Her Notorious Viscount (18 page)

“Have you considered Jane for that position?”

Nicholas stopped short. Occasionally, yes, he had thought of what it would be like if Jane was the woman he linked himself to forever. It hadn’t been an unpleasant thought in many ways. He liked her and he knew he could depend upon her. He desired her, or at least he did for the time being. It would not be difficult to fulfill his husbandly duties with her, that was certain.

But she also knew him, far more deeply than any other woman had. The idea of sharing that kind of intimacy was…well, when it came to a wife, he wasn’t certain he wanted that. A woman who would simply smile and not ask questions would be better.

And then there was the fact that he was no gentleman. Not really. And Jane deserved that. She deserved a man who would elevate her status, not cause more whispers. He had seen her face when she spoke of how she was dismissed. Whether she admitted it or not, Jane wanted to be part of Society again. And with him, there would be no guarantee of that happening.

“I need someone who will bring me back into the fold. So does she. It would not work,” he finally murmured. “And I really don’t want to discuss it further.”

Rage opened his mouth as if to say more, despite Nicholas’s admonishment, but then closed it. “Very well. Then tomorrow we’ll go back into the underground and see what we can find. Any reason why you don’t want to go tonight?”

“I’m not in the mood,” he said, his tone leaving no room for further discussion. Rage finally took the hint, got to his feet, and left the room.

After his friend was gone, Nicholas straightened up. Rage could see he was dancing around his real reasons, but his friend knew him well enough not to push.

Because the fact was that Nicholas just felt too
raw
to go into the underground. Too troubled. Distraction could get him killed. And even more, he feared that if he was threatened tonight, of all nights, he might take things too far.

So instead, he would drown his emotions in a bottle of fine bourbon, then sleep off the hangover and the cause of it. By tomorrow, he was certain he would have his emotions well in hand.

He had to. Tomorrow he said farewell to Jane.

“My apologies, miss,” the woman said with a brief, nervous smile.

Jane nodded at her in the mirror’s reflection. She could hardly blame the seamstress. After all, she was surrounded by the large, loud group consisting of Lady Bledsoe, Lady Ridgefield, and their friends. All of them had something to add or suggest to the beleaguered woman, and she hadn’t had as much practice as Jane had at blocking out their endless chatter.

Jane stared at her reflection and marveled. Despite the pin poking, the dressmaker really was a talent. Although the gown she was designing was little more than a few draped pieces of fabric right now, Jane could see that it would likely be the most beautiful dress she had ever worn. The fabric was a lovely shade of deep blue. In a pile beside her were other silks of lighter blue and even one that was white with hand-stitched flowers scattered across it.

Shutting her eyes, Jane tried hard not to think of how expensive this gown was going to be. It was humiliating to be the adopted charity case of these women.

And yet, her heart leapt at the idea of wearing such a glorious gown. Of coming to a party not as a servant, but as a woman. To dance, which she had always adored.

When the dressmaker accidentally pinched her, Jane almost thanked the woman for dragging her out of her fantasy world. It was
wrong
to take pleasure in this endeavor. To let herself think about playing and dancing as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

This party…it was more for the ladies who were helping her. And it was for Nicholas.

Her gaze flitted to the clock. It was nearly noon, which meant in twelve short hours she would be with him again. How she wished she could wear this gown when they met, but it wouldn’t be ready.

Nor would it be appropriate. Nicholas had been kind last night, and she had felt the thrum of desire that coursed between them…but she had also known he was dismissing her. He had been so adamant she take his mother’s assistance and find herself an appropriate husband. One that fit her station. It had been a kind set-down, but a set-down nonetheless.

As the women continued to chatter, Lady Bledsoe stepped up to Jane. From the elevated stepstool where she stood, Jane smiled down at the woman weakly.

“You do look lovely. I think you shall be divine when Miss Willows is finished with her work.”

Lady Bledsoe glanced at the pretty redheaded seamstress. The woman seemed to sense an unspoken order, for she set her pins aside and said, “Excuse me while I examine this other fabric.”

Once she had moved aside and the two women had some privacy, Lady Bledsoe leaned closer. “Nicholas’s invitation to my ball was sent this morning, and before I left for here, he had already responded that he will be in attendance.”

The other woman’s eyes danced so brightly that Jane couldn’t help but smile. “I only hope my lessons will be enough, my lady. He has had such a short time to become reacquainted with Society’s stringent rules and regulations.”

