Be My Lover (12 page)

Seven Dials. A week later…

“’Ey, Freddie!” The stout woman looked up from chopping
vegetables on a dirty wooden table and pointed the knife at him. “Grab that
tray of food o’er there and take it to room seven! Josie and her client are
’ungry!”

“’Ow’d you know they’re finished?” Freddie grumbled, putting
aside his mop. He could scrub the floor until Judgment Day and it wouldn’t help
none. Years of grease coated the floor, sticking to the worn bottoms of his
shoes. The same grease caked the lone window in the brothel’s kitchen, but
there was no way Freddie was cleaning
that
. Working here provided him
with meals and a few coins, and the money would help buy his ticket to
Scotland. Just a few more weeks and he should have enough
.

“’Cause I knows they like to fuck three or four times ’fore
they sends for food,” the woman retorted. “And most times it takes a couple of
hours. He’s one of Josie’s regulars so I know his habits.” She wiped the knife
on her soiled apron. “Move your ass ’fore the gent raises a stink. And don’t
you be sticking your fingers in the pie or drinking any of that cock o’ leekie
soup while you’re taking it.”

“Awright, awright!” Freddie picked up the heavy tray and
headed for the rooms on the second floor. Heat radiated off the tureen and he
thought of spitting in the soup just for spite. He hoped Josie would tip him
for his trouble. Most likely the little bitch wouldn’t. She hung on to every
cent she could.

The giggling and laughing inside room seven made Freddie
wonder if Josie and her gent were at it again. “Rabbits, that’s what they are,”
he muttered.

He considered just knocking and leaving the tray on the
floor, but he was going to get a tip from Josie no matter what. Balancing the
tray with one hand—Henry had shown him how to do that—he knocked on the thin
door. “Food’s here,” he called.

The giggling stopped and someone’s heavy tread crossed the
floor. Freddie’s pulse jumped in anticipation. More likely he’d get a tip from
the gent than from Josie. Gents could always be counted on for a tip if you
treated them right. He forced a smile onto his face and waited.

The door swung open and for a second horror rooted Freddie
to the spot.

Run! Run!

He threw the tray at the old duke’s killer and bolted down
the hall. The echo of shattering crockery and cries of pain followed Freddie
down the hall and stairs. Another couple’s approach halfway up sent him leaping
over the banister to the hall floor, racing through the kitchen and out the
back door. He didn’t stop running until he reached the rotting, abandoned house
five blocks away. Since learning of the Duke of Bradford’s return, he’d changed
hiding places every few days. He slammed the door behind him, locked it and
sank to the floor. Sweat poured from his trembling body and the sour stench of
his own fear flooded his nostrils as he waited for his galloping heart to slow.

Damn it, now he’d have to find still another hiding place
and another job. Something that would earn him the means to buy a ticket to
some place like America, because with the duke’s killer seeing him, nowhere in
England was safe. He’d track Freddie down and carve him up like a side of beef.

Then Ma and Henry would be using his savings to bury him.

* * * * *

Why hadn’t she told Anthony about the passage?

Emily sat studying the tapestry covering the hidden door.
Surely there would be no harm in sharing what she had found.

Except it gave her an unexpected delight to know something
he did not. After all, he was Anthony Dyson, Duke of Bradford, a peer of the
realm! She choked back a giggle at the mental image of Anthony dressed in the
traditional robe and wig. He was probably privy to more secrets than half the
men in London. The honest ones, anyway.

She picked up the book in her lap and turned to the next chapter
of
The Mystery of Blackwood Hall.
The scene had opened with the heroine
discovering hidden documents in a concealed desk drawer. The marriage and
baptismal certificate proved the hero to be the true son of an old nobleman who
had made a secret marriage years ago. It was really too silly.

“I hope if Anthony does decide to marry Miss Stanhope, he’ll
encourage her to read something more than this.” Looking around the room again,
Emily tried to imagine where the previous owner might have hidden such documents.
There were no paintings where one could place papers behind the canvas, no
false-bottom boxes, and she had thoroughly gone through the desk the day after
she moved in.

