50 Ways to Ruin a Rake (13 page)

“She needs me here.”

“She needs a protector, and you need to be whipped.”

He blinked. She had spoken the words so calmly that her meaning was nearly lost. But he had understood, and he reared back with appropriate shock. “You are doing it much too brown, Eleanor. I have known her almost as long as I've known you, and she was unsettled last night. I was merely…helping.” God, he hoped his words sounded better to Eleanor than they did to his own ears.

Apparently not, because her words were delivered as if he were the blackest roué in the city. “You are charming, Trevor. And because of that, you think you can blind everyone to your faults, and everything will work out in the end. For you, that is mostly true. But someone always pays the piper, and it is usually the woman. And Melinda is more vulnerable than most.”

“We just had a short conversation,” he lied. It wasn't for his own protection, but for Mellie's. He could not have Eleanor thinking the worse of his fiancée. And certainly not because of something that was entirely his fault.

Her stare was heavy indeed, but he did not flinch. The secret to holding a lie was total adherence to it. And in the end, she dipped her chin in acknowledgment. “Good. I think better of you then.”

He exhaled, though the guilt seemed ten times worse now. “Thank you—”

“But you are still leaving.”

Damned harridan. “Be reasonable, Eleanor. She needs all of us, myself included.”

It was at that moment that they were interrupted. The door didn't open. Naturally not. This was an efficient household, but as Eleanor had said: the walls were thin. He heard women coming down the stairs. Three to be exact, if he judged the voices correctly. The duchess's voice, another woman's, and then the soft, subtle murmur of Mellie. His entire body went tight, stretching for another sound.

A moment later, Seelye knocked quietly on the door before entering. “The carriage awaits your convenience, my lady.”

Eleanor pushed back from the table. Trevor had already abandoned his runny eggs to rush out to the main hallway. Mellie would be there, and he suddenly had a desperate need to see her. He didn't question why. He simply acted.

As he suspected, she was coming down the staircase. The duchess was in animated discussion with the other woman, whom he now identified as Lady Redhill, the other owner of A Lady's Favor dress shop. And trailing behind—though clearly listening closely—was his Mellie. Her skin was pale, her eyes a little wide, but it was unmistakably her. Just as he saw how absolutely beautiful she looked with her hair pinned artlessly back and her brows narrowed in thought. Then she spoke, and his body adjusted to her tone. Like an instrument tuned to her note, he shifted his position to greet her the moment she stepped upon the main floor.

“But crickets aren't only green. They have lots of different colors.”

He smiled, seeing his entry into the conversation. “Are we determined then to dress you as the Cricket Princess?”

Her eyes locked on his, and he was pleased to see the strain ease around the edges. She said something of which he only heard half. Something about telling the others that she could wear colors beyond just green. He might have had an opinion if he hadn't been so mesmerized by the way several locks of her hair tumbled out of her pins to bounce onto her shoulders. And when she stepped into the sunlight, the contrast between the auburn strands and her pearly white skin was delightful.

“I shall commission a necklace for you,” he said. “One of a cricket with a crown.”

“Don't you dare!” she cried. “Not unless you wear a matching one with buggy eyes.”

“Nonsense. On a man, it would need to be a signet ring.”

“I will not wear such a necklace,” she declared.

“Then I will appear decidedly strange with my new ring.” He held out his hand, and she descended the last step with her fingers in his. She felt warm. Much more alive than yesterday when she was more statue than person, but still a far cry from the woman he had brought to completion last night. And yet when he took her fingers to his lips in greeting, he knew the flash of fire in her cheeks—and in his groin.

Damn the thoughts she inspired in him.

And as he kissed her fingers, he saw her pink blush heat to bright red.

He stood there, kissing her hand and watching the shifting colors of her skin. A minute. Maybe more. It didn't matter. He was fascinated, and his memories were rapidly mixing with fantasies.

It was the duchess who brought him out of his reverie. She chuckled and turned to her friend. “Does your husband greet you in such a way, Helaine?”

“If he did, I doubt I'd ever leave the house.”

“Or the bed.”

The two women laughed, and it took him a moment to realize their meaning. Oh damn. Oh thrice damned. His thoughts were obvious, weren't they? And even if his weren't, Mellie's certainly were.

He straightened and proceeded to greet the other two women with as much charm as he was able. When he was done, he was all but assaulted by Eleanor's steady regard. It was a moment's stare. Or perhaps a minute's. But in that time, he knew what he had to do. As an honorable gentleman he had no choice. If he remained behind, he would have Mellie debauched within a week. With an inward curse, he turned to Seelye.

