Chapter 24

CHAPTER 24

W hat do I want?

William had a point; after this was over, with her hefty dowry, she could have men lining around the lane to offer their hand. But… none of them were William, the man she was falling in love with… that is if she had not tumbled over the edge already.

His questioning gaze had her heart turning over in indecision. “I… do not want another.”

William’s eyes narrowed. “You do not want to marry after we part ways?”

She sighed and turned away, then gazed at the ceiling, lips pressed tight. “Maybe I am na?ve, maybe it is because you are the only one I have been intimate with, or maybe it is because I think I see something in you that you have hidden from the world, and, William, I know you have no intent of being a family man or marrying for love but….” she paused.

“But right now, you are here with me, and while I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, I know, in this moment, there’s nowhere better for me to be right now than here in your arms. I—”

His fingers pressed on her lips, effectively silencing her, his eyes now guarded. “Keep those words, Bridget. Guard them until I prove if I am worthy of your affections.”

What does he mean by that?

Lips pressed tight, she watched as he pulled on his trousers and left the room, while she bit her tongue. Ice washed over her heart, and she wilted back into the bed, unsure of what she should feel, but something was starkly clear now—William did not feel the same way she did.

Foolish, na?ve heart.

Splashing his face with icy water, William hunched over the basin, his knuckles white. The storm of emotion inside him did not seem to have a halting point, and he could only stare at his reflection in the water, the image shifting by the moment. He was confused by the intensity of emotion she provoked in him.

Why does she have such an effect on me?

“Your Grace?”

“Yes, Lane?”

“A letter has arrived for you,” Oliver said calmly. “I must add, under your salutation is the words, underscored three times, urgent .”

Turning, he plucked the letter off the tray and unfolded it, eyes flying over it.

Your Grace,

I have searched my records from top to bottom for the last two years and I have found a record for a Frederick Wycliffe who borrowed fifty pounds from me and has paid me. He is the Viscount of Marchwood but his estate is empty, debts higher than the clocktower in London.

However, I have asked around for you and I found that this same Frederick is or was a frequent visitor and patron of The Cytheria, a rather posh bawdy house for a pauper, don’t you think?

G. Alfonso.

“Lane,” William muttered. “Prepare a bath for me. I will be going out tonight.”

Pausing, William stared up at the unassuming structure where the tall columns of pure white marble rose up to a gilded, Corinthian capitals, where they met an elaborately painted ceiling. To the inexperienced eye, the building, set in a quiet corner of Soho, had all the makings of a peer’s manor house—and they would be right.

Until they passed the foyer, and the lady there took your coin and sent you to a room. He dropped the cowl over his head and moved up the gravel drive to the flat, marble steps and rapped briskly on the wide double doors.

A footman pulled the door in, and he bowed. “Welcome.”

“I need to speak with Madame Maera,” William began. “The Beast of Brookhaven is requesting an audience.”

“Please, enter, and I will relay the message promptly,” the footman replied.

William entered the glistening circular marble foyer and gazed at the story above; the landing was shaped as round as the floor below it. He remembered many a time the madame would stand there in gauzy silk, gazing down at her guests like a Queen presiding over her count.

Glancing at the paintings on the walls, elegant portraits of past madams who were dressed like ladies of the realm, elegant gowns stretching back to Henry the Eighth, William held back a nod of respect. Some of them had married lords, some were favored mistresses to lords, and some had borne children for lords.

“Your Grace,” the footman returned not a moment later. “Madame Maeara will see you now.”

With a nod, William took the steps to the level above, took a corridor down the east wing, and ended up at the last room on the right. He knocked, then stepped in, not caring if he had earned permission.

The lady was reposed on a chaise, her book on her lap, her gown one of masterful creation. The silk of that gown matched impeccably with her skin tone and gave the illusion that she was draped in sensuous silk and little else.

“Your Grace,” she began smoothly. “I have not seen you in a lifetime. I am honored you have returned. What service may I perform for you?”

“It is certainly not in your bed,” he cut off her hope in one swift stroke. “I require access to your records. I have it on good source that your girls have serviced a Frederick Wycliffe, and I need them to tell me what they know.”

“I sense some praise in those words, but I must ask why you believe my girls have such information?” the lady asked blithely.

He laughed. “Do not try to bluff your hand, my lady. You and I both know the real currency of the underworld is secrets. Men who have been wined and satiated are less than likely to keep their lips sealed. Your girls winnow secrets from men by the hour and use them to their advantage. So, I will ask only once more, allow me to search your records or send me the girl who he favored.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” She calmly slid her legs from the divan and stood, smoothed her skirt, and moved to the large desk across the room.

Watching her go, William felt no inclination to admire her; even while she was young enough to still hold her curves, he actually craved to return to his home and Bridget.

She’s admitted, or almost admitted to loving me… what do I do about that?

Love had not been a variable he had considered in the equation of his life, but now that he had it—or could have it— everything in his soul clamored to keep it.

He looked around the boudoir, the graceful gray-on-gray damask, the gilt-framed painting on the wall, and the large standing blue and white porcelain Chinese Vase in the corner.

Dark, drapery-covered windows that faced the street and handsome leather furniture were scattered around the room, tall bookshelves packed with tomes contributed to the ambiance of authority and affluence.

“I see a Frederick Wycliffe ,” the madame said. “And his chosen companion was a girl named Ginger. I shall go and get her for you.”

