As the night progressed, Beamer stuck to the entrance as if he’d been glued there. The company grew drunker, the conversation more ribald, and the flirtations into fondling. Couples began to break from the group and ascend the staircase, accompanied by merry encouragement from those remaining below. It was almost more than poor Miss Atherton could bear.
Frances was so intent upon both keeping her head, her profile even, from Landry’s direction and peeking to see if Beamer left his post, that she was caught unaware by a shift in St. Pips’ mood. True, his monologue about horses had distracted him, but it had also had the unfortunate effect of sobering him enough to realize that he was in no way tapping Frances for her full potential. Suddenly, he thrust a strong arm around her waist and drew Frances roughly to his lap. Her instinct was to slap him, and she did. St. Pips gaped at Frances, then shouted with beery laughter.
“By God, don’t I love a naughty wench! What a time we’ll have together!” He poked his fingers gleefully into her ribs. “The slap and tickle, eh? You slap me, and I’ll tickle you!”
“I’ll do a lot more than slap you if you don’t remove your hands this instant,” muttered Frances, fighting to disengage herself from his bullish clinch.
“Oh, you’re a good one, you are. Tell you what . . .” St. Pips made a suggestion to her that made Lord Landry’s proposal of last week seem the pinnacle of delicacy. “So let’s go upstairs.”
Covered with a full body blush, frightened that Madame or Jem Beamer would observe their struggle, frightened of St. Pips’ beefy strength, Frances felt her poise beginning to waver.
She demanded to be released, but St. Pips persisted in his belief that they were having a grand time of it. Catching her wrists in one hand, St. Pips used the other to continue tickling at her waist. It was in the midst of this miserable tussle that Frances heard Lord Landry speak.
“My friend St. Pips!” Yes, it was Landry’s voice, untroubled by temperament, unmoved by pity; the same easy, friendly tones that promised much and nothing. “How are you?”
St. Pips stopped wrestling with Frances and stared up, blinking in befuddlement.
“Landry!” he blurted, “but you never talk to me! . . . Oh! Wait! Didn’t mean that. What I mean is—Hullo!”
Frances sat frozen on St. Pips’ lap, cringing, filled with the most vile humiliation, her gaze fixed on the clinging fabric of her gown.
“Introduce me to your friend?” suggested Landry.
“This one’s the Mysterious White Rose,” guffawed St. Pips, and gave her a jovial swat on the back. “Make no mistake about it, she’s a game one.” He gave a suggestive wink. “Likes a spirited play.”
“What rare discernment, my dear St. Pips.” Frances didn’t have to see Lord Landry’s face to know that he was smiling. “But how is it that you’re not drinking? Here’s your glass, and full, too! Give me your opinion. The burgundy is tolerable stuff, don’t you think?”
Flattered beyond words to have his views solicited by so elevated a connoisseur, St. Pips began a rambling attempt to prove that he was in exact agreement with Lord Landry’s pronouncement. Landry, meanwhile, was able to introduce the wineglass into one of St. Pips’ hands, and at the same time free Frances’ wrists from the other. Frances felt the cool, steady pressure of Landry’s hands high on her sides as he whisked her from St. Pips’ lap and sat her carefully in a nearby chair.
“What a lot of names you have, Miss Atherton,” he whispered, his breath soft among her curls.
Frances’ quickly accomplished removal left St. Pips staring with hazy bewilderment into the space where she had been. He frowned up at Landry, who returned the look with an encouraging smile. It spoke volumes for the intimidating ease of Landry’s self-assurance that the moment passed without St. Pips making an objection.
“You have a horse running next month at the Derby?” inquired Landry suavely, who was nothing if not well informed. Delighted with this show of interest, St. Pips launched once more into his favorite topic.
Never before had so many conflicting emotions raged in Frances’ breast: resentment, trepidation, awful embarrassment, and a niggardly sum of gratitude that pricked her like a nettle. How she would have liked to know what Landry was thinking. The worst, no doubt. Frances stole her first nervous glance toward Landry, who was conducting an amused and thoughtful study of St. Pips. Landry was dressed in a gray evening coat, which contrasted admirably with his glinting green eyes and his shining, impeccably cut blond hair. His legs, finely muscled and long, were stretched casually before him, encased in tight-fitting breeches, as he leaned back in a chair next to Frances. He reached out an elegant hand to her and played gently, absentmindedly, in her curls with his tapered fingers. She shivered involuntarily and was about to bat his hand away when she saw Madame la Princesse bearing down on them.