“Would you call a hack for me? It's time I returned to my rooms.”

He felt the surprise hit Mellie. They weren't even touching, but the air around her seemed to jerk. Then she spoke, her voice high and tight. “You're leaving?”

He nodded and tried to put an apology into his words. “Generally, affianced couples do not reside in the same home. It's not proper.”

Lady Redhill frowned. “Well, that's not entirely true,” she began, but Eleanor cut her off.

“It is in this house. I will not tolerate anything less than total propriety here.”

To which the duchess released a loud sigh. “She says that a lot, you know. But we have plenty of room, Mr. Anaedsley. And I know my husband enjoys your company.”

“As I enjoy his,” Trevor said with complete honesty. He found the duke quite refreshing. Unfortunately, the idea of debauching Mellie was completely dishonorable, and so he sighed. “I will visit every day.”

“You will escort us to Melinda's first ball and nothing beforehand,” said Eleanor with irritating finality in her tone.

“But—”

“I insist, Trevor.”

He glowered at his longtime friend. “Letters then, Eleanor. There is nothing untoward about a man writing letters to his fiancée.”

To which Lady Eleanor dipped her chin in a regal nod. He barely noticed as his gaze returned to Mellie. He saw immediately that she understood the subtext. She might be green in society, but she was far from stupid. But beyond that he could read nothing. Did she regret their actions last night? Did she hate that he was leaving and yearn for him as he ached to hold her again? Or was she resolved to her role in their charade?

“Mellie?” he whispered.

“Never mind, Trevor,” she said in an undertone. “There will be plenty of time to…” She swallowed. “Plenty of time after my wedding.”

Her
wedding. Not
their
wedding. Which was exactly as it should be.

And yet he never felt so robbed in all his life.

Ruination is a game of rigid appearance and flexible mind-set. Do not confuse the two.

Melinda was starting to lock herself down. She could feel the slow creep of icy stone as it expanded through her body. Trevor was abandoning her. She knew it wasn't really true. She understood exactly why he had to leave. After all, the last thing his gentleman's code would allow were the things they'd done last night. And she did her best not to think about them or how they might continue. She was in a carriage with three perceptive women, and she'd blushed enough already this morning.

So he was leaving, likely due to Lady Eleanor's interference. Mellie understood his reasons, but she could not stop the irrational feelings of abandonment. It wasn't like her, this emotional upheaval in defiance of all logic. But that's how she felt, and so her soul was beginning to lock down. Soon she would be watching the world again as it passed her by.

“No, no!” Lady Redhill was saying. She was the clothing designer, and even in the carriage she had out pencil and paper as she sketched possible attire for Mellie's come out. “I will not give her wings.”

Lady Eleanor huffed out a breath. “But crickets have wings, and she's the Cricket Princess. Do you not understand the plan?”

“I understand it completely, but I will not make her or any of my dresses look ridiculous. Unless she's going to a masquerade, she will not wear anything that gives her wings.”

Well, that was something, at least. Mellie tried to thank her with a silent look, but Lady Redhill had her head down as she sketched something new. The duchess was peering over her shoulder and nodded approvingly.

“That might work.”

Lady Eleanor leaned forward. “What? I can't see in this dratted carriage.” She was seated with Mellie facing the other two, but she now tried to stand as she peered at the paper. It didn't help her in the least as Lady Redhill pulled the pad close to her chest.

“No, you can't see. Not yet.”

“But—”

“I want Miss Smithson's opinion first.”

Eleanor dropped back into her seat with a huff. “Very well,” she said. She might as well have said, whatever for? Meanwhile, it took Mellie a moment to realize that they were all looking at her.

“I beg your pardon?” she said.

Lady Redhill passed her the pad. “These are just rough ideas, but they are vastly different. Eleanor said you wanted Russian—”

“No. Not Russian.”

Beside her, Eleanor released a snort of disgust, but didn't make any further comment. She was busy looking over Mellie's shoulder at the designs.

Lady Redhill raised her brows but agreed. “No more Russian influence.”

“Good,” inserted the duchess. “We don't have time to outfit her properly, and all that fanciness would take too much.”

Then again, everyone was looking at Melinda. It was ridiculous. She knew nothing about clothing or fashion, and here they were all waiting for her opinion. So she spoke without even thinking about her words first. “Crickets aren't fancy. Their wings are simple and clean.”

Eleanor leaned back. “But they do have wings, don't they?”

“Well, yes, of course. Two pairs actually. A forewing and a hind wing.”

