Seducing the Master (An Erotic Historical in the Red Chrysanthemum Series) (17 page)

“Oh, dear!” Sarah exclaimed, going over and
taking the parts. “I worried of this! I pray it can be mended.”

“If it cannot, I am certain the old man will
be there tomorrow.”

“No, no. I know how parsimonious you are
with your funds.”

“You and Georgie bring me such joy, the
expense is nothing.”

Sarah sat down again, and Terrell continued
unlacing the ribbons. She had vowed, when she had been cast off by
Sir Fairchild, that she would not take money for granted ever
again. She would not be without funds when old age claimed her. She
would not be one of the sad and desperate blackamoors, many of them
granted their manumission in the final years of their lives,
begging on the streets for scraps of food. Nothing could be worse
than the bondage imposed upon her people, but starvation came
close.

“Georgie is a strong little fellow,” she
commented to Sarah. “Was his father quite muscular?”

Sarah lowered her eyes. “I had little
interaction with him. I think, from the few times he did join my
bed, that he was more brawny than I expected. I saw him clothed
most of the time.”

“Sir Arthur is similar, much stronger than
his outward appearance suggests,” Terrell noted as she undid
Sarah’s ribbons.

“I would not pay Master Gallant too much
attention while Sir Arthur seeks your favors,” Sarah cautioned.

“You know Sir Arthur?”

“I am a little acquainted with him, and
remember well a garden party we had both attended. I had ventured
far into the gardens and was admiring the irises when I heard a
young man and a woman in the gazebo behind me. They had taken no
notice of me because a row of small trees separated us. The man
introduced himself and remarked upon the various flora. A moment
later, I heard another man come upon them, Sir Arthur. The woman
cried out, and I heard the young man say, ‘Pray, Sir! I think you
hurt her!’ Sir Arthur replied, ‘You need not interfere. She is my
wife.’ I looked through the hedges to see Sir Arthur dragging his
wife away by her wrist.

“We were all joined at the tables for tea
later, and the woman who was Sir Arthur’s wife spoke not a word the
entire time. Sir Arthur glared a great deal at the young man from
the gazebo. I thought Sir Arthur would very much like to have
killed the man. I noticed quite the dark bruise upon the wife’s
wrist.”

“Perhaps Sir Arthur feared his wife intended
to make of him a cuckold.”

“Perhaps. I did see his wife on one other
occasion. We happened to pass each other in a posting inn, for I
was returning to London while she was headed to Bath. Her pomade
and powder failed to conceal the bruises upon her cheek and her
neck. I attempted to introduce myself once again, but she had no
obvious desire to converse. She looked quite the forlorn creature.
I could not help but feel sorry for her. I would take great care
with Sir Arthur. He seems the temperamental sort.”

“He would not be the first such man I have
had at the Red Chrysanthemum. Is he indeed wealthy? He appears so,
but I know that many a gentleman can style themselves in affluence
and few would suspect that they carried great amounts of debt.”

“I believe Sir Arthur need never worry of
debt. His fortunes from the East India Company are vast.”

Terrell let out a contented breath, pleased
by the confirmation.

Sarah seemed to know her thoughts.
“Nonetheless, I would accept his coin with caution. When I learned
his wife passed away, I could not help but wonder—”

“He is a widower? Has he ever taken a
mistress?”

“I know not. My time in that society, as you
know, was cut short.”

Sarah allowed her shift to fall from her
shoulders to her waist. Terrell looked in awe at the beautiful
expanse of skin exposed to her. Her ladyship possessed a most
beautiful back with nary a blemish. Despite having born a child,
she had resumed her youthful figure, and her back had the perfect
amount of flesh about two elegant shoulder blades. Terrell wanted
to run her hand upon such smooth loveliness. She had once possessed
such perfection. What she now had she hid from everyone, except
Sarah.

George, wanting attention, emitted a squeal.
Sarah picked him up and wiggled her nose at his belly. The little
child laughed in glee.

“I shall not mourn the life I once had as
long as I have him,” Sarah said as she embraced George to her.

Terrell looked upon them, marveling that the
love for a child could provide such fulfillment. “As I cannot have
such a treasure of mine own, I am content to crave the society you
left behind.”