Lady Bledsoe waved off her concern. “I am certain he will do fine.” Her smile fell. “Unlike his father, I do not desire that Nicholas lose all his own spark and personality. I have never wanted him to be perfect. Or to be Anthony.”

Jane hesitated, uncertain of how to respond. It was not her place to wax poetic on Nicholas’s perfection or the beauty of his imperfections.

“Perhaps you should tell him that, my lady,” she finally said softly. “I am not certain he knows of your support.”

Lady Bledsoe opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, Duchess Kirkwood stepped forward. “I do declare, Jane, that color makes your skin look alabaster. You shall be the belle of the ball.”

Lady Abebowale nodded, her expression filled with astonishment. “I admit, I said that a woman who lowered herself to a servant could never fit back into Society, but with our help you just might do it. I’m certain we can find you a husband of rank who will be willing to overlook your fallen history.”

Jane’s lips pinched into a sour smile for both the woman and her reminder. After all, this entire exercise had a purpose, and it was exactly the one Lady Abebowale had been uncouth enough to point out. These women were trying to find her a husband. One who would be “willing” to stoop to her level.

One who wasn’t Nicholas Stoneworth.

“Well, again I do thank you ladies for your immense kindness,” Jane said, hearing the strain in her voice. “I hope I won’t disappoint you in the way I conduct myself at the ball.”

The dressmaker returned to her side to take up her pinning, and the women all fell back into their scattered, loud conversation, leaving Jane to return to her own thoughts.

It wasn’t her behavior at the ball she really had concerns about. No, her real worries involved her behavior tonight when she met with Nicholas for their final lesson. Because when she was with him, it was harder and harder to remember that she was only a teacher and he, her student.

It was hard to remember anything except that she wanted him. And that she could never have him.

Nicholas exited his carriage behind Rage and looked around at the neighborhood. They were still in a more middle-class place, for it would be dangerous to dismount from such a fine vehicle in the midst of squalor and depravity. That was only asking for attention and trouble of the worst kind.

It was better to walk the last short distance and appear to be just two blokes. Later they could meet the carriage back in the safety of this place.

“What’s the plan?” Rage asked as they set out on their way toward the bars and gambling hells and brothels of the squalid underground. It was a short walk, and they crossed the distance briskly.

“We’ll split,” Nicholas said.

As they passed the unspoken line between the middle-class neighborhoods and the squalor of the lower, he shifted his attention. He felt every stare of every man as they walked by, was aware of the street urchin and the lightskirt who were huddled in a doorway.
This
was living, or at least being alive. Awareness, danger, uncertainty, they all fed him.

Only tonight they felt a little less filling.

“Where are you going to go?” Rage asked as they avoided a drunk who had passed out on the cobblestones in the gutter.

“That whore who thought she knew Jane’s brother mentioned something about Hannigan’s,” Nicholas said. “It may be nothing, but since it’s the worst gambling hell in the city, I may find something there.”

“And what about me?” Rage asked. “Should I follow up at the opium dens?”

“Yes, but be careful,” Nicholas said with a shudder. The idea of being so out of control of one’s body troubled him more than any other. “You know how desperate those fools can be. If the opium hounds think you have anything that can help them pay for another hit, they’ll try to take it with no thought to the value of your life.”

Rage nodded. “You be careful, too. Your face isn’t unknown. There are some who would love to injure or kill the biggest pugilist in the underground. I’ll see you at dawn back at the house.”

Nicholas nodded, and the two men exchanged a quick glance before he turned down one street and Rage continued on his way. Although much of the action wouldn’t start in the hells and bars until after eleven or twelve, Nicholas was meeting Jane at that time, so he would depart early. Luckily he could depend on Rage to uncover information discreetly. He would just do the best he could with the time he had.

Thoughts of Jane intruded as he continued down the street.
Their
time was severely limited. Tonight was all they had left, and then they would be finished. Oh, he would see her at balls and soirees. They might even say a polite hello. But that would be the extent of their interaction.

With a shake of his head, Nicholas stopped outside Hannigan’s, a seedy, run-down gambling hell that had been thrown together in the burned-out shell of an old warehouse. He gave the guard at the door a nod, and the man sized him up in an instant before he motioned him inside.

The first thing that hit Nicholas was the stench. The smell of burned wood mingled with sweat and worse. The gambling halls were called hells, and when Nicholas looked around at this one, he felt the moniker fit. Men huddled in small groups, playing rounds of various card and dice games. Many had the haunted look of opium fiends, well on their way to utter destruction.