Once again her words were greeted with silence, and Mellie squirmed in discomfort. Good Lord, she already knew she was odd. Did they need to stare at her like that? But a moment later, Lady Redhill was reaching for her sketches again.

“Two wings,” she murmured.

“Two skirts,” the duchess echoed.

“Both green, but one lighter, the other—”

“Darker. Trimmed in veins of gold perhaps?”

“Just a hint,” Lady Redhill said, her fingers flying as she rapidly drew more designs. “Do you know the fabric I mean?”

“I don't know that we've more than the one green silk,” the duchess returned. “Can't fashion a dozen gowns out of one bolt of green.”

“Irene will manage. And there is more than one. We've got a green velvet for a cloak.”

The duchess clapped her hands. “That will be her signature! That dark green cloak with threads of gold shot through it like veins. Everyone will know it's her. At least until the others start copying her.”

Melinda blinked. People would start copying her? What a silly thought. Except beside her, Lady Eleanor was nodding as she thought. “Excellent,” she murmured. “Do you think we can fashion a tiara that looks like antennae?”

This time everyone stared at Eleanor, and to her shock they burst out laughing—Eleanor included.

“Yes,” the woman said ruefully. “A tiara might be a bit much. But perhaps some stitching on the cloak's hood?”

To which Lady Redhill once again looked at Melinda. “Miss Smithson, you must direct me. Just how much do you intend to embrace this identity? You are a lovely woman. I cannot think that this elaborate game is necessary.”

“But that is just the point, isn't it?” she said, her voice starting out weak but growing stronger with each word. “My Season, the fashion, the way we preen about ourselves, it is all a game. Even in animals and insects, there are elaborate rituals in the hopes of mating, though it is usually the male who does most of the preening.”

“Oh, never fear about that,” drawled Lady Eleanor. “You will witness a great deal of male preening soon enough.”

“But you must decide,” pushed Lady Redhill. “Just how much are you willing to
play
?”

That was the question, wasn't it? And while she was still thinking about the question, Lady Eleanor spoke up.

“It is all about confidence, Melinda. If you are not completely at one with the role, we shall never bring it about.”

Confident? In being a prancing cricket princess?

Then the duchess spoke, her voice kind but no less assured. “They're right, Miss Smithson. You cannot sit like a bump on a log in these dresses. You must play with the role—”

“Play with
us
,” stressed Lady Redhill.

“Play with
them
,” corrected Lady Eleanor. “The men, the society women, the whole of the
ton
. Play, Melinda, and be pleased that you are smarter than all of them combined.”

And that's when she finally understood. Each of these women, in her own way, was asking her to join in a game. This was how they had fun. Just as when her father asked her to help with his experiments, he truly believed he was offering her an enjoyable experience. He was playing with science and inviting her to join. These ladies were inviting her to join them in a game of society and wondered if she would participate like a child joining a game of marbles.

She stared at them, thrown as the meaning dropped like water between cracks into her consciousness. “London is a most peculiar place,” she finally said.

To which all three ladies burst out laughing. And before they could catch their breath, Melinda found herself chuckling.

“I can play,” she said, somewhat shocked to realize that she could. She would. And she might even enjoy it.

“Excellent,” Eleanor crowed. “Now do we add antennae to the cloak or not?”

She thought about it seriously for a moment. She thought about all the different types of sensory equipment on insects. She pondered strict adherence to science and immediately discarded it. This was fun, not fact.

“Many species of cricket have the most elegant long antennae that can sweep wide or drape elegantly down their backs.” She gestured for the paper and was immediately offered pad and pencil. “Perhaps this?” she asked as she drew a pair of curving lines down the back of the cloak, vaguely suggestive of a woman's form.

“Oh, excellent!” cried Eleanor.

“I know just how to do it,” added the duchess.

But it was Lady Redhill who summarized things exactly. “Oh my, this is going to be so much fun!”

They discussed their plans in earnest until the carriage arrived at A Lady's Favor dress shop. Mellie was feeling significantly better as she disembarked, finally stepping foot in the most fashionable shopping district of London. It's not that she hadn't shopped before. In London even. But she'd never felt at ease among the elite until now. Heavens, right now, a duchess and two ladies surrounded her!

The moment that the duchess opened the shop door, they heard an argument. In truth, it could be heard from the street, but Mellie hadn't paid much attention. It was just more noise among the call of hawkers and the like. But once inside, they all realized the shrill voices were coming from the shop's back room.

