Love Lessons at Midnight (2 page)

“That scarcely requires lessons,” Grace said with a snort.
“It has been my experience that lack of skill has never had a deleterious effect on randy young men.”

“He is concerned that he satisfy his wife…in the dark, so as not to upset her delicate sensibilities, although I suspect ′tis his own that are really at issue.”

Grace studied the young woman who had taken the place of the daughter she’d lost in her youth. Amber was lovely as a spring rose with dark cherry-red hair and golden eyes to match her name, but those eyes were all too often haunted by her past. A thought flitted across the old madam’s mind. Leaning forward, she asked, “You truly believe St. John is afraid of bed sport?”
As are you.

“Why else would an avid reformer associated with rigid moralists chance coming here, even under cover of dark ness?” Amber asked rhetorically.

Inclining her head, Grace agreed. “Indeed. If word of such ever reached those ‘Saints,’ the uproar would make Prime Minister Percival’s assassination seem a flea bite. It would appear Barrington is a most considerate man, to risk all for love. In the dark, hmmm…” She tapped her chin with her index finger and stared at her young protégé.

“You look to be evaluating me as if I were a side of mutton and you a butcher,” Amber said suspiciously.

Grace tossed down the remainder of her port and chuckled. “A lamb to the slaughter? No, not at all the thing.”

“What, then?” Amber asked.

Grace leaned forward in her chair, her playful expression turning suddenly earnest. “Only think, if you are correct and he is so green and so considerate of a lady’s sensibilities…might he not be the perfect one for
you
to instruct?”

Amber reacted as if Grace had slapped her. “I have never taken a man to my bed since I fled the marquess! You have never asked such a thing since you rescued me.”

“Tut, I would never have you do anything against your
will,” Grace said reassuringly. “But who was it returned from her education on the Continent with the idea of making an ordinary bordello into the House of Dreams? A place where gentlemen could fulfill their secret fantasies…Lady Fantasia?”

“My idea was born of studying classical literature. It has proven wildly successful.” To her own ears, Amber sounded as if she were defending her honor—as if a woman who worked with courtesans had any to defend. Best to shift the conversation. “You know I had to assume a false identity here in London to prevent my husband from finding me.” She shuddered as the vile marquess’s face swam before her eyes.

“Yes, an ugly rotter, Eastham is, inside as well as out,” Grace agreed, then added smoothly, “But the earl is devilish handsome, young, and in need of a skilled teacher.”

“Considering my limited experience, I am scarce qualified.”

“Your qualifications are sterling.”

Amber raised her hands in frustration. “An addlepated boy and a brutal man twice my age. There’s sterling experience if ever I’ve heard it.”

“Pish, I explained the finer points of our art to you so that you could assume control of the business. You, in turn, have instructed the most exclusive courtesans in London.”

“I’ve instructed them in history, literature, and deportment, given them a small bit of the education you afforded me. I hardly possess anything like actual experience with a patron.”

“My point exactly.” Grace leaned forward, practically rubbing her hands in excitement. “Do you not see it? We have trained women to give men pleasure. This is a man who wishes to give a woman pleasure. A rare opportunity for any of our sex and a golden one for you, child. A handsome, earnest young lord, yours to command. You could ask anything
of him and he would comply. ′Tis every woman’s fantasy.”

“I am in the business of providing fantasies, not living them,” Amber said defensively.

“We, all of us, require a fantasy or two to survive,” the older woman replied in a gentle voice. “You might think of it as a fantasy come true for the both of you. He will do only what you ask, everything you ask…if you dare.”

Her sly smile was not lost on Amber. “I neither want nor need a lover,” she protested, starting to pace just as St. John had done. The moment she realized what she was doing, she sank onto the chair once more.

Grace waited patiently. “The man is principled, sexually innocent, young, and handsome. You may never again have this chance, Amber. You have dealt with a stupid boy and a vicious older man. There is much you have yet to experience.”

“Burleigh has quite turned your head, dear Grace, but I do not expect to find such a paragon.” Grace’s lover, a baronet, was a widower who spent many nights sharing her bed. She often visited his isolated country estate.

“You will never find such a paragon lest you have the courage to seize what is offered when ′tis offered. Pray, to whom were you going to assign this ‘odious’ task?” Grace asked.

“I told Barrington that I would need three days to select the woman who best suited his requirements.”

“See that you do, hmmm?”

Amber made no reply, but left Grace’s quarters deeply disturbed. She did not see the wistfully sad smile on the older woman’s face.

Amber tossed and turned in her lonely bed, unable to chase Grace’s idea away. By the following morning, she was honest enough to admit to herself that the thought of becoming
the handsome earl’s teacher had lurked deep in the back of her own mind before her mentor suggested it. In spite of his stiff-necked pride and self-righteousness, he had come to her at great personal risk, asking simply to learn how to be a good husband. His embarrassment was keen. Few men would humble themselves that way.

