Читать книгу Regency High Society Vol 7: A Reputable Rake / The Heart's Wager / The Venetian's Mistress / The Gambler's Heart - Diane Gaston - Страница 12

Sloane doused the rush light, giving her time to enter her house if she chose. She did not. The darkness afforded some protection from passers-by, though it also gave the illusion of intimacy, as if a blanket wrapped around them both.

He stood close to her. The night breeze stirred a lock of her hair that had come loose from its pins. He almost swept it back into place.

He forced himself to get to the point. ‘Tell me why you wish to correspond with Harriette Wilson.’

She did not flinch from him, but remained still, face upturned to his. ‘I seek some information from her.’

He disliked her evasion. ‘What information?’

‘That, sir, is private.’ He could almost see her chin set in stubbornness. She turned to her door.

He grabbed her arms. ‘I have a nose for trouble, Miss Hart, and I smell it now.’ But what he really smelled was the exotic spice and floral scent she wore. ‘I demand to know what mischief you are in this time.’

She did not pull away from his grip. ‘I assure you, it is no mischief,’ she said softly.

‘You are flirting with a dangerous world, Miss Hart.’ He leaned closer to make her heed his words. ‘The glove shop may be respectable by day, but you can be sure it is not respectable at night.’

‘I know this.’ Her voice was low. It put him in mind of dark bedchambers rather than dark entryways. ‘You need not worry.’

But he was worried. He told himself his only interest was avoiding blame for whatever her scheme was this time. He told himself he rued the day he had purchased property next to hers.

But, at the same time, she seemed pliant under his grasp. Her femininity was an intoxicating lure. It had been long since he’d tasted a woman’s lips, or held a woman against him. Morgana Hart felt wonderful in his arms. He leaned closer and she rose on tiptoe. She placed her palms against his chest, her touch soft, but it filled him with heat. He wanted to slide his hands behind her and press her to his groin, to ease the ache that increased with each sweet breath that cooled his cheeks.

His arm trembled as he set her away from him, then released her. He sounded her knocker and stepped away, waiting until the door opened and she disappeared inside. She did not look back and he made his way slowly to his own door.

Morgana hesitated only slightly as she stepped into the hall. She greeted Cripps as if nothing had happened, but inside she felt altered, as if Sloane had rearranged all her organs. He must have removed one of them, because she was aware of needing… something.

She sounded very normal when she spoke to Cripps about closing up the house for the night. She even calmly ascended the stairs.

But once out of her butler’s sight, she ran to the door of her bedchamber. She felt like dancing—or weeping—she did not know which.

Amy waited in her bedchamber to help her undress.

‘Did you have a nice evening, Miss Hart?’ the maid asked as Morgana removed her gloves, resisting the impulse to stare at the fingers that had caressed his chest.

‘Very nice,’ she replied. She did not wish to talk. She did not want anything to break the spell of his touch, the nearness of his lips.

Morgana undressed as quickly as Amy’s assistance would allow, but she was eager for the maid to leave so she could think about him holding her in his arms.

What did it mean that he’d held her so close? Why had he released her? Why, oh, why had he not kissed her?

Amy jabbered as usual, while removing Morgana’s hairpins and loosening the plaits so her hair could be brushed. Morgana watched herself in the mirror, amazed that she still looked the same.

Soon enough she was tucked under her covers, and Amy had closed the door behind her. Morgana hugged a pillow, rubbing her cheek on the soft fabric, still feeling his hands gripping her arms, still filled with the clean masculine scent of him.

She squeezed her eyes closed as tightly as she could and rolled over.

He had pushed her away, after all. He did not want her. He wanted Hannah. Young, vibrant, beautiful Hannah.

Sloane melted into the darkness, standing in the shadows as she hurried through the doorway and out of sight. He stood in the darkness a long time, hoping the blood would stop surging through his veins.

He’d wanted her, wanted her like the very devil, like the rake he was. A second later and he would have tasted those lips, felt her soft body against his hard one—his much too hard one.

Instead of reaching for the doorknob, Sloane spun around and strode down the walk to the street. A brisk walk would cool his loins.

He made his way through Mayfair, in the general direction of Bond Street, caring not how far he walked. The night welcomed him like an old friend, and soon his step became lighter, quieter, smoother. He had almost forgotten this sensation, of moving through the darkness unseen, as if he were part of it. His agitation eased as the familiar role overtook him.

