Her Husband's Harlot Page 7

  Before her lord had decided to avoid her bed and her company.

  "I may have a prior commitment," he continued.

  Before he had decided to bed a whore.

  A wave of emotions crashed over Helena. Everything she had experienced in the past two days swelled in her chest. She could hardly catch her breath, and her limbs were shaking.

  With ... anger.

  "I believe I reminded you of it last week," she said sharply. "Or at least, I left a message with Crikstaff to do so since you have so often been out."

  "You have already remarked upon my absence." Nicholas' tone matched hers. "Though it surprises me that you would notice, given your busy social schedule."

  Helena's teeth clicked together. "I have been busy refurbishing your home, my lord. Or perhaps that has escaped your attention?"

  Nicholas flicked a glance around him.

  "It looks fine," he said.

  Fine. Helena felt like flinging one of the Chinese vases she had carefully arranged on the mantelpiece.

  "I am glad you think so," she replied acidly.

  "Hmm," Nicholas said, drumming his fingers on the armrest.

  Better yet, she could smash the priceless porcelain over his head.

  "Is there anything else you require?" her husband was asking.

  "You will attend the musicale, then?" It was unlike her to be so persistent. She did not know why she was pressing the issue, other than his obvious reluctance to oblige her. "My parents will be in attendance as well. I am sure they would like to see you."

  Nicholas looked disgruntled and not particularly happy at the prospect of seeing his in-laws. "I suppose I can fit it in."

  "You are too kind, my lord," she said in cool tones.

  Nicholas cleared his throat in the silence that followed.

  "Well, if there is nothing else ..." he began.

  "No, there is not."

  "I will take my leave, then."

  "Of course. I will detain you no further," she said, rising.

  He bowed again. In a few powerful strides, he exited the drawing room. A few moments later, she heard the door to his bedchamber opening and closing on the floor above. With a stiff gait, she walked back to the loveseat, sat, and stared into the space recently vacated by her husband. What in heaven's name had transpired just now? She had planned to seduce him, and instead she had managed to make matters worse.

  Not that Nicholas had helped. In fact, she thought in a daze of bewilderment and anger, he had not helped one bit.

  How dare he belittle her decorating skills?

  How dare he refuse her infinitesimally small request to attend the Dewitts' party?

  How dare he look at her so dispassionately, when but two nights ago he had growled with ecstasy in her arms?

  After a while, she wiped her eyes on her sleeve and noticed her list lying on the ground. She picked it up and smoothed out the wrinkles. Well, she had certainly bungled the first three categories of seduction. Guests? After this, Nicholas would prove a reluctant participant at best. Location? Obviously, he was not overly impressed by her attempts to create a domestic paradise. And refreshments? She sniffled. She was willing to wager he had lost all appetite after their encounter. As had she.

  The last item wavered in front of her eyes.

  Entertainments.

  She closed her eyes wearily. And prayed Marianne would have some advice for that.

  SIX

  The next morning, Nicholas instructed the driver to drop him off several blocks away from the warehouse. He wanted a walk to clear his head. Cloaked in a gloomy yellow fog, the docklands at daybreak perfectly suited his mood. He made his way along the narrow street lined by cramped buildings, absorbing the ungoverned energy of those who pushed by him. The sounds of fog horns and sea gulls echoed through the mist. Nicholas inhaled, the salt and tar-tinged air loosening and expanding his chest. Leaving Mayfair was like shedding a confining jacket. Here by the river, he was back where he belonged.

  He stopped at a cart to purchase a bun from a gap-toothed woman and turned left toward the quay. Once there, he leaned against a wooden post and looked over the mist-covered water. The fog blanketed the lighters, but he could feel the looming presence of the ships. Ghost-like, the wooden hulls bumped hollowly against the wharf. It was a forlorn sound. If it were not for the shouts of the river men—the colliers and sailors—one might suspect some sort of other-worldly enterprise, rather than one that was purely human.