“At least Ihave a secret passage,” she boasted to
the room. “So if I wanted to take another lover, I could smuggle him in and out
of the house!”

But that thought brought no comfort and she swallowed the
lump rising in her throat. A gossip sheet's report of a party—one by invitation
only that did not include Emily—Anthony and Margaret Stanhope had recently
attended, described how well suited they seemed for each other and how jewelers
were taking bets on which one might be asked design the engagement ring should
he ask her to marry him.

And
that
thought brought tears to her eyes. Being Anthony’s
lover had been the happiest time of her life. She had not expected to enjoy his
company or his friendship so much. All she had wanted was to experience raw,
physical pleasure, to have every wicked and delicious desire filled again and
again, to truly know the sensation of earth-shattering passion. A simple,
temporary arrangement that had suited them both.

And now she had spoiled it all by falling in love with him.

The only thing to do was to encourage him to offer for Miss
Stanhope as soon as possible. Then she would have the perfect excuse to gently
but firmly turn him away. She couldn’t possibly continue to be his mistress if
he were engaged. Miss Stanhope might be an innocent, but she wasn’t stupid. And
Emily would have no part in breaking the girl’s heart. So tomorrow after
breakfast, she would suggest Anthony stay at the St. Ives until he proposed to
Miss Stanhope. He had suffered enough scandal as it was.

One last night with Anthony. A sob rose in her throat.

“Hullo, Emily. Whatever are you reading?” Anthony’s cheerful
voice brought her back to the evening at hand. Looking splendid and sinful in
his black-and-white evening clothes, he joined her on the loveseat. “If I
didn’t know any better, I would think you were crying.”

“Only because this book is so dreadful.” She showed him the
cover. “But since Miss Stanhope sent it round, I have no choice but to read it.
If you do decide to marry her, please encourage her to explore other forms of
literature.”

“We’ll see.” He put the book on a nearby table, and then
pulled her to her feet. His gaze roamed over her rose-pink dress in
appreciation. The modiste had insisted on cutting the bodice lower than Emily
preferred, the lace edging starting just above her nipples, but the desire in
Anthony’s eyes told her the modiste had been right.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look lovelier, Emily,” he
said, kissing her cheek. “You’ll have the
ton
eating out of your hands
tonight.”

“I’ll have a great deal of competition if what Jocelyn tells
me is true.” Emily adopted the bantering tone they so often used together. “She
says the soiree at the Duke of Laramore’s home tonight will be one of the
Season’s grandest.”

“It will be,” Anthony agreed, running a finger along the
lace edging the bodice. “What a pity the hairdresser went to such trouble. I’d
like to take you upstairs right now before we go.”

She swatted him on the arm. “We most certainly will
not
go
upstairs before going to the Laramore’s.”

He sighed in mock resignation. “Oh, well. To the Laramore’s
then.”

“To the Laramore’s,” she echoed, putting her hand on his arm
and letting him lead her into the hall. Tonight would be the night for making
memories.

Because soon—too soon—memories would be all that remained.

* * * * *

Anthony bowed. “Thank you for the dance, Miss Stanhope. I
hope you don’t think it was forward of me to ask you to waltz.”

She smiled up at him. “Not at all, Your Grace. My mother
thinks there is nothing wrong with waltzing if one knows one’s partner. And we
have met on so many occasions during the Season, haven’t we?”

“We have indeed,” he said, leading her back to the row of
debutantes and their chaperones sitting off to the side in the Laramore’s
ballroom. Hundreds of candles shimmered in candelabras set around the room. The
open doors leading to the veranda allowed the spring-night scent to mingle with
the aroma of lilies in vases. Some of the crowd stepped aside, allowing them
wide passage, but the giggles and whispers from behind raised fans suggested
the women were speculating on when he would announce their engagement. He had
it on good authority that with the exception of Victoria’s—thanks to
Brandon—bets on when he’d ask for Margaret Stanhope’s hand in marriage were
already on the books at every club in town.

He returned Miss Stanhope to her mother. A much younger man
stood nearby, his obvious displeasure over Anthony’s waltz with Miss Stanhope
pulling his mouth into a tight line. So there was competition to be had, was
there? Anthony hid his smile, bowed to Miss Stanhope and her mother, and left
the young man to try his luck.