Slipping through the darkness, Sloane avoided St James’s Street, where the gentlemen’s clubs still spewed members on to the street. Sloane might, like them, pass some time at White’s, even gamble a little, but he had no desire to break the spell the night had created.

St James’s and streets nearby were nearly as busy as day, though most of the night people sought pleasures best hidden in darkness. Sloane thought about entering one of the gaming hells that attracted gambling of a more dangerous sort than the respectable White’s Club, but the urge to test his skills in those deep waters had fled. Of course, there were establishments where he might slake the primal urges Morgana Hart had awoken, but Sloane, no matter what his reputation, had always avoided that sort of debauchery. If he wanted a woman, he could find a willing one without having to pay for her services.

The notion that it would be an easy matter to make Morgana willing quickened his step. He’d come very close to doing that very thing when he’d held her in his arms. No matter her birth and respectability, she had a wild nature underneath, one he could so easily exploit. It would be a simple matter indeed to ruin her, if she did not ruin herself first.

Sloane stopped in a shadow and shook his head. He must cease these rakish thoughts. Besides, far more likely than he ruining Miss Hart was that she would ruin him.

She was up to something. He needed to discover exactly what it was before she dragged him down with her when her fall came.

Sloane proceeded with new purpose. He made his way to Jermyn Street, concealing himself in the darkness, while he watched men come and go through the door of the glove shop. The front of the shop was unlit, but windows in the upper floors showed the peek of candlelight when the curtains stirred. Certain now that his suspicions of the establishment had been accurate, Sloane waited. He did not know what he hoped to discover, but the years he’d worked for the Crown had taught him to bide his time. Something useful always came his way.

His reward came when a man in a plain coat paused under the street lamp, giving Sloane a glimpse of his face. It was the man from the park. He entered the glove shop with the familiarity of a frequent visitor, but Sloane suspected his visit was for business, not pleasure.

Sloane left his place of concealment and crossed around the row of shops to the back. One light shone in a window on the ground floor of the glove shop. He crept closer.

The window was open, allowing the cool night breeze into the house. Sloane heard voices. He gripped the exterior sill of the window a couple of feet over his head and pulled himself up high enough to peek inside.

A woman’s back was visible. The establishment’s owner, he guessed. She shook her finger at a man facing her, the man from the park.

The woman’s voice could be clearly heard. ‘I do not want you to try to find my girls. I want you to succeed in finding them! And while you are at it, get me that pretty maid.’

‘Never fear,’ the man said in the rough voice Sloane remembered from the park. ‘When I clamp my hands on that one again, she will not get away.’

‘Hmmph.’ The woman tossed her head. ‘You could not hold her the first time. I wish I had held her when she turned up with that harridan.’

Morgana, Sloane thought.

The woman continued, ‘Do you know where to find her?’

‘I will discover her.’

Sloane’s arms trembled with the strain of holding on to the window. He let himself slip to the ground.

He had heard enough. There was no doubt in his mind Morgana Hart was toying with a danger she could not imagine.

He meant to put a halt to this flirtation of hers with the Paphian world.

The next morning Sloane rose early. He’d slept little. Dawn had not been far off by the time he’d returned to the house and his brain was racing too fast to turn off.

Why had Morgana Hart gone to the glove shop that day? Why did she wish to contact Harriette Wilson, of all people? What mischief was she getting herself into?

He told Elliot he was going for a walk, not precisely a falsehood. He planned to walk around the row of houses to the back.

He’d retained enough of the previous night’s mood to decide he would first watch her house, to learn what he could before confronting her.

As he stepped out of his door, a servant left Miss Hart’s house, hurrying down the street as if on an urgent errand. Sloane walked by Morgana’s house at a slow pace, glancing into her window as he passed. A female he’d not seen before appeared briefly in the drawing-room window. There was something afoot in that house, all right.

He crossed the street and walked around to the backs of the houses. Stepping through the mews, he reached her gate. Through the gap in the gate, he peered into her property.

Finding it deserted, he tried the latch. It was locked, but Sloane made short work of picking the lock.

