sir. I do not.” His smile widened. “But I thank you for your time.”

  Ernest trudged back out to the street. A man stumbled past him, a bottle of brandy swinging from his fist. “Excuse me, sir,” called Ernest. “Do you know a man named George Owen?”

  The man whirled around, stared at him, then burst into a wild cackle. He tossed back another mouthful of liquor.

  Ernest sighed. This was pointless. What had he been thinking, striding into the city and just hoping someone might be able to help him?

  He looked about him. In a nearby street, someone had lit a fire, and its orange glow was illuminating the shadows. On the corner sat a crooked stone tavern, men spilling out onto the street. Ernest could hear laughter coming from inside.

  Good. I need a drink.

  Weaving his way through the drunkards, Ernest pushed his way inside.

  The tavern was dark and noisy, the room filled with loud voices and the clinking of glasses. Lamps flickered at each end of the bar, long shadows lying over the room. A curtain of pipe smoke hung in the air.

  Ernest removed his hat. It wasn’t fooling anyone, he felt sure. It just made him look like more of an idiot. He pushed his way toward the bar and ordered a brandy. Glass in hand, he wove toward an empty table in the corner of the room, too self-conscious to stay in view. He tossed back the brandy. It was hot and fierce in his throat, nothing like the smooth vintages he was accustomed to drinking. But the burn of it made him feel alive. And so did the pulsing energy of this place.

  Ernest had always known his life had been a privileged one. He had always known, of course, how lucky he had been to have been born into a family with money. He had always had everything he needed: food, clothing, entertainment. And he had always known that there were plenty of others who were not so fortunate. But that knowledge had always been a distant, theoretical thing. A thing he had not realized the full impact of until he had ventured out here to hunt down the mythical George Owen.

  I need another brandy.

  As he made his way back to the bar, a shout rose up from a corner of the tavern. Ernest turned to see a tall, broad-shouldered man waving an arm in the air wildly. The man’s other hand was clamped around the wrist of a young woman. She was dressed alluringly in a tightly-laced green dress, her blonde hair piled messily on top of her head. A working-girl, Ernest guessed, though he’d had little experience with such a thing.

  The man pulled the woman toward him, her feet shuffling on the floor. Seized with urgency, Ernest shoved his way across the tavern, trying to reach them. But then the woman stepped closer to the man and pinned him with fierce eyes. She hissed at him with words Ernest couldn’t hear. The man let his hand fall. Tossing a lock of blonde hair over her shoulder, the woman turned and strode across the tavern.

  Ernest found himself staring after her, a strange unbidden blaze beginning to take root inside him.

  Chapter 4

  Rachel could feel the man’s eyes on her.

  She was used to men’s eyes on her, of course, but there was something different about this man’s gaze. It didn’t make her skin prickle, the way it so often did when she felt a potential client watching her. She glanced at the man curiously from across the tavern. She had seen him out of the corner of her eye as that big bastard of a man had grabbed her wrist. Watched him approach her, then stop, as he realized she’d had control of the situation.

  She studied him, as surreptitiously as possible. He was a strange sight. He was tall and broad shouldered, with dark, intelligent eyes. His clothes were ill fitting and dirty, yet his hair was smooth and neat. There was a look of permanent bewilderment plastered on his face.

  Perhaps she ought to approach him. She’d not had a client tonight, and there was rent to be paid, after all.

  Pressing her shoulders back, she sidled across the tavern toward him. The game was always the same.

  Evening, sir. You like what you see?

  And yes, the intensity in this man’s eyes told her he liked what he saw.

  But as she drew closer to him, she stopped.

  There was something different about this man. He was not like the foul-breathed animals which frequented this place. There was that hair, yes, but there was also that shirt she could see peeking out from beneath the collar of his coat. It shone white in the candlelight. The man’s che
eks and chin were neatly shorn. And those hands, Rachel looked closer at them, clasped tightly around his glass. Clean hands. Neat nails. A rarity in this place.

  What is a man like him doing here?

  And what was he doing dressed in filthy rags that clearly belonged to someone else?

  She shook her curiosity away. What did it matter? She could never approach a man like that, no matter how intensely he was watching her. She was nothing but a filthy, penniless woman of the night. Not the kind of woman who could ever go near such a man.

  She turned away and began to walk back across the tavern, heat rising inexplicably in her cheeks.

  “Pardon me, miss.”

  The man’s voice was smooth and gentle. Rachel froze. For a second, she was afraid to turn around.

  Pardon me.

  What a strange thing to hear, after the grunts and curses she was usually gifted by the men in this place.

  When she dared to face him, the man was looking at her with concern in his eyes. “Are you all right?”

  Rachel felt something shift in her chest. When was the last time a man had looked at her with concern?

  She straightened. “Yes. Thank you. I’m quite all right.” She flicked back a strand of blonde hair that had fallen over her eyes. “I can hold my own against these animals.”

  He gave her a small smile. “I’m quite sure you can.”

  Rachel sucked in her breath, strangely unwilling to walk away. Her feet felt stuck to the floor.

  Look at him, she thought. A lord, perhaps. Or a duke. Fine stock hidden beneath a poor man’s rags. Did he actually think he was fooling anyone?

  She gave him a short nod. “Thank you for your help. It was good of you.” Reluctantly, she turned to leave.

  “Wait,” he said. “Perhaps you might help me.”

  Rachel turned back to face him, arching an eyebrow. “Help you? With what?”

  He hesitated. “Do you know a man named George Owen? He’s a gardener. At least, he used to be.”