  Nicholas took a bite of the pastry and winced. It had the density of a boulder. Indeed, the bun may have rivaled prehistoric rock in the length of its existence. Chewing moodily, he reflected on the sumptuous breakfast that would have greeted him at home. Since Helena's arrival, the quality of the fare served on his table had improved dramatically. Nowadays, coddled eggs, grilled kidney, and well-seasoned potatoes greeted him in the morning. On some days, there were cornmeal cakes, tender rounds brushed with a buttered rum sauce and dotted with currants. A feast fit for a king—but apparently not for the likes of him.

  Because he had chosen to skulk like a thief from his own house at the break of dawn. Without waking his valet. Without eating a majestic breakfast.

  Without running into his wife.

  Nicholas tossed the bun aside. It bounced along the wooden planks, attracting a swarm of squawking gulls. He felt like a bloody jackanapes for avoiding his own wife. But for Helena's sake, he had to stay away. To spare her from his bestial needs ... and God knew what else was lying in wait for him.

  I know your dirty little secret.

  As he had so many times since finding the note, he told himself that in all likelihood it was merely a prank: an act of spite by some disgruntled worker. That fellow Bragg came readily enough to mind. The note's message was vague, after all, so that any recipient with a guilty conscience would feel spooked and brought down a notch or two. That was likely the full intent of it. A deed of harmless malice—one with no teeth.

  But what if it was not just a hoax?

  What if someone actually knew who he'd been ... and what he'd done?

  Panic rippled over his heart as he contemplated the water with bleak eyes. He couldn't risk the taint of his past touching Helena. For now, it was best to distance himself from her. He'd done a fair job of that, until yesterday. Having run out of clean shirts, he'd had to return to the townhouse. He'd thought to make a discreet entry and exit, only his wife had stepped out of the drawing room at precisely the wrong moment.

  Her voice had called to him, the sweetest of snares. He'd been caught, red-handed as a poacher, with no choice but to face her. To gaze upon her innocent, smiling face, her eyes warm as a golden wheat field and her hair wild and loose as if she'd recently tumbled in one. Instantly, he'd been gripped by competing torrents of desire and guilt. Aye, it had nigh suffocated him, robbed him of mind and breath to even converse with her.

  So he'd stood there like a bloody fool.

  Wanting her.

  Hating himself.

  What had transpired next bewildered him even further.

  They had actually quarreled. Or something perilously close to that. Though there had been no harsh words or raised voices, the tension in the room had been as thick as the fog that presently surrounded him. And over what? A bloody party, for Christ's sake. Helena had never cared before whether or not he accompanied her on the torturous rounds of the Season—why did she care now, and so vehemently? At the mention of the musicale, his heretofore gentle, sweet-tempered wife had suddenly vanished, to be replaced by a goddess whose ire blazed brighter than the sun.

  Did she like musicales so much then?

  The spark in her eyes as she'd done battle with him—he'd never seen such spirit in her before. In fact, she had seemed like another person altogether. In all the time he had known Helena, she had never asked anything of him. Always, she had been accommodating, acquiescent, the epitome of womanly virtue.

  What the hell had happened to his demure wife?

&nb
sp; It was bloody confusing.

  And more than a little arousing.

  Nicholas rubbed his forehead, damp from the misty air. Damn his lustful appetites to hell and back. The truth was a good fight always stirred his juices. It had been a fortunate thing that he'd made his exit quickly, graceless as it was. A minute more and he might have done something to truly regret. It was just another reminder of the differences between the two of them: his wife had engaged him in a genteel disagreement, while he'd had the urge to solve the problem in a much more primitive manner. By quelling her words with his mouth. And other parts of his anatomy.

  Apparently even bedding the whore had not assuaged his desire to fuck his wife. Seeing the fire in Helena's eyes and knowing he was the cause of it, he'd been seized by a primal urge to toss her onto the floor and cram himself inside her. All the way inside, so deep that there would be no separating her flesh from his. So deep that she would be marked forever his. So deep that she would scream with pleasure, even if she remained royally pissed at him.

