Authors: Kate Rothwell
“You are a pig, and secretary is exactly the sort of job for which he has hired me.”
“I saw the way he looked at you.”
“You need better glasses.”
“A blind man could have seen that look. Pure naked want.”
“Good heavens, you are a nuisance, Duncan. You look for trouble everywhere.”
Naked want
. Oh, dear. With unsteady legs, she walked to a chair. She tried to recall Lord Felston’s expression, but she’d been lost in her own confusion of meeting him again and hadn’t been able to examine him closely.
Now she recalled the impression, gathered mostly from sidelong glances, of a sleek, well-dressed gentleman but with a restlessness barely restrained beneath the polished surface. He’d touched the teacup, twisted it in the saucer, run a long finger over the tablecloth. Could he have been as nervous as she? Hard to imagine.
Duncan sat down at the desk. “He never responded to my bill. I suppose it is still at his country estate. I’ll send him another, this time to his London residence.”
“Just a bill for the blade, mind you,” she said. “Don’t come up with one of your elaborate plans.”
“Of course, just a bill,” her brother said and smiled brightly.
Florrie knew that bright smile too well. Her heart sank. “Don’t do more than that.”
He scribbled quickly, speaking as he wrote, “‘Outstanding balance. Knife with snake design.’ See? Nothing to it.” He blew on the note to dry the ink.
She watched him tuck the paper into an envelope and seal it. But something about the turned-up corners of his mouth worried her. Perhaps the simple fact of Lord Felston’s sudden appearance in her life caused that smirk.
* * * *
Duncan wasn’t the only man in her life to suspect Lord Felston’s motives. At work the next day, she expected to be quizzed about the baron, and she was ready with a version of the truth when her fellow sales-clerks asked.
“His late uncle knew my father,” she said. “He merely wished to make certain we are well settled.”
The clerks who worked for Mr. Morris’s establishment had a slightly blurry idea of the social interactions of the upper classes, and this was enough to satisfy them. Her explanation impressed them, too. Mr. Kepler was almost deferential as he asked Florrie to sort the contents of a crate in the backroom.
Later on, during a mid-morning lull, Mr. Kepler checked the books, and on the other side of the shop, she and Mr. Wentworth tidied shelves and cases, polishing the glass and brass.
She took the opportunity to tell Mr. Wentworth the truth. “The baron wants to give me a job. He asked me to work for him.”
“He’s offered employment?” A frown creased Mr. Wentworth’s amiable face. He put down the dust cloth he held. “Not as a housekeeper, I’ll warrant.”
She shook her head. “A sort of secretary.”
“I know you’re a sensible girl and told him what he could do with his offer.”
“It isn’t a-a shameful offer, I assure you. Nothing questionable.” She blushed and smoothed the gentleman’s handkerchief she’d folded wrong.
“I don’t believe it,” he said, bluntly. “I do apologize, Miss Cadero. I should say it’s him I don’t believe. I don’t trust that his intentions are good. I swear, I wish I could knock him down, no matter that he’s a baron and all. Some men, even gentlemen…” He coughed, obviously embarrassed. Perhaps he thought she was too genteel to even understand the implications of what men wanted from females.
The guilty shame of the truth started at her heels and enveloped her with heat.
Mr. Wentworth must have seen her discomfort and interpreted it as embarrassment.
“Well. Then. Never mind.” His frown vanished as he eyed her benevolently. “To keep you safe from rascals like that, I’d offer for you myself, my dear. That is, if I was twenty years younger, and if I didn’t already have the best of wives.” He held up a hand, ticking off each fat finger extravagantly. “And if I had a better education—leastways as good as your own, and if I were of some consequence in the world and—”
In spite of her unsettled mood, she giggled, and he beamed happily as he always did when he got her to laugh.
Would he be amused if he knew of her climbing and other activities? For all his easy-going nature, she expected Mr. Wentworth could not condone loose behavior. She could not begin to imagine what he would say if he learned that the lord in question had taken her virginity at her own urging. No doubt his friendly manner would transform and he’d grow as coldly formal as—well, as Lord Felston.