  Rachel shook her head. “No. I’m sorry.”

  So that’s what he is doing? Searching for someone?

  The curiosity she had been trying to push away was suddenly reignited. And so, she realized, was her reluctance to leave.

  The man nodded, seemingly unsurprised by her answer. “Then perhaps you might help me with something else.” He glanced downwards. “It seems I am…rather unable to fit in in these parts.”

  Rachel gave him a crooked smile. “Aye,” she said. “I’ve noticed that.”

  The man’s cheeks colored slightly. How strange it was, she thought, that he might be ashamed of such a thing. Why would a man be embarrassed about having clean hair and nails? Why would anyone be ashamed of not knowing these filthy streets?

  “I wondered…” he began. “I wondered if you might…help me to fit in a little better. Teach me to speak like these people do and the like.” His words spilled from his mouth in a flurry, as though he was afraid he might lose his nerve.

  Rachel frowned. “You want me to teach you to be more of a lowly beggar?”

  He hesitated, relief falling over his face when Rachel began to laugh. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I suppose I do.” He dug a hand into his pocket. “I can pay you,” he said, “whatever you wish.”

  Rachel eyed him. Just how much money was in that pocket, she wondered? She shook her head. “That won’t be necessary,” she said, surprising herself. “I don’t want your money.” She glanced over her shoulder. “There are rooms upstairs,” she said. “We can start now if you wish.”

  Chapter 5

  Ernest’s heart was thumping as he followed the woman up the crooked stairs to the top floor of the tavern. A narrow passage stretched out in front of them, lined with doors on each side. From one of the rooms, Ernest could hear a thin peal of laughter. Inside another, a man groaned with pleasure.

  Ernest’s mouth was dry. What was making him so unsteady, so unsure of himself? He felt like a schoolboy who had never so much as glanced at a woman before. Was it this place? The brandy? Or was it this young woman whose help he had requested, without the thought even entering his head? Asking her for help to pull off this ruse, indeed. Was he mad? But Ernest couldn’t deny he needed it. If he was going to find answers, he was going to need to fit in here a damn sight better than he did right now.

  The woman pulled a key from inside her bodice and opened one of the doors.

  “Do you live here?” asked Ernest.

  She shook her head. “No. I live a few blocks from here. But most of my regulars like to frequent this place. Innkeeper gave me a key to this room. He thinks I’m good for business.” She gave Ernest a cheeky smile, which he found himself returning.

  He followed her inside. A rusty iron bed was pushed up against one wall. In the corner of the room sat a rickety table with two stools. The white paint on the walls was chipped and peeling, the crimson curtains threadbare. The woman gestured to Ernest to sit at the table.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, sitting.

  She sat opposite him. “Rachel. Rachel Bell.”

  Rachel Bell. Ernest rolled the name around inside his head. She met his eyes.

  “And yours?”

  “I’m Ernest Jackson,” he told her simply, liking the way his name sounded without its formalities and titles.

  Rachel narrowed her eyes. “What are you then, Mr. Ernest Jackson? A lord? A duke? A prince?”

  Ernest gave a short laugh. “A prince? No.” He sighed. “It doesn’t matter what I am. You just need to know that I don’t fit in here.”

  Rachel hummed to herself. “I see.” She arched an eyebrow. “And how am I to address you?”

  Ernest hesitated. “Mr. Jackson, perhaps?” he ventured, strangely unsure of himself.

  Rachel’s lips turned up. “Very well then, Mr. Jackson, nobleman in hiding. I shall make it my duty to see you transformed into the vilest of street urchins.”

  Ernest laughed. There was something about this woman. Something about the fierce shine of her eyes that made him want to look into them. Something about her confidence. And something about the way she didn’t curtsey and flap and fluster about him like so many of the other women he had met.

  Rachel tilted her head. “And so,” she said, “where do we begin?”

  She stood and made her way across the room, tapping her chin with a long finger as she looked him up and down. What did she see, Ernest wondered? What did she think of him? A vain and pretentious coxcomb? Or something more?

  “You knew at once I was not from these parts,” he said. “How?”

  “Your hands,” said Rachel. “They’re far too clean.” She paused in thought, then knelt beside the bed. She reached beneath the mattress and pulled out a small basket. She rifled through the contents, before handing Ernest a small jar of lampblack. She grinned, her eyes shining in the lamplight. “Here. Put a little under your fingernails. You’ll look the part in no time.”

  Ernest chuckled. Obediently, he reached a finger into the charcoal and smoothed it over his skin and nails. He looked down at his hands. The hands of a miner, perhaps. He smiled.

  “Better,” said Rachel, “much better.”

  Ernest grinned. “What else?”

  She hesitated. “Your hair. It’s too neat.”

  He nodded knowingly. “I thought to mess it up. But the damned thing keeps falling back into place like it has a mind of its own.”

  Rachel burst out laughing, a sudden, sweet sound that made his heart skip. “Poor you,” she said. “It must be a great trial to be Mr. Ernest Jackson.”

  After a moment, Ernest found himself laughing too. He looked up at her. “Is there anything in that basket that might help me?”

  Rachel paused in thought. “Face powder,” she said, “rose water…” She sat each bottle on the table. “A wash ball…” She leaped to her feet. “Wait here. I’ll not be long.” She darted from the room, leaving Ernest bewildered. From the tavern downstairs, he heard the loud cras
h of glasses and a roar of laughter. After a few moments, Rachel returned with a cooking pot in her hands.