  All this he'd wanted, tortured himself over—and his wife had just sat there, looking as fresh and ripe as a summer orchard. God, he almost resented her for it. As a result, he'd acted like a complete and utter ass. He'd deliberately belittled the considerable improvements she had brought to his home. The irony of it, he realized, was that his boorish behavior might prove the best thing for the both of them. It might serve to drive his wife away. The farther the better, for her sake.

  Shoving his hands in his pockets, Nicholas trudged toward the warehouse. He had to stop ruminating, or else he'd go mad. About a block away from Fines and Co., he chanced to look down one of the alleys between the buildings. He saw two figures standing there in the shadows. Their backs were turned to him and their heads huddled as they spoke. He was too far away to hear their whispered words, but there was something furtive about their postures, the way the lapels of their coats were pulled up high about their faces.

  Nicholas stopped and squinted, trying to discern the identity of the figures. As if alerted to his presence, one of the men jerked his head up. Nicholas had a glimpse of small malicious eyes and black-bristled jowls before the figure turned and walked rapidly toward the opposite end of the alley. The other man followed close behind. Within seconds, they turned the corner and vanished from sight.

  Nicholas continued on his way to the warehouse. On the main floor, he nodded to the greetings from the workers, his thoughts churning. What the hell was Isaac Bragg up to? For he was certain the man he had seen was the surly porter. Why was Bragg lurking like a cutthroat in the shadows, and who was the second man in the alley, the one Bragg had been conspiring with? Had any of this have to do with the note?

  Nicholas had a mind to let Bragg go and be done with the business, but there was the morale of the other porters to consider. Bragg, damn his stinking hide, had a way of stirring the pot. Besides, what if the blackguard actually knew Nicholas' secret? What would he plan to do with such information—blackmail or some other such infamy? And if he knew, why hadn't he done anything yet? Frustrated, Nicholas had to admit the cleverness of the note's ambiguity: he could not question Bragg directly without giving away the fact that he had something to hide.

  So lost was Nicholas in his thoughts that he all but collided with James Gordon as the younger man rounded the corner. Gordon fell backwards, his crutch clattering against the wall behind him. The sack he was carrying exploded as it landed. Coffee beans rained upon the floor. The porter rushed to gather the scattered pods, but slipped again in his haste. With a sigh, Nicholas heaved up the stammering Gordon and handed him his crutch.

  "Have a care, lad," Nicholas said. "You don't want to go breaking anything else now."

  "S-sorry, sir," Gordon said, his face red as his hair. His blue eyes were huge with fear. "I'll clean it up right aways. I swear, I'll get every bean back in the sack and sew it up myself—"

  "I'm not talking about the coffee," Nicholas said in exasperation, "but your bloody bones. I'd like to leave Dr. Farraday some time occasionally to see patients other than you."

  "Y-yes, sir. Th-thank you, sir."

  With an impatient jerk of his chin, Nicholas sent the lame porter on his way. Nicholas headed up to the office and planted himself at the desk. Opening a ledger, he proceeded to study the accounts of the past week. After all of five minutes, he slammed the book shut with an oath. The single-minded focus he prided himself on was nowhere in evidence. Instead, a morass of images swirled in his head: Helena's smiling eyes turning to golden fire, the ripe bounce of the whore's breasts, ghosts of fog rising all around ...

  The knock on the door nearly sent him out of his skin.

  Jibotts peered in. "My lord? I was wondering if you had a moment. If not, I can come back ..."

  Recovering his senses, Nicholas noticed the stiffness of the other man's wiry posture. Old Jibotts had a stick up his arse to begin with—his eye for detail, in fact, made him an exceptional office steward. Whatever the cause, the stick appeared especially large today. The thought cheered Nicholas. He could use the distraction.

  "A problem?" Nicholas asked.

  Frowning, Jibotts took a seat opposite the desk. The steward's back was ramrod straight, and he immediately opened the black leather notebook that accompanied him wherever he went. "I have just now been reviewing inventory. It appears we are short this week—by a negligible amount, but short nonetheless."

  "By how much?"

  "Two crates of tobacco, three sacks of coffee, and a barrel of rum, sir."