He slipped into the garden. Luckily it had bushes enough to conceal him. He inched his way along the wall, looking for a nice vantage point to watch the back of the house, and almost tripped over a pile of bricks. Catching himself, he saw a gap in the wall and laughed. He might have spared himself a great deal of trouble had he known he could step from his garden into hers.

It proved an excellent place to stand, providing him easy escape. So he settled in and, like the Peeping Tom of the Lady Godiva legend, and the English spy he’d been during the war, he fixed his attention on the back windows of Miss Hart’s house, hoping to witness something he was not supposed to see.

He saw a great deal more activity than he would have expected. The sound of the pianoforte reached his ears, as well as a beautiful feminine voice singing to it. Either Miss Hart had exaggerated how badly she could play, or someone else had fingers on the keys. The voice did not sound like her either, too high and crystalline. A quite remarkable voice, none the less, but whose?

Sloane watched for over an hour, an inconsequential space of time compared to the long hours he’d put in for King and country. But instead of piecing the puzzle together, Sloane became more confused.

In the past hour, three women had walked out to the privy. One he recognised as Miss Hart’s maid. The other two were dressed as maids, but somehow they did not fit the part. Another puzzling thing. They all seemed to be gathered in the back room. Why would a covey of maids spend so much time in one room?

Perhaps Mr Elliot would have a notion how many people Miss Hart employed. Elliot had a way of knowing such things.

Sloane slipped through the gap in the wall and entered his house from the back, causing one of his maids to shriek in surprise when he suddenly appeared in the passageway. He told the girl to find Elliot and send him to the library, a room mirroring the location of Morgana’s busy back room.

When Elliot entered, Sloane was examining the books on the shelves.

‘I have meant to rearrange the shelves, sir,’ Elliot said. Sloane stepped back. ‘Are they out of order?’

‘Sadly out of order. Apparently no one has seen to their proper shelving in some time.’ Elliot picked up a stack of books and placed them on this shelf or that.

Sloane watched, wondering what made it worth the effort. Very little on the shelf interested him. One or two titles caught his eye, but that was because they related to the political issues of the day, and the Annual Registers sometimes yielded useful information. The rest he would not miss.

‘You wished to see me, sir?’ Elliot said, having found the books their homes.

Sloane picked up the Register for 1816 and handed it to his secretary. ‘How many servants do we employ?’

Elliot placed the Register right after that for 1815. ‘There is Sparrow, your butler. Mrs Wells, the housekeeper. Cook.’ He counted on his fingers. ‘Cook’s assistant. A scullery maid. Two upstairs maids. Two footmen. And your valet, of course. That makes ten.’

‘Ten?’ Sloane almost laughed. There was a time when even one maid of all work would have been woefully out of reach.

‘Unless you wish me to include your coachman and groom, and Tommy.’

He held up his palm. ‘Ten,’ he repeated. ‘Tell me, do they employ so many next door?’

If Elliot thought this an odd question, he made no sign of it. He looked to be calculating in his head. ‘I believe they have the same number. One more lady’s maid, but no assistant to the cook.’

Sloane might marvel at how Elliot came by this information, but not much surprised him about the young man’s ability.

‘I see.’ Sloane’s brow furrowed. Either all the maids were gathered in the library at once, or there were more people in Morgana Hart’s house than Elliot knew of.

Sloane contemplated a return to his hiding place near the mews. If he watched long enough, he suspected he would be able to count the different faces, but he would be no closer to knowing why so many were there.

‘Did you wish to go through the invitations?’ Elliot asked.

An impressive stack of invitations had arrived. Sloane received more each day, a measure of the increase in members of the ton who accepted him. Though Sloane was impatient to find a way to speak to Morgana, he dutifully sat down and discussed with Elliot which to accept and which to reject.

Another delay came that afternoon when Sloane received his first caller. His nephew David came to congratulate him on his purchase of the town house. Sloane received him in the drawing room, sending for some port.

He poured them each a glass. ‘Your grandfather will not like you visiting me.’

David took a sip. ‘Grandfather will most probably not ask, but, if he does, I shall admit to calling upon you.’

Foolish boy. It would be wiser to lie.

Sloane peered in his glass. ‘You’d do better to cut me.’

David regarded him with a very serious expression. ‘I know the circumstances of your birth, Uncle, but I cannot see why you have been made to suffer for it.’

