Ruthless (12 page)

“Don't look at me like that. It's not as if you're likely to contract a decent marriage. We needn't worry about your virginity, and if by any chance you do find
someone who's a stickler there are ways to get around it. In the meantime, we've been offered a great opportunity, a way to get out of debt and ahead a bit, and we should be grateful…”

“We, Mama?” she'd echoed. “I won't do it.”

Her mother looked at her with deep dislike. “I should have known you'd be a selfish child. Then it will have to be Lydia.”

“She's only eleven!”

“I told you, Sir Christopher is…odd. He'd much prefer her, but I was hoping to spare her at such a tender age. However, he did say he'd double his offer, so if you're unwilling, she'll simply have to take your place.” Her mother's voice was flat, implacable. Knowing Elinor's only possible response.

“You're whoring your daughters to pay off your gaming debts?” Elinor said in an uncompromising voice. “And if I don't present myself to that disgusting old man, you're willing to let him touch Lydia? Am I clear on this?”

Her mother didn't flinch. “Very clear, Elinor. You've been given a chance to save your family, to protect your younger sister, to aid your mother in a time of great need. You can do the selfish thing, and refuse, or you can accept, gracefully. It's your choice.”

And it was no choice at all. That night she lay in bed beside Lydia, her last night as a maiden, and listened as her mother and Nanny Maude argued, but in the end even Nanny had given in. The pink dress had been returned to the neighbors, replaced with one that was hers alone, made with alarming swiftness by Lady
Caroline's own modiste. Her hair had been primped and fashioned, and the wardrobe of thin, diaphanous undergarments and nightclothes should have made her blush.

But she'd lost that ability. The next evening a coach came to collect her, and the hatchet-faced woman who accompanied her said nothing, viewing her with the contempt Elinor knew she deserved.

Sir Christopher's house was alight with noise and laughter when she stepped inside, and she automatically turned toward it, when the woman caught her arm. “You're not welcome in there,” she'd said in French, the words somehow sounding crueler in that language. “You're to wait for him in your room. One of the maids will assist you.”

“But I thought—”

“You have one purpose and one alone, mademoiselle. Do not forget it, and do not presume to ask me for anything. Once I show you your quarters you're to keep silent and do what you're paid to do.”

She would have turned around and walked out, but the memory of Lydia, her confused expression when Elinor had tried to explain she would be visiting her friend in Italy for a while, stopped her. She had no idea whether her mother would make good her bluff. It didn't really matter—she couldn't take that chance, and Lady Caroline knew it.

So she'd nodded, and Hatchet-Lady, whose name, oddly enough, was found out to be Madame Hachette, had led the way upstairs to a spacious corner room with a distressingly large bed up on a dais.

“This is his bedroom?” she'd asked.

“Don't be absurd. He'll come to you here when he feels the urge. Otherwise you're to keep to this room and your food will be brought up to you.”

“But what will I do the rest of the time?”

“How should I know? Or care? Do what other whores do,” she'd said rudely. “Marie will see to your needs. She's hopeless as a housemaid, but your needs will be minimal and shouldn't be beyond her limited comprehension.” A young girl was standing off to one side, face downcast.

Madame had looked at them both, made a noise of disgust and walked away, and as Marie raised her head Elinor expected another look of withering contempt. Instead, Marie's plain young face was filled with such sympathy that Elinor's strong resolve nearly shattered.

“I can help,” Marie had said calmly. “If you want me to.”

She'd stood still beneath Marie's strong young hands as the maid had divested her of the new, frilly clothes her mother had bought her and dressed her in the sheer undergarments. “He won't ask much of you,” she'd said in an even, practical voice. “You'll simply have to lie still and let him do what he wants. For anything special he can use his society women—he knows he can't get the Spanish disease from a whore's mouth. If you take opium it won't be so bad.”

She'd looked into Marie's sad, dark eyes and didn't ask how she knew. It was more than obvious.

So she took the powders and climbed up into the
big bed, and when Sir Christopher came and pushed his hard, ugly thing between her legs and made her bleed she didn't move, didn't cry out. She simply closed her eyes and dreamed.

For three months she saw no one but Marie during the day, with the occasional nighttime visits from Sir Christopher. Marie would sneak her books from the library to keep her entertained, brew her teas to make certain she didn't conceive, help her dream at night when he would cover her body with his huge weight, grunting and sweating and hurting her.

And then it was over as abruptly as it had begun. She rose one morning and washed him away from her body and Madame Hachette appeared in her doorway to whisk her back home, her harsh face set in the same cold disapproval. She didn't even have a chance to say goodbye to Marie.

