A Man Above Reproach (2 page)

“They call her Crimson and you can see why,” Mother Superior said from over his shoulder, her eyes having followed his. “Your friend has taken quite a fancy to her over the past few weeks.”

Elias held back a rude grunt. He managed to turn it into a polite sound that was a mix of disinterest and civility.

“Shall we get you a drink, Your Grace?”

He could see her thought process: get them in, get them drunk, get them bedded. No matter. Elias’s resolve was legendary—though his family would call it stubbornness—and he needed to get a little foxed. He would keep his head about him. A few drinks, then back home by hired carriage. He certainly hadn’t brought the carriage with his family crest into this establishment. Elias followed Mother Superior with resignation, recognizing members of the House of Lords and pillars of the church community among the crowd. As he’d suspected, the masks were wholly ineffective.

He curled his hand around the glass of brandy, which did not approach the quality of the bottle on his desk at Ashworth Hall. He longed for his beautiful mahogany desk, his sequestered room where
he could tell his butler to not let anyone in, where there was not a constant chatter of people who cared only about rutting.

From behind him, tentative and soft notes issued from a piano. The player was being very courteous, playing a light, frothy tune that provided atmosphere without intruding on the merriment. It was mildly humorous to him, this gent playing in a whorehouse. What an odd employment that must be; the stories he must have to tell. Elias turned to see the make of the man, but ended up choking on his surprise.

“Ah, Lennox,” Nicholas chuckled, appearing at his shoulder. “Trust you to fix on the only lady not for sale.”

Elias’s eyes tried to take in the full sight of her, seated on the bench with impossibly upright stature, compared to the other slumped womanly forms painted across the room. She wore an elaborate mask, beaded and feathered, that covered every bit of her face save her eyes and lips. Brown hair was piled high on her head, pinned to expose an elegant neck supporting her enticing collarbone. The décolletage on her gown was more conservative than he expected in a brothel. It dipped low enough to entice, but it was not anything beyond what was à la mode in the grand ballrooms of London. The skirt, however, was far beyond propriety, angled high in the front to expose legs that tested his sanity, wrapped around the bench and clad in bright-blue silk stockings.

“Lennox?” Nicholas still stood waiting for an answer to words that had disappeared into the thick air, unheard. Elias took a drink before speaking. He croaked through a twinge of pain in his throat, having swallowed harder than he intended.

“Yes?”

“I asked if you wanted to know her story, but I wager you do. That is the chit they call the Bawdy Bluestocking. Regulars call her BB. It is said that she’s a courtesan, but I have not met the man that has kept her. Some say she’s a society lady moonlighting here as a voyeur, to
escape her loveless marriage, but I have looked her straight in the face and those eyes do not exist in our circles. Plays piano all night, and well. You can talk to her, but she charges for her time, and she does not do private audiences. Elias? Are you even listening to me?”

Elias knew that Nicholas’s itinerant blue eyes were wide, but he didn’t see them. He was already on his way to the corner.

He placed a few shillings on the piano.

“A conversation, madam?”

It was then that Elias Addison, the grave and stoic Duke of Lennox who always had a plan, realized he had no idea what he was doing.

Josephine looked at the money, heard the voice she did not recognize, and then looked up to the regal man with his thin-fingered hand resting casually on the surface of her piano. It was a hand that had never done a day of manual labor. She could tell just by the cut of his jacket and the way he stood that he was a duke. She could just tell. She hated talking to these privileged men who acted as if they owned everything they surveyed.

“Of course, Your Grace,” she nodded.

He quirked a brow. “Are we acquainted?”

“No, indeed, except that we are now. They call me BB around here, though I don’t particularly fancy it.”

She fancied nothing about the place, in point of fact, but it was a necessity. Contrary to the wild stories the men in the Sleeping Dove had concocted to make her a myth, her story was not so dramatic or unusual. Josephine Grant was a woman of modest monetary means and fewer connections. When her father left this world, all she got was the little bookshop he owned and with it all of his debtors. There was enough money coming in only to keep it afloat and to allow her to
have one employee. Playing piano at the Dove was supposed to supplement her income, but when she learned of the true horrors there, it had become something more. That part, she supposed, was unusual.

“What would you prefer to be called?” the duke said, splitting her reverie.

“You needn’t call me anything to converse. You and I are the only ones talking, we know to whom our address is directed.” She hit a few notes, worried about the discordant value in them. The piano needed repair, but Mother Superior would not hear of it.

“Your instrument needs tuning.”

“I doubt yours does,” she said with a saucy smile. This was what most men who approached her wanted. Banter and innuendo to prime them to choose a woman among the girls Mother had plucked from the streets.

He sat down on the bench next to her. She really should not have allowed him; she did not allow that. The velvet of his jacket made her side overwarm. Of course, it was just the fabric. The expensive fabric that could probably pay a fair chunk of what her father owed to the barrister who was now threatening to take away the only thing she really owned, her beloved bookstore.

“Of course not. I keep my piano in the best possible condition. I play nightly and I can hear the slightest change in key. It would irritate me to no end to play this beast,” he remarked.