David knew? This made the young man’s friendliness even more remarkable.

But Sloane had no intention of discussing his place in the family—or lack of it. Instead, he asked David about his life. The boy’s course had been similar to his own. Sent to Eton at age nine, then on to Oxford. David continued at Oxford, reading law, whereas Sloane had escaped at eighteen, using his meagre inheritance from his mother to lose himself on the Continent. The similarities ended there.

After another glass of port, David said, ‘I thought it would be polite to call upon Miss Hart while I am in the neighbourhood, or at least leave my card if she is not receiving.’

Brilliant idea. Why had Sloane not thought of it?

Actually he had thought of it, but concluded it would cause talk if anyone saw him enter her house alone. With David it would not be remarked upon, however.

‘Perhaps I will join you,’ Sloane said.

‘Look what Mary found, Miss Hart.’ Rose handed her a small book. ‘She wanted to put it away again, but I said you would want to see it.’

Morgana opened the book to the title page. The Whoremonger’s Guide to London. ‘What is this?’ She turned the pages.

‘It has names and their direction as well.’ Mary pointed on the page. ‘I thought you might find your tutor in there.’

This was exciting indeed. Morgana glanced at the date of publication. 1803, the year she had been sent to school and her father had come to London. This must have been his book.

The idea that her father might have used this information gave Morgana a rather sick feeling. She firmly set aside that thought and made herself consider what use the book might be in her present endeavours. She quickly leafed through to see if Harriette Wilson was listed.

She was not.

‘Thank you, Rose,’ Morgana said.

Morgana had had the pianoforte moved to the library, and Rose sat down at it, playing softly. Mary sat with Katy, showing her a book, and Miss Moore put Lucy through an elocution exercise. Morgana’s grandmother sat in a rocking chair where she could see everyone. She smiled and rocked and said everything was lovely to anyone who asked.

Cripps knocked on the door. ‘Two gentlemen to see you, Miss Hart.’ Morgana strained to see if there was any change in his manner towards her since the ‘nieces’ had arrived. She was unable to tell. ‘Mr Cyprian Sloane and Mr David Sloane.’

Mr Sloane? Even though she had convinced herself he could never care for her, her heart leapt. ‘Did you put them in the drawing room?’

‘Yes, miss.’

‘Oh, dear.’ Her glance darted around the room. ‘I suppose we should serve tea. Will you see to it, Mr Cripps.’

He bowed and left the room.

Morgana told herself she could see Sloane without him discovering her other guests. She walked over to her grandmother’s chair. ‘Grandmama, would you like to receive callers with me?’

Her grandmother smiled. ‘That would be lovely, my dear.’

Morgana shoved The Whoremonger’s Guide into the pocket of her dress and helped the frail old lady to her feet. They made their laborious way to the drawing room.

The two gentlemen turned at their entrance and waited to be presented. Morgana’s eyes flew naturally to Sloane’s.

‘Grandmama, you recall our neighbour, Mr Cyprian Sloane?’ Morgana said.

‘Oh, yes,’ said her grandmother agreeably. ‘So lovely to see you, my dear.’

Morgana tried to ignore the knowing look in his eye as he took her grandmother’s bony hand in his large one and brought it to his lips for a gentle kiss. ‘It is my pleasure, Lady Hart.’

She presented David Sloane, and her grandmother responded to him in the same vague manner. He did not seem to notice anything amiss. Morgana prayed her grandmother would not say anything to reveal her infirmity of mind.

‘Please sit, gentlemen,’ Morgana said. ‘Cripps is bringing tea.’

She felt Sloane’s gaze boring into her as they chatted. He continued to examine her as she poured him tea and handed him the cup, and when they stood to leave fifteen correct minutes later. She left her grandmother in the drawing room and walked the gentlemen out.

When they had stepped into the hall, Sloane turned to her with a glint in his eye. ‘Forgive my impertinence, Miss Hart, but I am desirous to know if your house has the same configuration of rooms as my own.’

To her alarm he headed for the door of the back parlour, where soft piano music could be heard.

‘Is this the library?’ He put his hand on the knob.

‘Yes!’ she cried. ‘I mean, it is merely a small parlour my father used as a library.’

The voices of the girls inside the room were audible through the closed door. His brows rose.

‘Is it configured as my own?’ He turned the knob.