Madame had made a point to keep her eye on Frances throughout the evening. How she hated to use girls she had not personally trained! One never knew what gaucherie they might exhibit before a client. And tonight of all nights she wanted no slipups. She had seen Landry’s show of interest in the girl—his possessive sequester of her. Almost it had made her laugh—the foolish St. Pips gulled by the most beautiful man in the ton. These minor rivalries over girls were frequent in her house and they added spice to the business; but the White Rose was an unknown quantity. Could Madame trust her to keep the situation from getting out of hand? From the tight, unhappy look of her, it seemed as if the girl was going to exercise no conciliatory charm on either man. Perhaps she had already been handled too roughly by that stupid St. Pips. Or perhaps . . . the thought sprang to Madame’s mind—Mother Blanchard might have treacherously sent the girl with the villainous purpose of deliberately causing an incident to bring unfavorable publicity to Madame’s rival establishment? Madame’s heels took wing toward the trouble spot.
“Ah, Lord Landry. Do you enjoy yourself? And Miss-sewer St. Pips, you are happy, oui?”
St. Pips gave her a lushy grin and raised his glass. “Tolerable burgundy, Madame,” he said thickly.
“And the little mademoiselle, she is fond of you?”
“Slapped me right across the face,” he said proudly.
“She is original, la petite mademoiselle,” replied Madame la Princesse, and darted a look that bode ill toward the Mysterious White Rose. “I know Mademoiselle the White Rose is eager for you to take her upstairs to continue your game in private,
n’est-ce pas?
I shall have Miss-sewer Beamer show you to a room.”
Landry lifted his graceful body from the chair. As he did so, Frances saw him send a deft signal across the room to a young, strikingly handsome man standing by Kennan. The young man set down his wine, gave a wry smile, and came toward them. Landry made a subtle gesture, indicating St. Pips. The young man’s grin widened, and he gave a tiny affirmative nod. As the young man reached them, Landry said:
“Mr. St. Pips, you know my cousin, Sir Giles? No? Giles, I know you’ll recognize the significance of St. Pips’ views on horseracing.”
The young man rolled his eyes comically, murmured, “Only for you, David,” and came around the tête-à-tête to sit by St. Pips, inviting him, with an air of solicitous interest, to talk. Satisfied, Landry draped an affectionate arm around Madame and walked her to a spot a few feet away, engaging her in a quiet discussion. Frances couldn’t make out Landry’s words, but after a moment of listening, Madame exclaimed:
“Please, my dear Lordship, I cannot! Instead, I shall let you have Nanette. She’s my best girl and I was saving her for His Highness, the Royal Duke. Only for your satisfaction will I make this concession.”
Frances couldn’t hear Landry’s reply.
“I beg you, Your Lordship,” cried Madame, “to be reasonable. I’ve already promised the White Rose to St. Pips. How can I tell him that she’s not for him, when he’s so obviously so happy with her?”
Landry laughed, and replied in a low voice.
Madame wrung her hands in distress. “How can I choose between you? St. Pips is a regular
paying
client. You have come to the Chez la Princesse but twice before, on the occasion of parties given by your acquaintances—and neither time did you stay to delight any of my girls with your attention.”
Landry’s quiet answer must have been persuasive, because when he was finished speaking, Madame threw up her arms in submission.
“As you will have it,” she declared, “but not a word of this to a soul, My Lord, or you will ruin me. Only for you . . .”
It was with difficulty that Frances hid her agitation as Madame discreetly summoned Jem Beamer, then leaned down to dig her red-tipped fingers into Frances’ arm.
“If Landry’s not happy when he’s done with you,” Madame hissed in Frances’ ear, “Beamer will personally make you wish you were never born!” But nothing could have been more genial than Madame’s expression as she turned to smile at Lord Landry.
“So, I will take you to a room, Miss-sewer.”
Madame drew Frances to her feet and began to propel her toward the stairs, then up them. Behind her, Frances heard Beamer talking to St. Pips, explaining blandly that the White Rose had been called away to care for her sick mother. St. Pips’ bellow of rage boomed to hit Frances as she came to the top step, and as she looked back she saw heads throughout the room turn curiously in St. Pips’ direction. Kennan was among the interested.
“See what trouble you cause me,” chided Madame, turning back with a come-hitherish smile to Lord Landry as they walked down a narrow corridor. “But here is your love nest! Au revoir!”