Before she made any rash decision, Amber wanted his past looked into very thoroughly. Every potential patron of the House of Dreams was investigated by a Bow Street Runner in her employ. At present, she knew very little about Sinjin, as men with the St. John surname were often called. There was the gossip bandied about the ton. He had fallen heir to Barrington through a series of untimely deaths, and allied himself with reformers in Parliament. His personal life was above reproach.

Until last night.

Amber carefully composed a letter, then rang for Clifton, her footman, to deliver it to his cousin Clyde at Bow Street. Having dispatched that task, she opened the
Morning Chronicle
to learn what was going on about the ton. On the second page, Barrington’s name caught her eye. He was scheduled to give a speech on child labor the day after next. The journalist, Mr. William Hazlitt, anticipated an invigorating presentation by one of the brightest lights ever to grace either chamber of Parliament since the demise of Charles James Fox.

Amber put down the paper and considered. One of the cook’s helpers had lost her voice while working as a small girl in a match factory. The toxic fumes from chemicals had eaten the lining of her throat. After rescuing the child from such a horrid environment, Amber was curious to hear how the earl’s speech would be received in the House of Lords.

Admit it, you want to see him in the hard light of day to better take his measure.
Amber put aside the disturbing thought along with the newspaper and rang for a light repast to break her fast.

Securing a seat in the gallery of the House of Lords was not an easy task for a woman, but as Lady Fantasia, Amber knew many highly influential men in the government, although they knew nothing of her true identity. By late afternoon, she had a voucher from Lord Twilling that would grant her admission.

Perhaps by then she would learn more about the earl from her Bow Street Runner. She had but three days to make the most important decision of her life since accepting Grace’s offer of shelter as a frightened seventeen-year-old runaway wife.

C
lyde Dyer had been a Bow Street Runner for two decades and worked for Grace Winston ever since his cousin Clifton had found employment at her fine establishment. Like his cousin, Clyde was completely discreet. It was no mean thing to delve into the affairs of the Quality, searching for any secret vices that would bar them admission to the new madam’s fantasy world. If one whisper concerning their application to the House of Dreams were to become public knowledge, it would do irreparable harm to the establishment. Although many prominent gentlemen gave not a fig that their carousing was known, others jealously guarded their privacy.

Clyde wished to keep his position. Lady Fantasia paid very generously.

He scratched his shiny bald pate and settled into the wooden chair that protested against his rotund body’s weight. The walls of the crowded room were filled with drawings of assorted villains for whom rewards were offered. He cleared a space on one of the cluttered desks and read the letter, being careful not to allow anyone nearby to get even a glance at its contents.

The Earl of Barrington had applied to Lady Fantasia’s!
What a breeze that would raise if the scandal sheets found out.
He chuckled to himself, wondering what the reformer’s fantasy might be. No, it was not his place to dwell on that. He set to work in his usual methodical way.

Wolf’s Gate, Northumberland

Lytton Wolverton, seventh Marquess of Eastham, stared out at the bleak day. An icy wind blew down from the hills, making a mockery of spring in the barren north lands of his ancestral home. He preferred the isolation. Everyone who worked on the large estate, even those in the small village nearby, owed their lives and livelihood to the marquess. His authority had never been questioned.

Except by one chit of a girl. His first wife.

Amber was most certainly dead. But what if she were not? The thought had given him no peace in the ten years since she had run off with nearly a hundred pounds pilfered from Mrs. Greevy’s household expense money. Neither his housekeeper nor he would ever forgive such perfidy.

Beyond that, if Amber had somehow managed to survive, his second marriage would be bigamous and his heir illegitimate. Unthinkable. Emma had died birthing a lusty, strong son who would one day be the eighth marquess. He cared nothing for his second marchioness’s death. Indeed, he had no interest in the sniveling babe, given into the care of his younger brother and sister-in-law. He would reclaim the boy when he was old enough for instruction.

Wolverton looked down at the crumpled paper in his fist, uncurling his blunt fingers from the soft velum. Damn, could Hull be right? He found it impossible to imagine a cold, haughty miss like Amber surviving in such a harsh life. She who had not possessed the wit to appreciate being a marchioness! He cursed and threw the balled-up missive at the fireplace, but it bounced off the andiron without igniting and rolled across the stone hearth as if mocking him.

“Is aught amiss, m’lord?” Mrs. Greevy asked. “I saw the post rider.”

The marquess turned toward the door. His housekeeper
was a reedy, thin woman with a hatchet face. She wore her iron gray hair pulled into a mercilessly tight bun. Her stringy limbs were deceptively strong and the cold light in her narrow eyes made them glow with malevolence.

“He brought disturbing news from London, Elvira.”