After glancing at Mr. Kepler, who still fussed over the books, Mr. Wentworth spoke again, in a low, hesitating voice. “My wife’s cousin’s sister-in-law is in service at the baron’s London residence. She’s a parlor maid. And there are whispers about the baron. He’s not all there, if you see what I mean.”
“I’m afraid I don’t see.” She smiled apologetically.
Mr. Kepler closed a book and glanced in their direction so Mr. Wentworth took up his dust cloth again and wiped at a smear on the glass case. “Madness, or they call it a nervous disorder,” he whispered.
She opened a case and pretended to arrange some lace so he wouldn’t spot her dismay. “That rumor? I don’t know Lord Felston well, but I know he’s as sane as anyone. Saner than most.”
She knew no such thing, of course.
Nathaniel didn’t have long to brood over Florrie and the job he’d offered her. Runcle came to visit the next morning.
The big man was accompanied by his two sons, stolid stone-faced men who stood by the door and watched their father as he bowed then held up a sheaf of papers. “I got the full report on yer uncle and no sign of the man you described as Grub. I wonder if he shipped off to Australia or somewheres. But we got something.” He wore a satisfied gleam. “Lord Bessette’s female.”
“My uncle?” Nathaniel laughed. “You’re joking.”
“Not at all. No performer or high-flying girl, but a goer. Lord Bessette’s enemies would likely pay good money to know that one, eh?”
Nathaniel nodded, but he didn’t feel triumph. For some reason, knowing his uncle had a frailty almost made the man human. He had a long way to fall.
“Not only that, the female in question is a papist.” Runcle shuffled through the papers and handed over one that held a name and address. A quiet neighborhood, not so far from the park.
Nathaniel went to call on Mrs. MacDonald as soon as Runcle departed. A neatly-dressed maid answered the door. What did he expect? A formal butler? A painted floozy?
Perhaps most maids didn’t examine guests as carefully as this one did. She examined him from his shoes to his uncovered hair, before showing him into a lushly decorated room.
Strange contrasts met his eye. A statue of Venus stood next to a bell jar containing a stuffed snowy owl. The red and pink drapes had pompons. The whole room had a decidedly feminine air with lace and pink flowery decor, but there were masculine touches. A cigar humidor stood on a sideboard next to full decanters hung with ornate silver labels of “whiskey” and “brandy.”
The contrasts made sense, he supposed. A high class prostitute wouldn’t want any client to forget she was thoroughly feminine even as she’d cater to men’s other appetites.
Just as he settled in a pink chintz chair, a woman strolled into the room. “Molly informs me that a well-set up young gentleman has come to call. That’s lovely.”
He rose to his feet politely, and her smile broadened as she looked him up and down, much like her maid. Mrs. MacDonald had reddish brown hair that was perhaps too bright to be entirely natural, and he guessed her to be in her mid-twenties, perhaps a couple of years older than he. Her eyes were blue and large with a lush fringe of lashes.
“You’re lucky I’m home to you.” She waggled a playful well-manicured finger at him. “I don’t usually allow just anyone into my house. But I peeped, and I must say you have a familiar look about you.”
He tried not to frown at that description. More than one person had noted the physical similarity. “My name is Felston. I’m Lord Bessette’s nephew.”
Her smile died away, and she crossed her arms over her expansive, nearly exposed bosom. An obstinate look came to her wide blue eyes. “Funny he should send you, but I’m not going to change my mind. We’re through.”
He wondered what she meant and hazarded a reply. “No, I’m not acting as his agent. I wanted to speak to you. That’s all.”
She wore in a green gauzy gown with a nearly non-existent bodice over a dipping corset. Her front was so bare that when she leaned down to pick up a little silver bell from a low table, the tops of her nipples showed.
He wondered why she would bother putting rouge there. No reason to call attention to that part of her body because no man would look elsewhere.
She rang the bell, and the maid appeared immediately. “We don’t want to be disturbed,” she said, and the maid gave a perfunctory curtsy. It must have been a scene played out a few times a day.
