Her Husband's Harlot Page 5

  Looking down, he saw the hands of a man who'd clawed his way up from the gutter. His knuckles bore the scars of countless brawls, his fingers and palms the calluses of crude labor. And that was only the surface. Beneath the thickened skin lay deeper disfigurement: the secret cuts and burn marks sustained by a boy who'd cleaned chimneys to survive. Who'd welcomed the days in soot-choked stacks because they were a bloody sight better than the nights spent cowering in fear.

  Fear of the squealing hinges that heralded the opening of the master's door. Fear of the black-bearded man who emerged and blocked out all the light. Fear that Ben Grimes' small, dark eyes might land on him that night. And the trembling, paralyzing terror of that crooking finger, the whizzing of the crop, that squalid room with flea-eaten sheets, he would not go there again, he could not—

  With a harsh breath, Nicholas slammed the door on the swirling darkness. His hands gripped the edge of the desk as his heart continued to thump like a trapped rabbit. It's over. Grimes is dead. He repeated the words until he could breathe again. Until he could remember who he was and what he was now. No longer a helpless boy, but a man. A tide of anguished rage broke over him. Aye, he was a man—but what kind of a man?

  One who harbored a despicable secret. One whose blood was tainted, whose bestial nature dictated his destiny. His eyes shut. Bloody hell, last night he'd fornicated with a whore—and compounded his sin by pretending she was his wife. He pictured the real Helena with her shy smile and innocent eyes, and his stomach churned with self-disgust.

  "Forgive me," he whispered.

  "For what?"

  Nicholas jerked around. It took his frozen brain a moment to recognize Paul Fines. The younger man removed his fashionable tall hat as he entered the room, his golden hair gleaming like a new guinea. As usual, Paul wore impeccably tailored clothes, with not a wrinkle to be found on his dove-grey coat and trousers. A complicated cravat grazed his chin. His waistcoat was yellow, and a bloom of that same shade bobbed cheerfully in his buttonhole.

  "I thought I would find you here, Morgan," Paul said. "Working too hard as usual. Can't be a good sign that you're conversing with yourself."

  Nicholas gathered his wits behind a mocking expression. "I'm surprised to see you, Fines. It is not yet noon. I thought you fashionable fellows refused to rise during the light of day."

  "Oh, I haven't risen yet," Paul responded, "for I haven't yet to bed."

  Nicholas grunted. He loved Paul like a brother (albeit a younger, spoiled sibling), but he would never understand how the man could live the way he did, sleeping all day, carousing all night. He and Paul could not be more different. As Jeremiah's only son, Paul had been doted upon since birth. He lived the life of rich, middle class leisure—that is to say, he lived idly and with considerable indulgence.

  Paul flicked a glance over the utilitarian room. "I see not much has changed since my last visit. More's the pity." Picking a stack of ledgers up off a chair, he deposited the papers unceremoniously upon the threadbare carpet. He shuddered when a puff of dust rose in reply. "Good God, man, now that you're the Marquess of such and such, shouldn't your office befit your title? Where are the velvet pillows with the embroidered crests? The gilded cherubs? The droves of footmen bearing champagne?"

  "It is the footmen's year off." Nicholas went to the washstand. The icy splash of water felt good, purifying, and returned him fully to the present. Feeling the rough growth of his morning beard, he reached for shaving implements. "Unlike you, I have obligations in life and greater concerns than the decoration of my office."

  Paul's expression turned knowing. "Ah, the obligations of a newlywed."

  The iniquities he'd performed with the harlot assailed Nicholas, spilled acid over his insides. All you've done is prove that you're not good enough for Helena—that you never were. Looking into the cracked mirror above the washstand, he forced himself to continue shaving.

  "That is not what I meant." He cut through the soap in quick, economic strokes. "I have simply been busy. We had a large shipment in yesterday."

  Paul withdrew a large handkerchief and placed it carefully upon the chair before seating himself. "Shouldn't you have your valet doing that for you? You might cut a vein, and you know how I abhor the sight of blood."

  "If you're afraid of bloodshed, I take it you wouldn't care to join me in the ring?" Nicholas raised a brow in challenge. To his mind, there was no better way to blow off steam than with his fists. He'd had a boxing ring custom built in the adjoining antechamber—the one luxury he'd allowed himself since taking the reins of Fines and Co. "How about going a round or two, eh?"