Mrs. Greevy studied the man to whom she had given her youth and life’s devotion. The marquess wore his straight, salt-and-pepper hair clubbed back in a queue. He was a tall, heavy-boned, broad-shouldered man at the brink of midlife. His face looked to have been chiseled from granite. The Roman nose and high forehead bore the Wolverton stamp, as did his mouth. It was wide with thin lips that turned downward, closed tightly over large straight teeth. His gray eyes, framed by heavy black eyebrows, swept from her to the spot where the letter lay.

“Pray, what did the message say?” she wheedled, drawing as close as she dared. When she had first come into service at Wolf’s Gate, he had taken her to his bed, but quickly tired of the plain, skinny serving wench. Elvira had married the chief butler and risen to become the marquess’s housekeeper and a confidante of sorts. A taciturn man who preferred solitary drinking, Eastham had no close friends and only his younger brother, whom he detested.

He stared out the mullioned window, as if weighing whether or not to reply. At length, he said, “Hull thinks he may have found her.”

She gave a sharp intake of breath before she was able to control her emotions.
No, it cannot be. Not after all these years.
“In London? How ever could she manage?”

Eastham gave a snort of disgust. “If his report is to be believed, she is a courtesan.”

“It would explain much.” Her tone was snide.

“You can credit it, then?” he asked. “She detested marital duties. Defiant, unnatural chit. No, it simply isn’t possible.”

“A flighty gel like that one, a thief, who knows what she might do?” Elvira said, carefully.

Eastham spat a series of guttural oaths and slammed his fist down on the oak windowsill. The panes made a brittle protest. “Demme, after all these years! I dare not chance her being alive, no matter how unlikely the possibility.”

“If she is, Hull can kill her,” Elvira replied with a feral light of hope in her eyes.

The marquess shook his head vigorously. “No! I shall have that pleasure.”

She could read his expression and knew that he was visualizing the torturous games he could enjoy before he killed Amber. Elvira hid her hands in her apron so he could not see her clenched fists, not that he would pay any attention to her now that thoughts of that cherry-haired bitch crowded his mind.

“Summon the rider and have him wait outside the study door,” he instructed her with a dismissive wave, turning his back on her.

As she walked stiffly from the room, he sat down at the large oak table against the wall and reached for a pen and paper. Perhaps this was good fortune. At last he would know that she was well and truly dead, just as everyone in Northumberland already believed. For this time when she returned to Wolf’s Gate, she would never leave…

St. John’s Wood

Amber sat by the bay window facing the small arbor that shielded her quarters from the outside. She could enjoy the lovely spring morning with no prying eyes to see her face in daylight. Hiding her identity had become second nature over the years. As far as anyone knew, Amber Leighigh Wolverton, Marchioness of Eastham, was dead. She took a sip of her morning coffee, strong and black just as she liked it, and broke the seal on Clyde Dyer’s missive.

“It would appear that Barrington is everything he purports to be,” she murmured to herself as she quickly read the Bow Street Runner’s report. There was a brief mention of his spending some time in seminary before he bought a commission as a captain and went to war. She smiled. The seminary would go a ways toward explaining why so sinfully handsome a man had led such a monastic life. Also why, perhaps, he allied himself with unpopular reformist causes.

Tonight he would arrive at midnight for his first “lesson.” Amber had considered all the courtesans at the House of Dreams, finding one reason or another to reject each. Hannah was too bawdy, Cicely too old, Lilly had a teasing manner he might not react well to, Claudia was too haughty…yet each of them was skilled and capable of doing what he requested. So were the others.

Amber had spent the last three days fretting about whether she dare do as Grace suggested, but was no closer to an answer. She glanced over at the document that would grant her admission to the Gallery of Lords. It lay propped against a sterling candelabra on the pier table across the room. The looping flourishes of penmanship on the velum seemed to taunt her.

“′Tis past time to make a decision. No further dithering as if I were some lack-wit,” she murmured, arising. She reached for the bellpull. When her maid arrived, Amber said, “Bonnie, lay out my clothing. I will be going abroad this morning.”

The maid bobbed a curtsy. “Which mourning gown do you wish?” she asked.

“The lighter bombazine. The day promises to be warm,” Amber replied. “Please have Mr. Boxer bring the carriage around at half past the hour and inform Jenette.”

Bonnie nodded and scurried away. She was a tiny thing with carrot-red hair and dense freckles, quick to learn and eager to please. She had been barely eleven years of age when Amber rescued her from the streets. Trained as a lady’s
dresser and now seventeen, she possessed the skills to work for the nobility or a wealthy Cit. Amber had offered to find her a good position, as she had for many other of the children she had saved, but Bonnie had chosen to remain with her benefactress.

