January 10, 1821
E
vangeline had kept Ben’s cryptic note on the corner of her desk for five days now. Whatever was “vitally important” remained a complete mystery, as was the whereabouts of the author of those words.
It was hardly a love note. Barely legible. What it was was annoying. He had left her in the lurch to put the paper to bed by herself, after all his protestations of newfound responsibility and reform. Thank goodness Joseph and Matthew were back and knew what they were doing. They had made themselves useful in any number of ways, so that Evangeline could tell herself she barely missed Ben.
She’d gotten used to seeing him hunched over her desk, his shaggy blond hair tumbling over a bronze eyebrow. He was getting lines from squinting at the endless round of letters, and his fingertips were just as black as hers. His recent work had been particularly satisfactory, especially in composing the advertisements. He was economical with his words and had devised the most cunning abbreviations, which saved space so they were able to include more ads. There was now a key box at the top of the page which explained some of the more arcane shorthand, so that one would not mistake “hus” for housekeeper. A great many women seemed to be wanting husbands this month—perhaps it was the January cold or the boredom of the winter darkness. Evangeline could not imagine the extenuating circumstances under which she’d advertise for a man in
The London List.
She was more than happy as she was.
Wasn’t she?
She smacked the doubtful voice back. After all, she had gainful employment—no matter how brief it would be, and really, she
did
have to leave soon. Ben’s disappearance was most inconvenient—she couldn’t just disappear, too. But while she was stuck here, she did society good and earned more than enough money to see to her father’s comfort.
But days went by without him seeming to
see
her. There was a blankness behind his eyes and his wit and sparkle with his nurses had completely disappeared. She went home to him for lunch out of habit, though Evangeline was certain he didn’t recognize her most of the time. She didn’t bother changing into a dress any more when she was with him, and had stopped talking about moving their household to more gracious accommodations. Robert Ramsey wouldn’t appreciate the difference and it might only send him further into confusion.
She was doing her duty. As she always had, through good and bad times. His time was short, all the more reason to leave
The List
in Ben’s surprisingly competent hands. There would come a day when she didn’t have to worry about her father, and she would regret his passing. For all his flaws, he had loved her and had done the best he could.
Evangeline felt a tear course down her cheek, and batted it away impatiently. There was no time for self-pity—she wouldn’t be here much longer and there was so much work to do. Which was why she looked up in annoyance several minutes later as the door to the street opened and banged with some force against the wall as the wind took it.
The man who entered was nondescript, neither handsome nor ugly, but dressed beautifully in the finest stare of fashion, although his clothing was unfortunately rumpled and stained. He looked as if he’d arrived directly from a bender of mythic proportions. Even from across the room, she detected the lingering aroma of hashish and wine, a debilitating combination. Sensing his agitation, she rose respectfully from the desk and made a deliberate effort to lower the timbre of her voice.
“May I help you, my lord?” It didn’t take a genius to recognize him as a member of the ton for all his current scruffiness.
“Where’s Gray?”
“I’m afraid Lord Gray is not here at present,” she replied smoothly. “I’m certain
I
can help you.”
“And I am certain you cannot,” the man snapped. “There’s something havey-cavey about all this. I should have known better, but that damned fellow can be most persuasive.”
“You are talking in riddles, Lord . . . ?” She pitched her voice in question.
“I am the Earl of Dustin, not that it means anything to the likes of you. And you may tell your employer if he had anything to do with my wife’s disappearance, he won’t live long enough to regret it! She is not at home—hasn’t been for four damn days! And she’s taken my son, the bitch. When I get my hands on her—” He stopped suddenly, apparently realizing what he was about to reveal. He stalked forward and pointed a trembling finger in the direction of Evangeline’s nose. “If I read one word of this—just one—in this rag of yours, I’ll see you jailed for libel and anything else I can think of. And you can tell Gray that his little Jane Street whore isn’t worth the money he pays her either. I’ve had kitchen maids do better at servicing me. I want to see him as soon as he comes in. He’s probably still stuffing his cock down some woman’s throat.”
Evangeline recoiled from Lord Dustin’s sour breath and spittle. And his words. From what she could gather, Ben had eloped with Lady Dustin, or he had led Lord Dustin astray on Jane Street. Either possibility was dismaying and not precisely “vitally important.”
But Ben owed her nothing. Even though they had ended their impetuous affair, she felt her heart splinter just a bit before she drew her spine straight, spitefully smug that she topped the vile Lord Dustin by a few inches. “I shall tell him of your visit when he returns. Are you sure you don’t wish to place an ad in the Lost and Found column for your wife? Or perhaps an employment ad for a new kitchen maid? Although one would have to be awfully desperate to get down on her knees for the likes of
you
.”
Lord Dustin’s face mottled in fury. “You young whelp! I’ll see you ruined.”
“You can try. Be careful of whom you threaten, Lord Dustin. I may not be an earl, but I have my resources.”
Lord Dustin turned his glare to the mammoth printing press at the back of the shop. “A few well-placed strikes from a hammer and your resources would be rubbish.”
Evangeline knew a threat from this man was likely to be far more substantial than the petty vandalism of Lady Imaculata Egremont. But the Corrigan brothers lived upstairs now, and could be counted on to keep watch over the building. When Ben came back—
if
Ben came back—she’d apprise him of this latest difficulty and determine what their future was.
“
The London List
belongs to Lord Gray now. It would not be wise of you to act against a fellow peer of the realm or his property.”
“We’ll see about that. You tell him what I said, you hear? And I won’t pay a nickel for his house—I’ve no need of a mistress, especially his leavings.”