“What the devil?” Lady Redhill murmured as she headed straight through the welcoming parlor. The duchess was barely a step behind, which left Mellie and Eleanor to exchange startled glances before following.

They entered what was obviously the work area. Mellie saw tables throughout the room, each set up as a workstation. Fabric was everywhere, as were dresses in various states of completion, along with buttons, pins, thread, and other baubles that often decorated clothing. It was so chaotic, in fact, that Mellie had trouble finding the source of the commotion. Until she stepped farther into the room and saw a second doorway, one that clearly led to an alley.

The workers' entrance, except that it was barred by a furious looking young woman who stood with her arms crossed and her glasses perched on the end of her nose as she glared at the man attempting to enter.

Mellie focused on him because, in her experience, it was usually the man who was the problem. He was thick set with brown hair and broad shoulders. She supposed he was handsome in a rugged way, especially as he hadn't shaved yet this morning, so his skin cast a shadow on his clenched jaw. But it was his eyes that made her wary. They were a familiar pale brown, almost as if he had an inner light that softened the darkness of every other aspect of his body, and they were narrowed in a sleepy kind of fury. And worse, his hands were clenched into fists where they perched on his hips.

Melinda had plenty of knowledge of large, dumb men. Brutes were dangerous in a raw, powerful way, but this man was large and smart—a dangerous combination—especially since he was clearly angry.

Meanwhile, the duchess pushed her way forward. “Bernard? What are you doing here?”

“Exactly what you asked me to, sis.”

So that's why his eyes looked familiar. He had the exact same eyes as his sister. Eleanor came to the same conclusion as she whispered in Mellie's ear.

“That's Bernard Drew, the duchess's brother. He's running the businesses.”

Mellie frowned. “I thought the duchess and Lady Redhill ran A Lady's Favor.”

“They do,” Eleanor all but hissed. “He's running the
other
businesses. The ones where
men
go.” She spoke in clipped tones with clear emphasis. Mellie knew she was supposed to understand a great deal more than the words themselves, but she had little context for it. Men frequented many other establishments. She could be talking anything from haberdasheries to whorehouses.

“I will not let whores and thieves in here!” cried the bespectacled woman.

Ah. Whorehouses then. And perhaps a thieving ring. Goodness, she had no idea that any member of the aristocracy owned such things, much less the duchess herself.

Meanwhile Bernard gestured behind him to a man and woman who stood quietly awaiting their fate. “It's only one whore and one thief.”

“Bernard!” the duchess groaned. “Don't antagonize her. And Tabitha, you have no idea what these people have done. We discussed this. We need the help. Orders are piling up.”

“You heard him. A whore and a thief.”

“Yes,” Bernard growled. “But
he's
the whore, and
she's
the thief!”

To which the man cried, “I am not!” and the woman shook her head. “Not anymore, gov. And only for me bread.”

It would have been funny if not for the desperation hidden behind the words. Both thief and whore—for lack of better words—were gaunt and hungry with sunken eyes and sallow skin. Their clothing was threadbare, but clearly someone had made an attempt to clean it. The stains were faded, as if someone had tried to wash them out, and there were patched places that could not be disguised no matter the skill of the seamstress.

The duchess gestured the woman forward, then tugged at the sleeve of the woman's dress. She held it up to the sunlight, tilting it one way then another. Mellie couldn't guess why she did it. That appeared to be the one place on the dress that had no damage. Or so she thought.

“Did you mend this?” the duchess asked.

“I did, Yer Grace. The other bits weren't my work.” She pointed to the patches that Mellie had seen. “It's not my dress, you see. But I had time to mend the tear here.”

“Good work,” she said as she tilted the sleeve toward Tabitha. The blonde woman adjusted her spectacles then peered closer.

“But she's a thief.”

“No, miss. I just had some hard times, is all.” Then she swallowed. “Please, Your Grace. Without this work, I will have to turn to… To become…”

She clearly couldn't say the word, but Bernard could. “It's this or the workhouse. But she's got a weak chest. She'd have a better chance as a whore. Or an excellent chance as a seamstress.” Bernard's voice was hard, but his eyes stayed kind and sad. At least until his gaze settled on Tabitha, who naturally bristled in anger.

“We can't have a thief or whore here! It'll dry up the orders quicker than snip.” She clipped her two fingers together like a pair of scissors cutting.

Meanwhile, Lady Redhill was looking about the workroom and shaking her head. “They'll dry up anyway if we don't get help. We're behind on every order.”

Tabitha grimaced. “Then hire some girls. Just not from
his
place. There are plenty of good girls out there looking for work.”