There was no teasing in his tone. Josephine looked at him full-on. He had a dangerous face, not traditionally handsome, but one that invited further study. In fact, she found it hard to look away from the odd planes that existed there. The swoop of his cheekbones vanished into his mask, leaving half-moons in the shadows it created. She looked away, so as to keep her mind on the dialogue and not appear to be staring.

“With another seasoned player present, I hope I do not disappoint. Most of the time, I assume no one is listening.”

He glanced around the room with a judgmental eye.

“I suspect you are correct on that count.” He paused, seeming to realize he was being rude. “But it improves the ambience.”

“True enough. It keeps the women’s spirits up at least, they tell me. That alone keeps me here.” Josie had no idea why she told him that, it was far too personal. She did not know what else to say, so she said what she was actually thinking. His strange, cold brown eyes and blank tone did not equate with the coarse language that was expected from men who put money on the table.

“Just that?”

“And money, of course.” She smiled in what she hoped was a lighthearted manner. “Surely you do not think the bits o’ muslin you see around you are here for their own entertainment?”

“I appreciate your candor.” He put his fingers on the piano and tinkled out an airy melody. “Is that what they pay you for?”

“I would not say this tête-à-tête is representative of what I normally do.”

“Which is?”

“Exactly what did you expect for mere shillings, Your Grace?”

His enigmatic manner was unsettling. The last thing she wanted was anyone nosing around asking questions. Josephine would rather keep a low profile and stay as much away from Mother Superior as possible.

“If you would call me Elias, I would call it even.”

Those lips that might be unkind in another expression were devastating in a smile.

“That would be highly improper.”

He chuckled. “And you are the height of propriety, Blue?”

Damned if that was not charming. This stoic peer and his unexpected nickname put a chink in her defenses. She would give him what he paid for, she decided.

“I think I will play some Thomas Moore for you later, Elias, while you drink your fill and find your lady. I wish you luck.”

He bowed his head to her, his eyes capturing hers. The use of his name sparked something behind his mahogany orbs, the color lit with a roguish glow.

“I have found my lady, but I have yet to drink my fill.” He gestured to the remains of his glass, the dark liquid swishing like nausea in the bottom. “This is swill, you know.”

“Mother does not like to spend money frivolously.”

“Good brandy is never frivolous.” He put two pounds on the piano. “At least your madam did not charge me for it. It gives me leave to spend my money elsewhere.”

“You are being far too extravagant.”

“How much will buy your exclusive company for the evening?”

“I am sure you have been informed that this is not an option.”

“I am not asking to share your bed,” he said curtly. “I am asking for the freedom to speak with you whenever I wish.”

“I must play,” she squeaked. She hadn’t meant to squeak. She was not one who made a habit of squeaking.

“Between songs. On breaks. How much?”

These dukes, these peers, they thought they could purchase whatever they wanted. It must have been the whiff of money, because there was Mother Superior, grinning.

“I would say a total of ten pounds, including what you’ve already spent, is a fair amount and I’ll be sure that no other gentleman speaks with her this evening.” She grinned so widely that her missing back teeth were on display.

“Mother…” Josephine started.

“Hush, BB, His Grace has been quite generous.” The subtext of her sentence was that she would be taking a significant cut of that money. If many different men talked to Josephine over a course of an evening, it was easier for her to hide how much she had actually made.

As Mother Superior led the duke away for another drink—she would probably break into the better stash, now—Josephine bent down to her keys again. There was nothing to be done but to play.

“You did what?” Nicholas said with disbelief, his crimson girl hanging happily on his arm. He and the lass must have been in their cups for some time now, as they clung to each other, tipsy.

“I gave her ten pounds to buy the whole of Blue’s evening conversation.”

“You mean the Bawdy Bluestocking?” Crimson piped in. Elias had found out Crimson’s real name was Sally—she and Thackeray had reached a point in their arrangement where it felt silly for him to call her by only a color.

“She’s a grand friend of mine,” Sally went on. “Bit too serious sometimes, but you seem a bit serious, Your Grace.” She grinned in a fetching way, and Elias could see how she had won Nicholas’s admiration. She was another anomaly in this place—a truly beautiful girl among many tired and ruined women. She shone; stood out. Sally had a fetching, heart-shaped face and wide emerald eyes that stayed mainly focused on Nicholas. They matched each other well, Elias thought, her wavy brown hair just a touch lighter than the black of Nicholas’s. He was about a head taller than her, making it easy for him to plant an affectionate kiss on her crown.

“Sally,” Nicholas admonished, “Lennox has recently been through quite a lot.”

“No, no,” Elias said, taking another drink. The second brandy was much better, he noticed, and the amount more charitable. “She is right. I am a bit serious.”

Nicholas squeezed her arm with affection. “You have gotten him to admit what I have been trying to for countless years.”

Elias glanced over to the piano, where a radiant tune had begun to issue, blending as if it were written to be a line under the ever more raucous crowd. He did not recognize the composition, so he assumed it was original. This woman was actually going to the trouble of composing for this nanny house? She could not possibly be paid enough for that. The tune, even when off-key, was like a pair of creamy, powdered arms wrapped around the whole room. Blue’s fingers danced across the keys evenly because they knew the way. Her eyes were closed. She was not there.