Whenever Amber went outside her safe haven, she dressed in full mourning clothes, black from head to toe with a heavy veil on her bonnet, shielding her face from the public. Not only was it a precautionary disguise, but it also afforded her deferential treatment with few questions asked, even by the most addlepated people. She had just finished tying her bonnet and stepped back from the Girandole mirror to inspect her appearance when Jenette tapped on the chamber door.

“I see you are properly attired for the House of Lords,” the Frenchwoman said with a jaunty tilt of her head. Her voice was low, musically accented. Jenette Claudine Beaurivage, daughter of Baron Rochemonde, had survived a date with Madame Guillotine by guile and good fortune. The rest of her family had not been so blessed. “Will you never tire of black?”

Sighing, Amber replied, “I detest it, but—”

“It serves you well, I know,
ma coeur,
” Jenette said with a fond smile. “Are you armed?” The tall, slender blonde had been a spy against Napoleon before her flight, as adept at assassination as she was at seduction. She had become Amber’s personal bodyguard, able to enter places with her friend that the retired soldiers in Lady Fantasia’s employ could not.

Amber raised her reticule. “I would not dare leave it behind lest you scold.”

“And you continue your practice shooting and reloading?”

“Not for the past few days,” Amber replied distractedly.

Sensing her companion’s mood, Jenette asked, “Has your unease anything to do with this zealot we are going to hear this morning?”

“I am interested in what the Earl of Barrington has to say
about child labor. As to whether he is a zealot…I shall reserve judgment.”

Jenette frowned. “You had best beware of that one. He condemns places such as this and would see us closed down if it were within his power.”

Amber laughed at Jenette’s unintended irony. She had told no one save Grace about Barrington’s midnight visit. “There is no other place ‘such as this’ in the Great Wen. Still, let us be grateful that neither Parliament nor Prinny possesses such power.”

“True, but that has not stopped this earl and Madame More and Monsieur Wilberforce from attacking you as if you were a common bawd!”

“Don’t work yourself into a pet, Jeni. I only wish to hear his legendary oratory and judge his sincerity for myself.”

“Why do you concern yourself with such a man?” the Frenchwoman asked suspiciously. “I have heard that he is very handsome,” she added, giving Amber a speculative look.

Amber appreciated the protection of her heavy veil, which hid the sudden flush blooming on her cheeks. “Perhaps we will better be able to judge if his character is equal to his physical appearance after he speaks.” She tried for a careless Gallic shrug. “Perhaps not. But Parliament should act to prevent the exploitation of children.”

“Pfft,” Jenette said with a true Gallic shrug. “They only consider Mr. Peel’s proposal to form a commission for the study of child labor. In spite of your earl’s vaunted oratory, it will come to nothing. You are not the only one who reads the
Morning Chronicle.
”

“I bow to your cynicism, my dear,” Amber said curtly.

“Yet you will go?”

“Yet I will,” was the determined reply. “Mr. Boxer and his arsenal await below.” She practically stomped down the stairs.
This is insane. I should not do this.
The warning voice echoed inside her mind.

“Whatever would we do without our formidable sergeant major?” Jenette said gaily, ignoring the high dudgeon her questioning had induced.

Waldo Boxer, formerly with the Coldstream Guards, waited patiently at the door. The squat, sturdy man with the ruddy complexion and unfashionable chin whiskers smiled at the women with a twinkle in his pale blue eyes. “Good morning, m’ladies,” he said as he opened the carriage door and assisted them inside before taking his place next to the driver. Like Jenette, he performed double service as servant and bodyguard.

The House of Lords met in the former Court of Requests, one of many chambers clustered about Westminster Hall. Boxer took a seat in the anteroom. Both he and Jenette observed those in line as they presented their vouchers for entry to the proceedings. Amber was well concealed by her veil. No one appeared to give the widow particular notice, but a few admiring glances were cast her companion’s way. The beautiful Frenchwoman ignored them.

Amber and Jenette climbed the marble stairs to one of two balconies at opposite sides of the long, rectangular room, which had been refurbished for the peers. Painted a deep red, the chamber was supposed to exude gravitas. In fact, the intense color only made the space seem smaller. The press of people on the upper level contrasted with scant attendance on the floor.

“It would seem that the peerage has far less interest in the exploitation of children than do the citizens whom they supposedly serve,” she murmured disdainfully to Jenette.

“I wager the Cits are more concerned with protecting their cheap labor supply than in seeing that Parliament cuts it off.” Jenette’s whisper was filled with the world-weary tolerance of one born of the Ancient Regime.

“A new day is dawning in England,” Amber replied. “And I wager we shall see the reformers triumph.”

Brass chandeliers dripped hot wax, adding more heat in the unventilated room. As she took a seat on a wooden bench in the second row, Amber resisted the urge to employ her fan. No, she dared not do anything to call attention to herself.
He will not recognize you, you paper skull!
She scanned the floor, looking for Barrington.