He needed to dance with Emily. To be honest, a twinge of
jealousy raked over his skin whenever she danced with another. The simple
elegance of her rose gown, in spite of its low cut, made some of the other
women in their elaborate flounces and frills appear overdressed. Simplicity had
always become her and the thought of what lay underneath threatened to harden
him like a green boy seeing his first naked woman. Images of a naked Emily—on
her knees above him, her hands flat on the mattress, working her body so his
cock slipped in and out of her moist, warm folds—sprang unbidden to his mind.
He bit the inside of his mouth to keep his cock from stirring against the
smooth fabric of his dress breeches.

He would enjoy undressing her later.

He found Brandon and Greg huddled near the refreshment
table, deep in a discussion about horses. After sampling the punch and finding
it too sweet for his taste, he left the cup on the table and joined them.
“Heard anything interesting?”

“Just the usual.” Greg sighed. “Everyone is pairing everyone
else up. I always forget just how dangerous the Season can be. A bachelor isn’t
safe anywhere.”

“Emily is looking lovely tonight,” Brandon observed. “I dare
say she’s the most beautiful woman in the room. You could do no better if you
asked her to marry you.”

Anthony followed Brandon’s gaze. Emily was dancing with Sir
Edgar Lennox. She was giving the physician her complete attention and the old
anger flared in Anthony’s heart. His dislike for Lennox was unreasonable,
illogical and completely without foundation. The man was not to blame for his
father’s death.

But if only he had arrived a few minutes sooner, Lennox
might have seen his father’s killer.

The music stopped and the dancing couples drifted to other
parts of the room. Laughter rose and fell, and under the conversations came the
gentle clink of glasses. From across the room, a smiling Emily was coming
toward him. Spotting a waiter carrying a tray of wineglasses, Anthony signaled
him forward.

“I didn’t know Laramore was in the habit of inviting the
sons of thieves to his home.” The loud voice cut through the surrounding
conversations as Sir Charles Abernathy pushed through a group of young dandies
to stand in front of Anthony. Silence descended, spreading like a wave over the
room.

Anthony looked at his friends. “Did someone let in a fly? I
seem to hear the most annoying buzz around me. That’s what happens when one
leaves the doors to the garden open.”

“Do you think just because you fled London with your tail
between your legs after your father killed himself, people will forget how he
swindled money from others?” Abernathy shouted. He grabbed Anthony’s arm. “I
lost five hundred pounds!”

An angry murmur rose from the surrounding guests and several
of the women exchanged anxious glances. With calculated deliberation, Anthony
removed Abernathy’s hand from his arm. “Any investment is a risk. Your losses
are your own fault. My loss was far greater than yours.”

“Your loss? Ha! What loss? You’ve got more money than the
king!” Abernathy sneered.

A cold rage started behind Anthony’s eyes and he
straightened his back while considering a variety of ways to dismember
Abernathy, starting by ripping off his ballocks and shoving them down his
throat. “I was referring to the loss of my father.”

“A loss that bettered all of London!” Stumbling, Abernathy
grabbed Anthony’s arm again. “At least that’s one less liar and thief in the
House of Lords!”

The murmurs rose to angry shouts and protests. A sticky,
sweet aroma caught Anthony’s attention and he jerked back, sending Abernathy to
the floor. “You’re drunk,” he said. “Did you bathe in brandy before you came?”

The other guests laughed, and then laughed again as
Abernathy’s efforts to stand failed and he fell at Anthony’s feet. A shove from
Anthony’s shoe sent Abernathy sprawling on his backside and the crowd cheered.

“I didn’t realize garbage was being delivered to parties
this Season. I shall have to remember to speak to my wife.” The Duke of
Laramore was suddenly at Anthony’s side. So were two of his footmen, formidable
in the height and strength required by their position.

“Duncan, Forbes, take this filth away and put it outside
with the rest of the refuse where it belongs, please.” Laramore’s voice rang
out over the rising conversations. “Or send it back to its owner without my
compliments.”