  "Good God, Morgan, at this uncivilized hour?" Paul rolled his eyes. "I have a better idea. I am headed to Long Meg's, and you shall join me."

  Sighing, Nicholas wiped off his jaw. He finished dressing with the efficiency of a man who'd seen to his own needs for most his life. As he was already behind schedule, it was on his tongue to refuse Paul's invitation, but his stomach growled. "A cup of coffee wouldn't hurt, I suppose."

  "Excellent. No one brews the stuff like Long Meg." Paul eyed Nicholas' completed ensemble with something akin to horror. "Do tell me you are not prepared to leave the room dressed like that."

  "We do not all aspire to be dandies," Nicholas said, scowling. "Some of us have more pressing matters to attend to than the style of our cravat. Like the running of a business, for example."

  Since this was a running source of banter between them, Paul merely shrugged at Nicholas' pointed words. "My father, bless his soul, understood that his only son and heir never had a head for business. Which is why, after his death, he entrusted the daily operations of Fines and Company to you, his ever industrious partner."

  Nicholas shook his head. "I told Jeremiah it should be you running the company, not me."

  "What difference does it make when I receive half the profits? You know I've never held a grudge against you for all your canny mercantile ways," Paul said. "If it hadn't been for your timely appearance in our lives, Father might have forced me to put in a hard day's work. Then where would I be?"

  Nicholas shot Paul a look of exasperated affection. "Doing something useful, one would hope."

  "Please." Paul shuddered visibly as he rose. "Do not mix the word useful and I in the same sentence. We have a constitutional aversion to one another. Rather like water and oil."

  They descended two flights to the main floor. Nicholas did a quick survey of the cavernous warehouse. Stacks of wooden crates and barrels stood neat as hedgerows, while a mountain of sugar sacks leaned against one wall. All appeared as usual, save for the group of men huddled by the spice containers. When they saw him, the men stopped talking, their expressions mulish. He was about to issue a sharp reprimand to return to work when Jibotts, his trusted office steward, hurried over.

  "Good morning, Mr. Fines. Lord Harteford, I did not see you come in this morning." Behind his spectacles, Jibotts' faded blue eyes had a pinched, tense look. "I was here by six o' clock. When did you arrive?"

  Aware of Paul's interested gaze, Nicholas cleared his throat. "Slightly before that. I heard the commotion. Apprise me of the situation."

  "It was one of the rum barrels, my lord," Jibotts said. "Jim Buckley, he slipped on account of his bad back, and the weight became too much for the other two. I've had the spillage cleared."

  "How is Jim?"

  "I sent him home to bed rest. He wished to convey his apologies to you personally." Jibotts paused. "He was quite concerned that his wages would be garnished."

  "For having a bad back?" Nicholas asked.

  It was a rhetorical question as he knew intimately what the life of the laboring class was like. He had begun his career on the docks just as Jim Buckley had. If Jeremiah hadn't taken a chance on him, he might be there still, hefting the immeasurable weight of poverty upon his shoulders. At least this explained the mutiny before him. Nicholas could feel the daggered looks of the workers as they listened to every word.

  A stocky
, bearded man, clearly the leader of the group, spoke up. "Jim 'as 'im a wife and eight young 'uns countin' on 'im. A man breaks 'is back but 'tisn't enough fer your lordship—now you want to rips the bread outta the mouths o' women an' chil'ren. Pox on this place, I says!" He spat, the action inciting angry murmurs from the others.

  Nicholas turned to face him. "Your name?"

  "Isaac Bragg," the man said. His barrel chest puffed like a peacock's, and his small dark eyes gleamed with insolence.

  "Mr. Bragg, what position do you occupy in this company?" Nicholas asked sharply.

  "I'm a porter," Bragg said, with a swagger true to his name. "An' you can fire me. Always work fer the likes of me—Milligan's 'iring a block away wif wages that a man can live on. Isn't that right, boys?"

  Muttered assent rose from behind him.