Others still had an air of wealth around them, although by the time they descended to a place like this, most of their money and valuable property had been lost. Now they were reduced to gambling with horses, clothing…even the virtues of their sisters and wives and daughters.

Desperation was the word of the day here, and it turned Nicholas’s stomach. He stepped a few paces inside and was immediately approached by a tall brute of a man. With a quick glance, Nicholas sized him up. The goliath had the height and reach advantage on him, but his lumbering movements were slow and sluggish. In a fight, Nicholas was reasonably certain he could get the better of him if he avoided fists with his speed.

“Two pounds to play,” the monster said without preamble, his voice so deep that it reverberated in Nicholas’s belly.

He dug in his pocket and drew out the fee. It was so little, but to the men in this state it was a small fortune. And most would lose even more blunt before the night was over.

“If I give you five more, perhaps you can provide me with some information,” he said with an air of boredom. He didn’t want to appear too eager.

The man stared at him a long moment, face placid and unemotional. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Nicholas drew out the money and slid it into the man’s hand. “A man named Marcus Fenton.”

The giant said nothing as he pocketed the blunt.

With a scowl, Nicholas withdrew Jane’s miniature and held it out. “That’s the one. Know of him? Or know someone who does?”

“Lots of blokes come in here,” the man said with a shrug of one great shoulder. “Hard to say. But Flint over there might know.”

He motioned to a skinny, dirty man who was crouching on the floor, playing dice while he loudly carried on a conversation that Nicholas couldn’t understand from across the room.

“Thank you,” he said as he moved toward the small group where the man called Flint was playing.

As he neared them, he stopped to listen. To his horror, he realized the man wasn’t talking to his companions, but to himself. His sickly, thin voice went on and on, words streaming together in a diatribe that included thoughts on the game, as well as the king, a dog that he spoke to but didn’t exist, and a woman named Agnes.

“Shit,” Nicholas muttered as he came closer. If this man knew anything about Marcus, it would be virtually impossible to access that information from his broken mind.

“You Flint?” he asked as he drew near.

“Flint. Flint is me,” the skinny man said, rocking gently before he tossed the dice again. The other men didn’t even look up or acknowledge Nicholas.

“I want to talk to you,” he said, using a firm, even tone.

The man looked up at him briefly, but there was no lucidity in his gaze. He could have been looking at air for all he registered.

“Flint is me,” he repeated. “Flint.”

“Someone said you might know a man named Marcus Fenton. This man.” Nicholas held out the miniature.

All three men glanced at the locket, and Nicholas stiffened. It was a risk, putting the silver jewelry out in public where someone might become more interested in its value than the pictures within.

“Fenty,” Flint cackled. “Pretty Fenty Fenton.”

Nicholas’s nostrils flared at the other man’s stench. Frustration clawed at him. He wasn’t certain if Flint was just rambling or if there truly was a flicker of recognition when he looked at the small portrait.

“Bloke looks familiar,” said one of Flint’s companions, eyeing Nicholas with caution. “Wha’s it worth to ya?”

Nicholas turned his attention to the other man. Although he wasn’t as far gone as his mad companion, he was equally dirty and his hair was wild. Again, Nicholas wasn’t certain if there was some truth to the statement that he recognized Marcus, or if it was just an attempt to get desperately needed money.

“Depends on the information,” Nicholas said, cool. “Give me a little and we’ll see.”

“’E used to come in here with Flint, maybe a year or so ago,” the other man said with a motion in Flint’s direction.

The timeline of the man’s statement matched. “Have you seen him since?”

“Naw. He been gone for a long time now.” The man tilted his head with expectation.

Nicholas reached into his pocket and drew out money. “That’s worth five. Your friend won’t be able to tell me more, will he?”

The other man chuckled, his laugh dark with smoke and sickness. “Flint’s been gone in his mind a long time, but sometimes we can get ’im to remember. Hey, Flinty. Remember Fenton? Pretty Boy Fenton?”

“Fenty dead.” Flint smiled up at Nicholas. “Dead, dead, dead, dead…”

He went on, repeating the word over and over until he was close to hysterics. His friend shrugged almost apologetically, and Nicholas tossed the man another five pounds as he turned away.

Dead. Flint might be mad, but he was also probably right. If Marcus Fenton
had
truly been frequenting a place like this and keeping company with men like these…it likely meant his desire for opium and gambling and God knew what other vices was out of control. Death was inevitable for men in those situations.