Madame threw open the heavy oak door with a dramatic sweep of her hand. Some instinct must have caused her to sense reluctance in Frances’ hesitation; Madame put two hands below Frances’ shoulder blades and gave her an inconspicuous shove. Frances stumbled into a square chamber with a thick wool carpet, a black marble fireplace, and a grandiose ornamented bedstead hung with crimson drapery. There was the neat click of a well-made lock as Lord Landry closed the door behind them. The only light came from red coals that glowed from the hearth’s dark maw.
“Touch me,” announced Frances, “and I’ll scratch your eyes out.”
“Oh, yes, the spirited play that so enchanted Mr. St. Pips,” said Lord Landry, amicably. He bent to reanimate the sullen fire with a poker. “Tell me, are you drugged?”
“I? Drugged? I should hope not!” gasped Frances, shocked from her fierce distress.
Landry took a candle from the bronze athénienne by the bed, held it in the fire to light it, and replaced it on its stand. As he spoke to her, the new flame flickered and grew. “I’m hoping not, as well. But if you’ve had anything to eat or drink here, it’s always a possibility.”
“I haven’t,” said Frances tightly.
“That’s good.” He gave her a clinically approving smile. “According to Giles, creative apothecary is one of Beamer’s specialties. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a little poppy dust in St. Pips’ next goblet.”
Frances’ eyes grew wide. “Horrible!”
“Don’t worry,” he said casually, shrugging out of his jacket. “They’ll be careful not to kill him; only think of the scandal.”
“This is a terrible place,” she whispered shakily.
“There are a lot worse.” There was no sentimentality in his smile. He draped his jacket over a convex girandole mirror that hung beside the hearth. “To broaden your horizons, Miss Atherton, that’s what you do with a two-way mirror. Are you going to faint?”
Miss Atherton’s voice was high and thin as she said, “Certainly not.”
“Very sensible. God knows what’s been spilled on this carpet.” He leaned against the wall by the fireplace, long legs braced apart, and watched her, smiling with sparkling eyes. “Would it cheer you if I told you that I looked on this more as a rescue than a purchase?”
The color began to return to Frances’ face, and the resentment to her breast. Her chin went up.
“I didn’t need,” she said in a brittle voice, “to be rescued.”
He laughed, unoffended. “Then I can look upon this as a purchase?”
“Certainly not.” Her reply and his mimic of it were spoken simultaneously.
“Poor mysterious Miss Atherton.” He smiled into her arctic glare. His voice was warm with sympathy. “Do you know what
kind
of a terrible place it is?”
“My horizons,” she snapped, “are sufficiently broad for me to know that, even though I was not aware of it when I first came in. This is, Lord Landry—and I shall not mince words—it’s an . . . abode of wrongdoing!”
“Miss Atherton, you minced words,” he said reproachfully. “A euphemism for a euphemism.”
“Very well, if you will have it! This is a bawdy house!”
“Wherever,” he asked good-humoredly, “did you learn all this plain speaking?”
“My father is a parson,” she said with dignity.
“Ah!” The green eyes were bright as emeralds. “Prudence Sweetsteeple, parson’s brat. It explains much. Are you here to save those poor sinners downstairs from themselves or to raise money for the missions?”
As the scattered shards of her self-confidence began to reunite, the desire to justify her presence to him began to war with a strong conviction that she ought to show him how little she cared for his good opinion. It took her a moment to devise a retort that would satisfy both requirements.
“I suppose that means that you think I owe you an explanation for being here,” she asked.
Reaching out his hand, he traced a slow path with one finger across the pale skin above her gown. He watched her tremble, and smiled. “My sweet Prudence,” he murmured, “how are we going to get around this excess virtue of yours? It doesn’t feel the same as when St. Pips touched you, does it?”
Frances felt the skin heat under her cheeks. Backing away, she said chokingly, “I think you’re odious.”
“No, you don’t, too bad for you. You’ve got a lot to learn, parson’s brat.” He stepped forward as though to touch her again and she retreated quickly. “Careful, Miss Atherton, you’re getting closer to the bed.” He gave her a lazy smile and leaned back against the wall, crossing his legs. “Relax, dear. You don’t have to skitter from me like a fawn. I’m not going to chase you around the room. Do you know this is the first time I’ve made your bosom heave with indignation in such a skimpy gown? It’s quite an effect. And I ought to point out that yanking the neckline higher is not achieving what you want it to, because that draws the material tighter over you . . .”