She put her hand on his, bare skin to bare skin. ‘I think this not a good time. The… the maids are cleaning.’

He seemed to peer all the way into her lying soul. ‘I see. They clean the pianoforte very melodiously. Perhaps some other time I shall beg a tour of your house.’

‘I will arrange it with Cripps.’ She turned sharply back towards the hall and the book fell from her pocket.

Sloane picked it up and read the spine. ‘Miss Hart—’ he whispered fiercely.

She merely extended her hand for the book.

‘Are we leaving, Uncle?’ called David from the hallway.

He was forced to give the book back to her, but his face looked like thunder. ‘Directly,’ he called to his nephew.

She led him back to the hall where Cripps waited with the gentlemen’s hats. David said his goodbye and headed out of the door. Sloane held back.

‘I will speak with you very soon.’ He gave her a meaningful look that filled her with trepidation.

Morgana closed the door behind him and leaned against it. She glanced at Cripps.

He hesitated a moment before asking, ‘Do you require anything further, miss?’

‘Nothing.’ She fled into the drawing room to collect her grandmother, knowing she’d not heard the last of this from Sloane.

David convinced Sloane they should also call upon Lady Hannah, and Lady Hannah begged the gentlemen to drive her through Hyde Park, where she waved happily to her friends, no doubt feeling triumphant at having two gentlemen to escort her. It was nearly two hours before Sloane could return to Culross Street. He drove the curricle to the stables himself and left the horses in the care of his tiger. Tommy would think it the most natural thing in the world for Sloane to cross the mews and enter from the back.

Once in his garden, Sloane crossed through the gap in the fence. Rain began to patter the stone of the garden with fat droplets, and he hurried to Morgana’s rear entrance. Finding the door unlocked, he slipped inside her house. He would bet his fortune she was in her back parlour, from where he’d heard the other female voices.

Sloane experienced the same surge of excitement that he used to feel whenever he risked discovery. He hurried up the servants’ stairs and stood in the shadows, but he was by no means hidden. Anyone who looked carefully would see him.

As he’d hoped, Morgana came out of the room.

He stepped out of the shadows. ‘Miss Hart.’

‘Oh!’ She jumped in surprise.

He grabbed her arm and drew her away from the parlour door. ‘Explain yourself,’ he demanded.

Her back was against the wall. ‘I, explain myself? You are the one invading my house!’

‘I needed to speak with you privately.’ He glared at her. ‘Unless you wish me to discuss The Whoremonger’s Guide with you at Almack’s.’

‘No.’ Red spots appeared on her cheeks.

The colour only brightened her countenance, but he must not allow himself to think of how lovely she was. ‘Now explain all. I will have no surprises.’

She expelled an angry breath. ‘I do not see why I must. This is none of your affair, Mr Sloane.’

He gave a throaty laugh, appreciating her spirit more than he ought. ‘Recall, Miss Hart, you manage to involve me at every turn.’

‘Mere chance, sir,’ she retorted. ‘I did not plan to involve you.’

‘Come now.’ He gave her a level stare. ‘You asked me about Harriette Wilson.’

‘Merely her direction,’ she said defensively.

‘You involved me.’ He gave her an emphatic shake. ‘Now tell me what is going on.’

She twisted out of his grasp. ‘Oh, very well! I shall tell you. Do not paw at me.’

He folded his arms across his chest. She looked everywhere but at his face. ‘Now,’ he demanded.

The words spilled from her mouth with hardly a breath in between. How her maid was bent on a life of prostitution, and how she was just as resolved to stop her. How she’d come upon her solution to the problem, and finally, the solution itself, complete with her reason for appearing in the glove shop and her desire to contact Harriette Wilson.

When she finally finished, he could only repeat in disbelief, ‘You are training your maid to be a courtesan?’

She nodded.

He swung his arms in the air. ‘What the devil has got into you? You cannot!’

‘Well, I must.’ She crossed her arms around her chest, a mimic of his previous gesture. ‘And there are three other girls from Mrs Rice’s shop. Well, two others. The third simply attached herself to them. I am going to train them as well.’

‘Three girls?’ His voice cracked.

‘Four, if you count Lucy,’ she corrected.

He swung away from her and whirled back to lean into her face. ‘Are you mad?’