When she walked into the house on the edge of the city she expected everything to have changed. She stood in the hallway and looked around her. There were signs of prosperity—a new rug in the entrance, a Chinese vase on an occasional table by the stairs. But the rest was the same as always.

She found her mother in her bedroom, with Nanny sitting in a chair near the bed. There were sores on her face, on her arms, and her eyes were cloudy when she saw her daughter. “He got tired of you, did he?” she'd said in a cracked voice. “I should have known our fortunes wouldn't last, not when they relied on you.” She turned her head away.

But Nanny Maude leaped up, putting her arms
around Elinor. For a moment she fought—no one had touched her with gentleness or affection in so long, and she felt dirty, ugly.

But Nanny would have none of that, and it was all Elinor could do to keep from sobbing. She let Nanny hold her tightly, as if to squeeze the ugliness away. But it was too late.

Her mother's voice had whispered from the bed. “And now I've got an ugly daughter who's a whore,” she'd said. “Why is my life so wretched?”

Elinor had broken free of Nanny's gentle embrace and looked down at her mother, trying to think of something to say. But Lady Caroline's eyes had drifted closed, and there were no words harsh enough.

It had taken months for her to accept Lydia's embraces and joy in having her home again. Not until she'd had word that Sir Christopher had returned to England with his new bride, a girl of fourteen, the gossips had said, horrified.

And the last trace of regret had vanished, and Elinor had put her arms around Lydia and for the first time in a year, she wept.

T
he next ten days proved to be a challenge to Elinor's newfound determination. It wasn't simply the daily arrival of gifts from Viscount Rohan. With no other source to turn to, she had no choice but to accept his charity, and she did so with perfect grace, as long as she didn't have to see him. In fact, her nightmare had done her good. It didn't matter that she refused to be a whore like her mother, dependent on the largesse of wealthy men—she'd already accepted that role the day she climbed into Sir Christopher's bed.

Each day a new arrival of food, of firewood, of rich wool blankets and silken throws, would arrive, and she would dutifully sit down and write a polite note of thanks and promise of repayment, dispatching Jacobs with it. Each day he would return with a note in Rohan's careless scrawl, and even her sister failed to see the impropriety of his suggestions that she might visit to further discuss methods of repayment. Ones, he said, that didn't involve rats. Lydia had wrinkled her brow at that, but Elinor refused to explain. Besides,
she'd changed her mind. She'd underestimated the danger of the King of Hell, and she wasn't going anywhere near him again, not if she could help it. The memory of his mouth still burned. Rats would be easier to forget.

She ate the food, rich and wonderful beyond her memory, without choking, she warmed herself by the fire his money had provided, and she slept in the bed next to her sister, holding tight to the knowledge that as long as Lydia slept beside her the girl was safe.

There'd been a time, a brief time when she'd been in Rohan's dangerous, mesmerizing presence, when she'd really believed it wasn't her sister he wanted. When he'd touched her, kissed her, and a whole new world had opened up. Not the sunshiny bright world of true love and happy endings. Something darker, more complex, infinitely more alluring.

Common sense had returned along with daylight. If he'd had even the slightest passing interest in her it was occasioned only by her unique status as an innocent. Once he learned otherwise he would have come to his senses. Assuming he had left them in the first place.

But he'd made no effort to broaden his acquaintance with her sister, and Elinor allowed herself to relax, at least briefly. And to be grateful for the most important gift of all. Etienne de Giverney.

It wasn't until the third day that there was a sudden knock on the door, and apprehension swept through Elinor. “Go in the bedroom, Lydia,” she said swiftly, rising from her seat by the blessed fire. “I'll get rid of him.”

Lydia didn't argue. She never did when Elinor used that tone of voice. She was far from naive, and she knew full well, without any vanity, that her looks brought her unwanted attention, and she slipped into their bedroom as Elinor waited for Jacobs to open the door, certain that Lord Rohan would be there, ready to claim his reward.

Instead, a husky young man stepped into the house, ducking beneath the low lintel. He was dressed immaculately, perhaps too much so, and he carried a medical bag in one hand. “Miss Elinor Harriman?” he said in the French of a native. “My name is Etienne de Giverney. I've been sent by my cousin, the Comte de Giverney, to provide assistance.”

She stared at him, dumbfounded for the moment. And then memory flooded back, Rohan's absurd suggestion that she marry this young man. If she could go by the way he was looking at her out of flat black eyes, he was having none of it.