“And you think Sir Arthur would provide you
passage?”

“If he would take a blackamoor for a
mistress.”

Sarah made no comment. Perhaps she did not
think Sir Arthur would. Or perhaps she did not agree with Terrell’s
stratagem. A Negress, however, had few options. If she wished to
attain the better comforts of life and secure enough funds to
provide for herself in later years when youth and beauty would no
longer serve, Sir Arthur was her most promising prospect at the
moment.

“Do you expect Sir Arthur tonight?” Sarah
asked, setting George back down and replacing her old shift with a
fresh one.

“He has come and gone, a happy patron,”
Terrell replied, recalling his improved affability and the gleam in
his eyes as he bid her and Miss Isabella adieu. He had promised to
call upon her tomorrow at the same hour.

“Mrs. Hartshorn is to watch George, but I am
certain he would prefer you if you are free.”

“I would, m’lady, but I expect Master
Gallant tonight.”

“What is it you intend with Master
Gallant?”

“I have not yet decided.”

As she helped lace Sarah’s better stays,
stays that made the bosom swell high above the décolletage, she
thought once more of Mistress Scarlet. Till Master Gallant’s
return, Mistress Scarlet had been one of the more senior members,
but his early years at the Red Chrysanthemum must have overlapped
with hers. No one else, save Madame herself, knew of any history
between the two.

“You said he rebuffed you twice?”

“I know there to be men who would never
touch black flesh, but I do not think Master Gallant
indifferent.”

Sarah raised her brows. “You are certain of
this?”

Looking down in thought, Terrell replayed
her various encounters with him. She had never doubted herself
before, but she had to admit to being baffled by Master Gallant.
Why was he so devilishly hard to seduce? If she were to prostrate
herself, naked, upon the bed, she could not be certain that he
would not turn away and walk out the door. But she had seen the
tenting at his crotch when she had serviced Miss Katherine. And,
though she could not elucidate the evidence of his desire, she had
sensed
it.

Admittedly, her pride had taken quite the
blow when he had chosen to do nothing more than read to her last
night. Sir Arthur had benefited from her unleashed arousal, but her
frustration had continued long into the night, leading her to toss
about her bed. She did not understand why she desired Master
Gallant with such desperation, why she could not oust him from her
mind and simply turn her attentions elsewhere. His aura remained
pregnant in her body, and she believed she would know no relief
till he had claimed her.

But how could she accomplish this? Perhaps
she had not been bold enough. Because he had made her doubt
herself. Well, she refused to be intimidated by him, by any
man.

At last, she looked up at Sarah and replied,
“I am certain, and I mean to make that certainty known to him.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“I
should be pleased to
support you,” said Mr. Dempsey to Charles. “I supported your father
in each of his elections, and my father supported your grandfather
in his. It was disappointing that neither did win. But have you
approached Sir Arthur? He owns half of Porter’s Hill and talks much
of razing the older buildings to develop a new square. His plans
seem rather grandiose and the cost staggering, but he projects the
returns to exceed our investment tenfold or more.”

The two men sat in the drawing room of the
elderly gentleman. They were joined by Mrs. Dempsey and Miss
Bridget Dempsey, who sat beside her mother knitting a purse.
Throughout dinner, Mrs. Dempsey had smiled often at Charles and
attempted to encourage discourse between him and the daughter.
Charles obliged as much as he could, and they traversed the usual
benign and trite subject matters of weather, the coming Season,
what shows Drury Lane might reprise, etc.

Miss Dempsey reminded him of Greta as they
both had reddish hair. A few years younger, Miss Dempsey had a mix
of flaxen in her shinier curls and more curves in her form. Given
her station in life, Miss Dempsey was a much more suitable match
for him, were he in the market for a wife. The daughter of a humble
apothecary, Greta had little to recommend herself on the surface,
but Charles saw intelligence and spirit. While Miss Dempsey
exhibited all the proper manners, spoke French to perfection, and
danced elegantly in the quadrille, he discerned no passion in her.
Born into comfort and undoubtedly doted upon as the only daughter,
she showed little interest in anything beyond what might be
featured in
The Lady’s Magazine.