She shrugged. ‘What else can I do? It is all I can think of to save these girls from that horrid Mrs Rice.’

‘So you will be their procuress instead of Mrs Rice?’ It was all he could do to keep from throttling her. ‘This improves matters?’

‘It is not like that!’ She looked wounded. ‘I am merely going to train them to be as agreeable as possible. To attract a better sort of man. If they attract many men, they shall have the freedom to select.’

He laughed again. ‘You think it is that simple? Do you think Miss Wilson is any less at the whim of her patrons than a girl in a bawdy house?’

She gave him an exasperated look. ‘Come now, Mr Sloane. You cannot convince me a girl in a bawdy house has an advantage over that woman I saw at the opera, in her fine clothes and jewels, all the men fawning over her?’ She drew in a long breath. ‘I have thought long about this. I cannot change what has happened to these girls. They are ruined. They have been tossed aside by everyone who once professed to love them. They cannot become housemaids or shopgirls or seamstresses. Once their past was revealed they would be turned out, and who then would hire them? I am merely giving them some advantage. If they behave wisely, they may create a secure life for themselves.’

‘Morgana—’ he gripped her arms again, unaware that he’d slipped into using her given name ‘—if even a whisper of this gets out, you will be as ruined as they.’

She averted her eyes. ‘I know. But I cannot send them back to Mrs Rice. I simply cannot.’

She raised her eyes to his, their ginger colour intense with emotion. He felt excited and faintly sick, as if he’d twirled round and round like he’d done as a child, making the world spin when he stopped. Her scheme was as daring as it was foolish.

He tried another tactic to dissuade her. ‘If you are discovered, the blame will fall on me.’

‘On you?’ She looked perplexed. ‘Why should it?’

He shook his head in impatience. ‘I am next door to you, Morgana. Someone is bound to think me the mastermind.’ He released her. ‘There are those in town who desire my ruin. They are eager to believe the worst of me. My family, for one. I can guarantee that if my father gets wind of this he will make sure I am banned from any respectable drawing room for the rest of my life.’

Her eyes softened. ‘Your father hates you so much?’

‘Yes,’ he admitted gruffly, taken aback at how easily her sympathy opened his old wounds.

She leaned against the door, a frustrated expression on her lovely face.

Clutching at straws, he added, ‘And you must think of your cousin as well. If you are ruined, the scandal will fall upon her too.’

Her eyes flashed at him. She did not speak for several seconds and then in a whisper. ‘How am I to choose between ruining you, or ruining Hannah, or ruining those poor girls? Tell me how I am to do that?’

He responded in a soft voice. ‘What of ruining yourself?’

She waved a dismissive hand.

He blew out a breath. He could not dispute the fact that those girls would be better off selling themselves for a high price than for a cheap one. They had all fallen from grace already; few who fell managed to climb up again. Some temptation always pulled at them, luring them back to the low life, as he well knew. He felt it. Felt it now. The lure of danger, excitement, relief from the crushing boredom of life as a gentleman.

He frowned. ‘What did you intend to do with The Whoremonger’s Guide?’

Her lip trembled. ‘I need someone to tutor the girls in… in what I do not know about being a courtesan. I thought Harriette Wilson might do it.’ She looked at him through her lashes. ‘Because I do not know how to contact her, I am forced to use the book to find a tutor.’

Quite right, he thought. ‘Harriette would not be a wise choice,’ he said pensively. ‘She has a loose tongue. Half the ton would know in no time.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘You need someone with more discretion.’

‘I will find such a person, then.’ Her voice became adamant.

‘No, Morgana.’ If she used that infernal book, she entered a different world, a world where the rules were not civilised. ‘It will not do for you.’ He paused. He suddenly felt seized with life and energy. Plans formed in his head in spite of his better judgement. He cleared his throat, and bit back a smile of anticipation. ‘I will find your tutor.’

‘You will?’ she cried and flung her arms around him. ‘Oh, thank you, Mr Sloane!’

Giddy and exhilarated, he lifted her off the ground and spun her about. When her feet again landed on the floor, she gazed into his eyes like a kindred spirit. He wanted to press her against him, taste her lips, show her how man might plunder a willing woman, a woman as wild as he was.

He caught himself and pulled away.

It was so easy to act the rake. So damned easy.