  Nicholas silenced the group with a look. "As an owner of Fines and Company, let me make myself very clear. We have not in the past, nor shall we in the future, punish workers for sustaining injuries in the line of work. Any man who says differently will answer to me."

  "'Tis exactly as his lordship says," Jibotts said in brisk tones. The steward scanned the small group of workers, his eyes settling on a thin, red-haired man in the back. "You there, James Gordon. What happened when you broke your arm several months back?"

  Gordon shifted on his feet, leaning heavily on a wooden crutch. His words could barely be heard as they were aimed at the ground. "The Master gave me my wages while I recovered."

  "What else?" Jibotts asked.

  "Dr. Farraday came to see me," Gordon admitted, with a cautious look at Bragg. "He weren't no quack either. He helped me, tied my arm up real good. Gave me a new crutch, too, on account o' the old one not fittin' me proper no more."

  There were shrugs, uncomfortable looks among the men.

  "Get back to work, then," Nicholas said. He leveled a glance at Bragg, who glared but said nothing. "I expect any man with a problem to speak directly to me."

  The workers scattered like marbles. Once they were out of earshot, Nicholas turned to Jibotts with a frown. "Tell me about Bragg. I don't recognize him."

  "He's a new porter, sir. Joined a few months back. Has a mouth and a temper, but he follows his time and does his work."

  "Keep an eye on him." Something about Bragg's belligerent stance did not sit right in Nicholas' gut. "And have Farraday attend to Jim Buckley."

  "Yes, of course, my lord," Jibotts said, mopping his brow with a yellowed handkerchief.

  "In the meantime, his lordship and I are heading out for breakfast," Paul intervened. "He shall not be back until after eleven."

  "I will be back by ten, Jibotts," Nicholas corrected, "and I will expect to review the shipping reports with you at that time."

  *****

  They walked the short distance to the coffee house, making their way down a street crammed with taverns, street vendors, and the swearing, jostling men of the docks. Eschewing the outdoor tables where the prostitutes tended to ply their trade, the two entered the indoor premises of Long Meg's. The savory aromas of browning butter and grilled meat greeted them as they claimed the remaining table. The small room was packed with customers—merchants and docksmen, mostly—conversing in earnest tones over generous platters of food. The interior was drab, but clean, like the apron-clad woman approaching the table.

  "Nicholas Morgan, I han't seen you in a dog's age," Meg said. True to her name, her frizzled grey hair nearly touched the low ceiling. Her face resembled an apple left too long in the sun. "Thought maybe you forgot ol' Meg now that you's 'is 'ighness."

  "Morgan's not royalty, yet." Paul gave her a wink. Nicholas scowled and turned his attention to the menu on the wall. "Just a mere marquess."

  "Ooo, a marquess is it?" Meg cackled. "When are you going to sweep me off my feet then an' carry me out o' this 'ere dump?"

  "Eh, you can leave 'ere anytime you want!" Bumpy Tim, Meg's husband, poked his pock-marked face out from the kitchen. His comment elicited boisterous laughter from the customers.

  "'Oo asked you, ya gotch-gutted bastard?" Meg shouted back. "Mind the eggs afore I come an' mind you!"

  When Bumpy Tim's head retreated like a turtle's, Meg leveled a gap-toothed grin at Paul and Nicholas. "What will it be then, boys?"

  "Two ploughman's," Nicholas said. "And coffee, please."

  As Meg strode away, Paul aimed an amused look at Nicholas. "I believe your title discomforts you, my lord."

  "Bloody right it does." Nicholas ran a hand through his rumpled hair. "You try being a lowly merchant in the ton and a blasted marquess in the stews. See how you like it."

  "I don't have to try it. I know I shouldn't like it at all." Paul waited for Meg to deposit the cups of steaming brew. "How tiresome it must be to straddle two worlds when one would suffice."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "Tell me, why do you persist in mercantile labors when there's no longer a need?"

  "No need?" Nicholas felt a surge of irritation as he watched Paul stir liberal amounts of sugar and cream into his coffee, as if the other man had not a care in the world. "Easy enough for you to say, when you haven't put in a day's work—"

  "Well, this is not about me, is it?" Paul replied. "This is about you. When your father saw fit to declare your legitimacy in his will, you inherited a fortune along with the title. You hardly need the income from Fines and Co.—which, by the way, we both know Jibotts would take to running like a pig to mud. There is no need for you to oversee the daily operations, yet you find every excuse to bury yourself down at the docks. Why is that?"