She was half tempted to see him on his way, but the visit of a real doctor was too valuable to ignore. “You're very kind, monsieur. My mother is quite ill—if you would see if there's anything you can do for her it would be much appreciated. But that is all we have need of.”

He didn't bother hiding his relief. He'd walked into the room with the air of a man going to his execution, and Elinor wondered whether she should be amused or insulted. Either way it didn't matter—she could hardly marry in order to please Lord Rohan. The comte was clearly delusional.

“I will endeavor to do my best,” he said in a stiff voice. “I'm indebted to my cousin on many levels—he paid for my education and sees to it that I'm well employed.”

“His lordship is a very charitable man,” Elinor ventured.

The doctor snorted. “You might say so, though whether he's actually a lord is open for discussion.”

Elinor responded as he clearly meant her to. “How so, Monsieur de Giverney?”

“Another man in England holds the viscountcy, and I myself should have acceded to the title of Comte de Giverney instead of an Englishman. It was a mere accident of birth—if he were a man of honor he would have refused the title.”

Such a stuffy young man, Elinor thought, bearing his full share of grievances. “I don't believe Lord Rohan is known for his more honorable qualities.”

His earlier sniff became a full-blown snort. “I tell you, mademoiselle, it is very difficult for me. Very difficult indeed. That I, a true de Giverney, should toil like a tradesman while he enjoys the family château, the town house, the money…”

She made all the right soothing sounds, mentally thanking God for the Harriman Nose. Even if she thought marriage was a possibility for her, she'd prefer to do without rather than end up with this pompous young man.

She led him into the bedroom where Lady Caroline lay, still and small beneath the covers. “The Spanish disease,” he said knowingly. “She is too far gone—there is nothing that can be done for her but ease her
pain.” He leaned over and lifted her eyelids—her eyes were dull and glassy, though she managed a muffled and obscene curse.

Elinor could feel the color stain her cheeks. “I beg your pardon…” she said.

“It is of no consequence. In the late stages the madness is fully upon them, and very little remains of the person they once were. I'm sure your mother was a kind and generous soul before becoming so afflicted. I assume she contracted this from your father. Is he still living?” He was looking at her with slightly more approval, since she'd provided him a seemingly captivated audience.

“Alas, no. He died recently, leaving us nothing. If it weren't for your cousin we would be quite destitute.”

His momentary warmth vanished. “I have laudanum for your mother. You'll need to watch the dosage carefully. As her pain and agitation increase you'll need to give her more of the tincture. If she's still alive at the end of a fortnight I'll return to check on her…” His voice trailed off as the door opened and Lydia poked her head in the room.

“You don't look like the King of Hell,” she said cheerfully, and Elinor groaned.

“This is Etienne de Giverney, Lydia. He was just leaving—”

Her words were cut off as the doctor pushed in front of her, taking one of Lydia's hands in his. “My dear lady,” he murmured. “What a trying time for you.”

Elinor blinked. Why was she surprised—most men had only to look at Lydia and fall desperately in love. The stiff-necked doctor was no different.

“Dr. de Giverney says she hasn't much time left, and we must keep her comfortable, my love,” she said. “He was about to leave.”

“On the contrary, Mademoiselle Harriman,” he protested, not looking anywhere but into Lydia's blue eyes. “I have yet to complete my examination, and then I will inform you and your sister exactly what you may expect. She is very ill, but that doesn't mean she is past the point of all help. Please.” He gestured them out the door.

It could be worse, Elinor thought, ordering tea for the three of them. He was a handsome young man, if stuffy, and he even had a trade. He would make Lydia an excellent husband. Before the disease had claimed Lady Caroline's mind their mother had had grand plans for Lydia—a title, a wealthy husband were to be expected, and there was no saying how high they might look.

All that was gone now, and Lydia had no interest in coronets or fortunes. As Madame de Giverney she would have a strong, stable husband who would give her children, keep her safe, and if Francis Rohan managed to die without reproducing, Lydia might even end up with the French title after all.

Elinor wasn't going to think about that. Francis Rohan's plans for procreation had nothing to do with her, and Lydia wouldn't care if she was a French countess or a simple doctor's wife. She smiled her
sweet smile at Etienne when he came every day, listened to his lectures on modern medical practices and asked all the right questions. She could prove a helpful assistant in his surgery if he would let her, and in the meantime the stuffy young man, like so many others, was thoroughly enchanted. He would offer marriage, despite Lydia's lack of a fortune. He was too besotted not to.