As William took a few minutes of his time perusing the shelf, the door finally opened, and the woman stepped inside; beside the madame, this Ginger stood. Aptly named, her hair was a pile of silken red, and while she wore a silk banyan, the diaphanous gown she wore beneath showed a neat and well-shaped red triangle covering her sex.

As above, so below.

“Ginger, is it?” He greeted. “Do you remember a Frederick Wycliffe, Viscount of Marchwood?”

“I do, Your Grace,” Ginger dipped out a practiced curtsy.

“Perfect. I need you to tell me everything he told you, after the necessary deed was done, of course,” William waved. “Where he was going, where he was staying, if he planned to travel, anything important that you can remember.”

The young woman’s eyes shifted while she thought. “I recall him telling me he had a sister who he regrets disappointing, and that he was sorry he had gambled all his family money away. He told me how he had forced her to live with her godmother and that she had to work for a living.”

Those confessions agreed with what he had learned from Bridget, but he needed more. “What else?”

“He mentioned leaving to the coast, but the week after that, he returned to me and said he’d reconsidered that move, and decided he was going to stay in London. He said one man in his old army days had trained him in wrestling and brawling and that he was going to start prizefighting to regain his fortune.”

William’s head snapped back at those words. “Prizefighting.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Ginger replied.

“Did he mention this old army man’s name?” William asked, hopeful.

“Erm…” Ginger dropped her gaze and William knew she was holding back.

“Need I remind you, the man’s life is at stake,” William pressed. “Tell me this man’s name.”

“A Sir Reginald Huffington ,” Ginger finally replied. “He said the man was from Gentleman Jackson’s.”

A solid lead. “Thank you,” William nodded. “Anything else important enough to tell me?”

“He mentioned his heart was bothering him and that there was an apothecary in Whitechapel he visited to treat it,” Ginger said. “Regrettably, I do not know the name.”

“You’ve given me enough,” William flicked the hood over his head again. “Thank you, Ginger. Madame, have a good night.”

“I do regret not having you as a customer again, Your Grace, but I do wish you and your new wife all the best in the world,” Madame Maeara said at his back. “I do not suppose I will see you under my roof again?”

William paused, then looked over his shoulder, “Thank you, and yes, you are right, I will not be a patron of this establishment anymore.”

Ducking under the threshold, he headed down and out to his carriage, and when the carriage came around, he hopped inside, plucked his timepiece out, and checked it. “Too late for Gentleman’s Jack’s but not too late for the apothecary.”

After hours of turning and tossing, punching her pillow into a comfortable shape, twisting here and there, Bridget, unable to sleep, sat up and huffed.

“Oh, it is useless,” she sighed. “I am worrying about him too much.”

Slipping off the bed, she donned her housecoat and left the room, taking a lit candle with her, only to sneak into William’s room. The man’s room was the essence of spartan.

There was nothing in here that told her who William was; there were no paintings of his family, no loved memorabilia, no curious baubles scattered around, nothing to tell her who he might have loved or who had loved him.

“Why has he erased every indication of his life before this one?” she asked herself. “I should know more about him than I do at this point. Even if he is my husband, he is still a mystery.”

She sat on William’s cot and pressed her hand to his pillow. Before she could think of it, she’d lain down, pressing her nose into his sheets, inhaling his scent—expensive spice mingled with clean male musk—and it spurred a lick of desire in her breastbone.

Holding his other pillow to her chest, Bridget whispered another prayer that William would be safe and that he would return unscathed. For once that night, cocooned around his scent and presence, she finally slipped off to sleep.

Colin glared fire and brimstone at William as the carriage sped off to Whitechapel.

“That was a winning hand of whist you pulled me from,” Colin grumbled. “A winning hand!”

“You were going to win, what, fifty pounds?” William shrugged. “A pittance.”

“I was going to win a townhouse in Grosvenor Square, you lummox,” Colin replied heatedly. “Couldn’t you have waited ten minutes for me to deal the blow? No, I had to follow you on this investigatory crusade to some apothecary in Whitechapel at damn near midnight.”

“It is ten twenty-seven,” William corrected him. “Have you been drinking so much you cannot tell time?”

“My point is, you have all the power and the money to hire people to do these things for you,” Colin’s mouth twisted. “Private Investigators, Runners, Bow Street Men, you have all the manpower you can have but yet, you choose to do all this messy work yourself. Need I remind you, we are not in Arthurian times, you do not need to put yourself in danger when ye needn’t to.”

“And where is the honor in that?” William asked, propping an elbow on the windowsill while keeping an eye on the neighborhood they were in. “You know the only thing I do by proxy is govern the dukedom.”

“You’re a madcap,” Colin huffed.

“Hopefully, we can get you back to your precious game after visiting this apothecary,” William replied.

“But you brought me here for what exactly?” Colin asked as the carriage turned down a dark lane.

“I hope we won’t have to get to that,” William remarked as the vehicle stopped at a doorway. The faded paint on the door glinted blue under the flickering gas light above it, casting menacing shadows over it.

Stepping out, he knocked on the door while Colin joined him, angling his body so he could peer into the shadows. He saw no one, William knew because he had looked there himself.

A sliver of a peephole shot back and dark eyes stared at William. “What do ya want?”

“Your… special laudanum,” William replied, hedging his bets. “I am told this is the only place I can get it.”

The eyes shifted. “Who’s that wif you, guv?”

“A friend,” William replied. “A trusted friend.”

Once again, the eyes shifted, “If you willnae tell the Runners, come in…” a series of locks and chains slid away and the door pulled in. A man in worn clothes and an apron wiped his hand on the cloth. “Name is Gibeny, now, what can I get you?”