  "You have no idea what it takes to run Fines and Co.," Nicholas snapped. "Your father put his life's blood into that company. He made something out of nothing. I will not fail him."

  "You may paint my father a saint, but the man spent his life chained to the company, to the detriment of everything else in his life. You do not have to make the same choice."

  "Jeremiah worked so that you might have the luxuries you take for granted," Nicholas said acidly.

  "Father worked because he did not know what else to do." Though he said the words lightly, Paul's characteristically jovial blue eyes were shadowed over the rim of his cup. "Because he could not stop himself, even when he knew my mother waited until the candles gutted out for him to come home."

  As Meg returned and plunked down plates heaped high with eggs, bacon, and thick buttered toast, Nicholas mulled over Paul's words. He had not viewed his mentor in this light before. To him, Jeremiah had defined purpose and determination. A man who worked hard to make his life amount to something. A man who could escape his past by the grace of his own sweat. Yet, remembering his own moments of restlessness, Nicholas experienced a spark of unease. Was he following in the footsteps of folly?

  He shook his head. "Anna and Jeremiah had a fine marriage."

  "My parents loved each other, yes, each in their own fashion. When my father was home, my mother lit up like a candle." Paul's smile was edged with melancholy as he cut into a rasher of bacon. "It was the other times she'd be weeping, alone in her bedchamber where she thought no one could hear."

  The image made Nicholas' chest constrict. Anna Fines was the closest to a mother that he'd known. She'd always made a point of inviting him to supper, knowing he had no place else to go. He felt a twinge of guilt now; he'd been so tied up in his own affairs that he had not called upon her since his wedding. "How is Anna faring?"

  "She's not been the same since Father passed a year ago, as you know. But she is carrying on. My sister Percy is a great comfort to her, of course. Unlike her one and only son." Paul chewed thoughtfully. "Mother tells me I am in danger of becoming a wastrel."

  "In danger of becoming one?" Nicholas asked, quirking a brow.

  "Amusing, is it not? She says I should talk to you. So you can beat some sense into me, I suppose. In truth, I think she would like a call from you and your lady ..." Paul stopped, a tinge of red appearing along his cheekbones. "Scratch th
at last part."

  "Worried I'm going to pummel you into a responsible sort?"

  "No, not that part," Paul said. Under his breath, he added, "As if you could pummel me."

  "Which then?"

  "The bit about you and your lady calling. Forget I mentioned it, or Mother will have my head."

  "Why would Anna fault you for inviting us over?" When Paul did not immediately respond, Nicholas jested, "Is she afraid your table manners will scare away the fine company?"

  His smile faded at Paul's silence.

  "She's not afraid of having you, of course," Paul said with obvious discomfort. "You may be a marquess now, but you'll always be a nodcock to us."

  Nicholas ignored the attempt at light-heartedness. "It's Helena, then. Anna objects to her presence."

  "Yes, but not in the way you mean," Paul protested. "From her brief meeting with Lady Helena, Mother liked your wife very much."

  Nicholas relaxed a fraction. "What is it, then?"

  "Mother has never entertained a member of the upper class before." Paul shrugged. "She finds the prospect somewhat intimidating."

  Nicholas ate his eggs and brooded on his friend's admission. It pained him that Anna would think such a thing. Yet, if he was honest, did he not harbor similar concerns about how well Helena would get along in his world? She was no aristocratic snob, to be sure, but her blood lines stretched long and blue. She had been gently reared, her innocence sheltered. Her sphere was that of the finest drawing rooms. It was where she belonged.

  "Tell Anna I will call soon," Nicholas said. "She need not concern herself about rarefied company."

  "I did not mean ..." Paul winced. "That is to say, I am sure your wife is most welcome."

  "I will come alone."

  "Dammit, Nicholas, that is the problem. You are too much alone. Everyone thinks so: Mother, Percy, and myself included. Ever since you came into the title and married—"

  "No one can be faulted for that decision but me. I sleep in a bed of my own making," Nicholas said.