Mrs. MacDonald cocked her head to one side, smiled, and put her hands on her hips. “Despite that naughtiness on your part, I appreciate your good manners, Lord Felston. Do sit down.” She waited to see which chair he picked before perching on the one nearest him.
Nathaniel decided not to waste time. “I wonder, Mrs. MacDonald, did Lord Bessette ever speak to you of me?” The question seemed ridiculous, but then again, perhaps in the throes of passion his uncle might pant out a plan to imprison his nephew.
She thought for a long minute. “Not sure if I should tell you, but no reason not to, I suppose. Only in a touch of grumbling. Said you weren’t falling into his plans.”
That was interesting. “Did he mention the plans?” He leaned forward. She apparently liked that because she wiggled on her chair, writhing like a trout hooked on a line.
“No, not at all. He’s not so interested in...talk.” She winked. “He does like prayer and insisted I join in. That’s partly why I decided to say goodbye. His concern for my soul became annoying, you know? Considering what he wanted to do to the rest of me.”
She ran her hands over her sides “Did I mention how glad I am to meet you? Utterly delighted.”
“Thank you, but I’m not in the market for a mistress,” he said with a smile to allay the bluntness.
She didn’t take offense. “Then why are you visiting? Just to get information about your uncle? That’s not very polite to me or to him, you know.”
He’d considered offering her money for her information but had already abandoned that idea. Her words made him feel even dirtier.
“You’re right, and I’m sorry to take up your time.” He rose to his feet again. “Thank you, Mrs. MacDonald.”
“Oh don’t rush away. I’m free all morning. Might I offer you a cup of tea? A spot of brandy?”
She walked to him, placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “No padding. Very nice.” She leaned close to him and whispered peppermint-flavored heat against his face. “Do you know why men like me? Because I like them. I love men and what they do with me. And what I can do for them.”
It had been weeks since he’d touched a woman. Florrie. This female had an expert smooth way of stroking, squeezing, nibbling his neck—nothing like Florrie’s passionate but unskilled embrace. His body responded.
He despised himself for his uneven breath and the jolt of lust. When he realized he couldn’t get away from her unless he yanked his arm away from her or maybe gave her a good shove, he was annoyed—and excited.
“We enjoy ourselves, and no one gets hurt.” She wrapped her arms around his waist and maneuvered even closer. She rubbed her body over his. “Fun. That’s what your uncle never seemed to understand. There’s no harm in a bit of fun.”
It occurred to him that she repeated a variation of the arguments he’d heard his friends promote. Sexual relations needn’t carry such a tide of responsibility. The best sort of act was a mere indulgence of urges with no emotional traps. Nature demanded that bond only because there might be offspring in nine months, but if that danger was eliminated and there was no chance of disease, society needn’t put such a cost on the embrace shared by men and women.
Peter had carried on in this vein only a few months earlier.
Yet Nathaniel couldn’t bring himself to touch her. Perhaps it was the thought that his uncle had used her body for pleasure or perhaps there was something artificial in her little hum of pleasure. Whatever the reason, he didn’t listen to his body’s urgings as she rubbed herself over him. He gently disengaged himself from her grasp.
She beamed up at him and stroked his cheek with soft fingers. He smelled rose-scented perfume as she shimmied closer to him. “You’re a challenge, then. I welcome those.”
Her bracelets jingled softly as her strokes grew wider and more brazen. His face, his neck, trailing down his chest.
No ties yet exquisite relief from an eager woman he reminded himself. No danger of harming her with promises he couldn’t keep.
She winked and ran her hand over the front of his trousers. “It’ll be a real pleasure to get to know you. A jolly fun time and none of this feeling bad for jolliness.”
Exactly the sort of transaction a man seeking a simple life would desire. A separation of bodily needs from thoughts and emotions. Too bad it left him cold. He made his excuses and sweetened his rejection by dipping into his wallet and presenting her with several guineas. It must have been enough, because she promised to always be home to him.