  Nicholas snorted. This was indeed negligible. Most traders suffered hundreds of pounds a month on losses without turning a hair. As a member of the West India Merchants Association, he'd headed a task force to address the thievery that ran rampant on the river. His team's efforts had led to the funding of a private security force. Since the inception of the Thames River Police, losses had decreased to a significant degree.

  Privately, Nicholas knew that theft could never fully be eradicated. Along the docks, stealing was seen as taking what was rightfully owed. No more immoral than netting a trout from a stream full of fish, or taking a breath from an endless supply of air. As a lad, he'd lived by a simple philosophy of survival—finder's keepers, loser's weepers. There had been a time when he'd filled his belly with anything he could lay his hands on: basically, anything not locked up or nailed down. He'd prowled the market days at Covent Garden, helping himself to fruit, cheese, a meat pasty or two if it was a good day. And if a silk handkerchief or piece of silver made its way into his pockets, who was he to complain?

  Never once had he concerned himself with the merchants he "borrowed" from. Why should he? They were fat pigs, the lot of them, lolling about in piles of gold.

  The irony did not escape him that he now occupied the part of the swine.

  "It is not the amount that concerns me, but the pattern," Jibotts was saying.

  Nicholas pulled himself back to the present. "What pattern?"

  "In the past two months, I have noticed similar discrepancies. On three separate occasions, small items have gone missing—minor enough that it would be overlooked by most."

  Nicholas felt his lips twitch. "By most, but not by you, eh Jibotts?"

  The steward calmly wiped his spectacles on a handkerchief. "I do believe in keeping the house in precise order, my lord."

  "You are to be commended on your precision, of course," Nicholas said. He meant it. Rare indeed was the steward who could keep track of a missing sack or two in a busy warehouse—and rarer still the one who wasn't filching the said sack himself. Jibotts was as honest as he was particular.

  "Thank you, my lord. How would you like me to proceed?"

  "An inside job, I presume?"

  "Yes. This isn't the work of mud larks or petty thieves. The goods go missing after they arrive. There are no signs of entry, forced or otherwise."

  "A porter with sticky fingers, then." Nicholas drummed his fingers on the desk. "We cannot allow that to
continue. We will have to ferret him out."

  "Yes, sir. Shall I contact Mr. Ambrose Kent?"

  Nicholas frowned. A well-regarded member of the Thames River Police, Ambrose Kent was a man to be trusted in situations such as these. Kent had proven helpful once before, when goods had mysteriously gone missing from a guarded vessel. Kent had run surveillance on the ship and within three days captured the gang of villains involved. Unbeknownst to the guards, their coffee had been laced with a sleeping draught—they had dreamed away blissfully while the thieves made off with the cargo.

  Despite Kent's considerable skills, Nicholas hesitated. Because of his history, he had no liking for Charleys, thief takers, or others who sought to enforce the law for profit. There was something about Kent that made him uneasy; likely it was the zealous, single-minded determination to see justice through. Those pale eyes seemed to miss nothing, seemed to pierce into the recesses of one's soul ...

  He shuddered. God help him if Kent was to discover the crimes in his past.

  "Lord Harteford?"

  Nicholas shook off his fanciful imaginings. Kent had no other-worldly powers; he was just a man who did his job well. In this circumstance, competence was something to be respected, not feared. "Yes, get in touch with Kent and set up a meeting. I would like to speak with him personally. In the meantime, keep an eye on Isaac Bragg."

  "My lord?"

  "I saw him earlier on the docks. I haven't any proof, but my gut tells me the man is up to mischief. See that he is carefully monitored."

  "Of course. I will see to it personally." Jibotts scratched into his notebook. He adjusted his spectacles and looked expectantly at Nicholas. "Is there anything else, my lord?"

  Nicholas paused, picking up the paperweight on his desk. It had become a habit, hefting the smooth dome between his palms. Inside the clear glass, brightly twisted ropes of colored glass had been cut cross-wise, the effect resembling a field of tiny wildflowers frozen in time. Millefiori, Helena had called it, some sort of glass-making technique. He remembered her shy smile as she'd presented the weight to him at their wedding breakfast.