Charles knew his mother to be eager to see
him settled. Many a promising maiden had come his way. But if he
married, he would have to forsake the Red Chrysanthemum. He was not
prepared to do so.

“Sir Arthur owns less than half,” Charles
corrected.

“Nearly half,” Mr. Dempsey replied. “Given
the support you have already, Sir Arthur can assure you victory. I
do not doubt that he would compel his tenants to vote according to
his wishes. I will endeavor my best with the tenants in my burgage,
but I do not think I can guarantee their presence at the polls as
well as he.”

“I understand Sir Arthur’s support would
ease my path, but I intend to seek votes wherever I can have
them.”

“But why make your life more difficult,
young man?”

“I do not wish to take any circumstance for
granted, but it is possible to win without Sir Arthur.”

“I suppose it is mathematically possible,
but in truth, not probable.”

“The Brentwoods—Mrs. Brentwood, in
particular—have swayed many an election.”

“And have you their endorsement?”

Charles thought of Viscount Wendlesson,
whose wife he was to meet in a few hours. “I hope to.”

Sensing a lull in the discourse, Mrs.
Dempsey said, “I hope you gentlemen will now consider a topic in
which we ladies might also engage.”

A recommendation to which Mr. Dempsey
responded as an opportunity to obtain for himself a glass of port,
leaving Charles to oblige Mrs. Dempsey and Miss Dempsey. Both
ladies expressed a great desire for the Season to start. The city
was rather dull this time of year. Mr. Dempsey participated in the
conversation only to remark upon the superior hunting to be had in
the country, but Mrs. Dempsey abhorred traveling. She and Miss
Dempsey went through their expectations of which young women might
have their come-out, whose banns might be announced before the end
of the Season, and if so-and-so might bring charges of criminal
conversation against his wife.

Charles did his best to follow along but was
much relieved when the evening drew to a close and he could be upon
his horse headed to the Inn of the Red Chrysanthemum. Along the
way, he passed by Barlow’s apothecary. Seeing the light of a candle
inside, he stopped and dismounted from his horse. He opened the
door to find Mr. Barlow sweeping the floor.

“You work late into the night,” Charles
commented.

“Ah, good evening, sir,” Mr. Barlow greeted.
“I had a cat come into the shop. Damned creature knocked over all
my bottles of laudanum. Greta used to put a bowl of milk out for
the thing, and it still comes round though she is gone.”

Charles paused before asking, “Your daughter
continues in good health?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Please send her my regard.”

Mr. Barlow looked down, and his eyes shifted
awkwardly about. “I, er, I had, good sir, as you had inquired of
her previously. I thought I might convince her to return.”

Sensing the man had more to say, Charles
prompted, “And?”

“I received her letter this morning. She
means to stay in Liverpool as long as possible, but if, well…I will
continue to press her as her grandmother misses her dearly.”

Charles looked down in brief contemplation.
He had no expectations, but it was clear to him that Greta, if she
could not even be persuaded by her father, meant to avoid
him
at all cost. As Mr. Barlow appeared in some anguish—the
man had detected Charles’ interest in his daughter and no doubt had
deemed the match in great favor—Charles gave the man a reassuring
smile.

“I would not distress yourself overmuch,” he
said. “Their sex can be quite stubborn.”

The man’s shoulders sagged. Perhaps he took
Charles’ response as an indication that his interest in Miss Barlow
only extended so far.

“Yes,” Mr. Barlow sighed, but then he
brightened. “But fickle, too.”

Charles nodded, but he did not think Greta
the fickle sort. In response to Damien, she had turned to Mistress
Scarlet, and there she had stayed for nearly two years. When she
came upon whom she believed her destiny, she gave all of herself.
Clearly, she did not believe Charles her destiny.

After bidding Mr. Barlow a good evening,
Charles stepped into the cool night air, mounted his steed, and
proceeded to the Red Chrysanthemum. He had little time to dwell on
the heaviness in his heart, however, for coming upon the inn, he
saw a carriage. The light of a lantern revealed the Wendlesson
crest.