And Elinor clung to that small hope as the days passed and her newfound cousin, her only hope for rescue, still didn't return to town.

She had no idea whether Etienne reported to the viscount, but with disconcerting suddenness his lordship stopped responding to her oh-so-polite thank-you notes. The first day that Jacobs had returned empty-handed she had paced the thick rug, expecting a messenger at any moment with the delayed missive. No one came.

The next morning there was pheasant and apples and a set of crystal wineglasses, and she sat by the fire and wrote her note, never mentioning his lack of response. For sure, she'd barely noticed, and it wouldn't do to have Francis Rohan think he mattered in the slightest. Not to her.

There was no return note. And yes, his lordship was most definitely in residence, and had received her note, Jacobs assured her, disapproving. Apparently his lordship was caught up in plans for some grand party, and the Harrimans had little enough claim on his attention. But the food and fuel and the small gifts kept arriving each morning, and Elinor wrote her
dutiful notes, telling herself she was relieved he'd forgotten about them. Delighted, in fact.

If Lydia proved amenable, then rescue was at hand. In the meantime she would forget about Viscount Rohan, even as she lost herself in the books he sent her, and pray that the slim hope fate had dangled in front of her wasn't to be snatched away.

 

Lydia slipped on her sabots, pulled the thick woolen cloak around her shoulders and grabbed the marketing basket. It was a warmer day in this long, cold winter, and Lydia had been cooped up for too long. Elinor tended to be too protective, but a trip to the market was among her allowed single excursions, as long as Jacobs kept an eye on her. The sun was shining for the first time in what seemed like weeks, and she almost thought that spring might be a possibility.

Most importantly, she needed an escape from the tiny house, from the specter of Lady Caroline's imminent death, from Elinor's constant worry, from Etienne de Giverney's oppressive presence.

She knew what he wanted. She could feel the full weight of Elinor's approval, of Nanny's concern. He would make an excellent husband—there was no denying it. He was handsome, not unkind, with a good living that could support them all if need be. With the devilish Viscount Rohan behind him, he was better than she could have hoped for.

And she would say yes, once he brought himself to ask for her. She would marry him and sleep in his
bed and bear his children. And no one would ever guess that she dreamed of someone else.

But that was in the future, and Lydia was a firm believer in not borrowing trouble. “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof” were words she believed in, and this day was filled with sunshine and blue sky and she had money enough to buy fresh bread and cheese.

Elinor would have a fit if she knew Rohan's daily largesse included French livres. Nanny had enough sense to confiscate the money before Elinor noticed, and she'd built up a tidy little nest egg, enough to cover some of the small pleasantries of life.

The great market of Les Halles was only a brisk ten-minute walk away. Lydia could almost feel sorry for poor Jacobs, struggling to keep up with her. She slowed her pace, ignoring the energy that felt ready to burst free. She'd been kept bottled up for too long, like old champagne, and soon enough she'd be put back in, to molder away. Right now she wanted to dance, to breathe, to run through the streets…

She came to an abrupt stop, her empty basket still swinging on her arm. She glanced behind her, but there was no sign of Jacobs—she'd managed to out-pace him again. And directly ahead of her, staring up at a row of buildings that overlooked the busy street, was Mr. Charles Reading.

She had absolutely no doubt it was he, even though she'd only seen him on that one, brief occasion when she'd been so worried about her mother and Elinor she shouldn't even have paid attention to him.

But paid attention she had. She'd looked up into his scarred, beautiful face and felt something she'd never felt before, a treacherous softening inside her, an urge to move closer, to touch his face, to…

For his part, he'd seemed to barely notice her. Oh, he'd been politely flirtatious when he'd first arrived, but she well knew what lay behind men's eyes when they looked at her. She'd known Etienne's covetousness from first glance, she'd known Rohan's lack of interest, and she knew just how respectful or licentious men's glances were.

But Charles Reading eluded her. He'd said all the right things, smiled at her so charmingly, and yet when she'd tried to look into his dark eyes she saw nothing familiar.

What a delicious irony, she thought. She was so used to men falling all over her that she simply accepted it as her due, and the first man who didn't was the first man she wanted.

Nanny Maude would tell her, if she were fool enough to talk to her about such a thing, that she was a silly, vain girl, and the only reason she was obsessed with him was because he didn't care about her. Elinor would be practical and tell her that Mr. Reading probably only enjoyed the company of other men, carefully skirting the issue. So she didn't bother discussing it with anyone. Which probably made his hold on her imagination even stronger. If she'd simply been able to talk about her feelings she might have moved past them days ago.