The door slammed again, this time in closing. Evangeline realized she was literally shaking in her topboots. She collapsed into her chair and picked up Ben’s note. How many times had she read it already? There was indeed something havey-cavey going on, and it was time for her to put on her hat and find out what it was.
Somehow her wobbly legs now felt leaden. Did she really want to know where Ben had been since he scribbled that note to her?
True to his word, he had not touched her since New Year’s Day. A random smoldering look or two did not count. They’d made their pact to tamp down their lust for each other. Evangeline was careful not to meet his eyes over their shared desk or brush against him when they went to the crowded pub after work or admire the curve of his broad back as he bent over the press. His hands were becoming as skilled on the iron gears as they had been on her skin. They’d had their weeks of madness, and now had settled into a routine, sticking strictly to business.
She couldn’t expect him to remain celibate. There was no reason for him to do so—there was no understanding between them now, no vow, no promise. He may have partnered well with her in the office, but she was not his true partner in life.
Still, a shard of disappointment pierced her. It had not taken him very long to revert to his rakish ways.
Half an hour later, she was standing in the little cul-de-sac that everyone who was anyone spoke of in hushed awe—Jane Street, home to the most exotic, erotic women in London. Just a dozen houses, identical save for their painted doors. There was a gate and sentry box at the end, guarded by night watchmen who prevented the uninvited from staring into the long narrow windows for a peek of sin. Evangeline had managed to slip by them before, but it was still daylight, so no subterfuge was necessary.
She knew which house was Ben’s; knew in fact which prominent man owned each property and essentially the poor girl housed within. The women had been purchased as willing slaves. She supposed becoming a cosseted mistress was a giant step up from street prostitution, but neither position appealed to her in the least. To be utterly dependent on a man could lead to nothing but heartbreak.
The door to Number Two Jane Street was painted a vibrant yellow, a beacon of sunshine on this bleak winter day. Evangeline had seen the matching jonquils in the little front garden last spring and yellow marigolds in the fall when she had been spying on Ben, but there was nothing now save a crusting of silver-gray ice on the ground. She took a deep breath and mounted the steps.
The rap of the knocker echoed on the deserted street. It was early afternoon, but more than likely the inhabitants were still asleep after their night of debauchery. Jane Street was legendary for its nighttime revels, many of which had been organized by Lord Benton Gray. But Evangeline knew that the courtesans arranged their own daytime amusements—there were card parties and teas to kill the time as the ladies waited to be poked and prodded by their keepers. No matter how exquisite the surroundings or the jewels or the furs, the life of a Jane Street mistress must be boring beyond belief. A girl needed to dedicate her life to the peculiar needs of her master, hoping that the effort would see her into comfortable old age, stockpiling enough trinkets to barter away the inevitable loneliness. There was no job security when a woman lost her youthful looks and a man lost interest.
Evangeline had seen Ben’s mistress Veronique at a distance, but never expected the woman to open the door herself. She was in ravishing dishabille, a pale peach robe slipping from a creamy shoulder, her long dark hair disarranged in the most provocative way. Evangeline towered over the woman by a good foot, and this time did not relish her size advantage.
“
Bonjour, monsieur
. ’ow may I ’elp you?”
It was Evangeline’s opinion that Veronique had probably been born Veronica far from the shores of France, but she was too distracted to dust off her schoolgirl French to prove it. “My name is Ramsey. I am looking for my employer, Lord Gray. Is he here?”
“
Mais, oui,
but ’e is—’ow you say—under the ’atches. My Ben was a very naughty boy last night, very naughty indeed. He and that
cochon
Dustin were at me all the night long.” Veronique wrinkled her powdered nose, but she still was stupifyingly beautiful, with nary a dark circle or wrinkle or smudged bit of paint to lend credence to her words. She looked dew-kissed—and man-kissed, judging by the bright pink bruises on her slender neck. Evangeline’s stomach knotted in revulsion and something very much like jealousy.
“I must see him. It’s—it’s
vitally important,
” she said, using Ben’s own words. A five-day sexual escapade hardly qualified, but some small part of her heart was relieved that Ben had not run away with Lady Dustin.
Veronique slowly eyed her up and down, and Evangeline felt herself flaming at the examination. For one mad instant, Evangeline longed to rip open her shirt and reveal her bound breasts, not that there was much to bind. To be flirted with by Ben’s mistress was absolutely insupportable. The woman was a sublimely sensual creature—no wonder Ben had gone back to Veronique. Evangeline couldn’t hope to compete with such artful beauty.
Not that she wanted to.
No, not at all.
“Let me take your ’at, and you must come into my salon,
n’est pas
? To make yourself so
comfortable
while I rouse milord.
Je suis désolée
that I cannot offer you a little something, but my staff, they are enjoying a ’oliday after what they ’ave been through these past days. Such a nasty man, that Dustin. If I did not ’old Ben in such ’igh regard, I would never ’ave agreed to such things as we ’ave done. Though of course, Ben was
tres généreux,
as always. ’e is such a gentleman, but then you must know that now that you work so closely with ’im. You are sorry, yes, for writing all those bad things? I think ’e ’as forgiven you, ’owever. ’e has mentioned you quite often, worrying that his little
vacance
’ere would be a problem for you.”
Problem was not quite the correct word, but Evangeline refused to let her temper loose until she could direct it at the man who was responsible for provoking it. She sank into a plush sofa while Veronique fluttered out of the room in a waft of scented chiffon.
The parlor was precisely what one would expect in a notorious love nest. The furniture was dark red velvet, the carpets thick, the paintings naughty. Evangeline was disappointed that Ben apparently had so little originality, but maybe Veronique had done the decorating.