His Mistress by Morning (29 page)

Except he lacked one thing.

He didn’t look very sated. No, Sebastian Marlowe had the look of a man haunted and bedeviled.

And Charlotte thought to toss another log onto the pyre. “We are off to hire my musician.”

“Hmm, seems well enough,” he said, scratching his chin and casting another hooded glance in her direction.

Hermione took this as their cue to escape, and she
dragged Charlotte around him and toward the waiting carriage.

“Yes, the fellow lives on Little Titchfield Street,” Charlotte said offhandedly as Hermione climbed into the hackney and she was about to follow suit.

“Now you’ve done it,” Hermione muttered.

“Little Titchfield Street!” came the passionate explosion. “Madame, have you gone mad?!”

Charlotte smiled, then turned and asked ever so innocently, “Is something amiss?”

“Why, why, that’s where…I mean to say, there are certain…Good God, Miss Wilmont! Hermione! What are you thinking? Going to such a street?” He glanced around. “Does Mother know about this?”

Hermione grinned, then lied. “Oh, yes. She asked Griffin to come with us, but he’s disappeared again, and now we must go alone.” She shrugged and settled back into her seat.

Charlotte smiled sweetly at Sebastian and closed the carriage door. In his face.

It didn’t remain so for long.

He yanked it open and climbed in. “You two can’t go there unescorted. Are you mad?”

“But we must go,” Hermione protested. “If we don’t, Charlotte will never be able to hire her violinist in time for Lady Routledge’s soirée.”

“’Tis that, or I recite a series of verses by Coleridge,” Charlotte told him sweetly and watched with delight as a vein in his forehead looked ready to explode.

Hermione, taking a cue from her friend, continued the innocent performance. “Oh, dear, Sebastian. This is such a muddle! Wherever are we to find someone to help us now?”

Charlotte would have felt sorry for him if she hadn’t wanted so desperately for him to go with them to Little Titchfield Street.

How would he react when he stood beside No. 4? Would he remember?

Please, Sebastian, come with us,
she silently pleaded.

Then Hermione played the perfect card. “I suppose the Earl of Rockhurst might be willing to go with us. Don’t you think we could implore upon him for his service as a proper escort, Charlotte? He has such a wicked tendre for you, I daresay he’d brave the wilds of Africa to gain your favor.”

Her brother sucked in a deep breath at this suggestion and threw himself into the seat opposite them. “To Little Titchfield Street,” he ordered the driver, and the carriage set out.

While he hardly looked thrilled at the prospect, or even vaguely pleased to be in her company, when they turned the corner he finally said, “Let us be done with this as quickly as possible before anyone else discovers what we are about. And no more of this nonsense about Rockhurst. Do you hear me, Hermione?”

Hermione grinned from ear to ear, while Charlotte tucked Arbuckle’s favorite smile on her lips and gazed happily out the window.

Sebastian glowered and stewed the entire ride.

Little Titchfield Street! He was going to make a point of speaking to his mother about Hermione’s continued friendship with this scandalous Miss Wilmont.

No, he’d better not do that. Knowing his mother, she’d consider Miss Wilmont’s blithe spirit a delightful influence.

He shot a furtive glance across the carriage at her and felt vexed to find her looking out the window, as tranquil and serene as if they were off to Bond Street for an afternoon of shopping rather than Little Titchfield Street.

Truly, how could a respectable young lady be acquainted with anyone who inhabited that notorious avenue? A most excellent question, indeed.

“Miss Wilmont, how do you know this musician?” For a second, he swore she flinched.

“My mother’s cousin, Finella. She heard him play once.”

He had a feeling this wasn’t quite the truth, but he didn’t see how he could argue the point without looking more foolish than he already felt in her presence.

Unlike the other day, when she’d been decked in her evening finery, today she wore a dull, wretched gown. Despite it, he certainly hadn’t mistaken her for the curtains. No, he’d never do that again.

He inhaled ever so subtly and caught a hint of her perfume, a blend that teased his body awake, back into that state of arousal that had led to their dangerous interlude in the library.

It had been a blunder, he now knew. Look at what kissing Miss Wilmont had cost him. He’d caused a scandal in his club, been challenged to a duel, and obtained a newfound notoriety that didn’t let him go anywhere in Town without arousing speculation and unwanted attentions.

But despite all that, he found himself taking another tentative sniff of the air. This time all he caught was a hint of Cook’s scones. A moment later, he noticed the basket sitting beside Hermione.

“What is that?”

“Provisions,” Hermione told him. “For Herr Tromler.”

“You intend to entice the man with scones?”

Hermione tipped open the basket. “And salt pork and apples, cheeses, a bottle of father’s sherry, a pot of jam and butter, and a small ham.”

“You’ve emptied our larder?” Sebastian crossed his arms over his chest.

“The ham was from Charlotte,” Hermione said defensively.

“I haven’t any money left to pay the man,” Charlotte told him. “But I suspect this might entice him to perform.”

“You had a hundred pounds left from buying those ridiculous shares,” he argued.

“You bought them as well,” Hermione interjected.

“Don’t remind me,” Sebastian shot back. “That still doesn’t explain where your other hundred pounds went.”

Miss Wilmont glanced up at him and smiled. Demmit, he hated it when she looked like that. It was a harbinger of something he knew he wasn’t going to like.

“I had to buy another dress,” she said. “One befitting Lady Routledge’s soirée.”

Oh, heavens, not another of
her
evening gowns, he silently groaned. That last one had nearly been his undoing, what with its bodice down to…
there,
and the way it curved around…her…well,
curves
.

“Don’t be such a cross-patch, Sebastian,” Hermione was saying. “Charlotte will have money enough when the
Agatha Skye
returns. I daresay, we all will.”

Charlotte nodded, and Sebastian nearly ordered the driver to take them to the nearest convent. He’d deposit these two with the good sisters and save England—well,
the good men of London at the very least—from their madcap schemes.

Might even find himself with a marquisate for his troubles.

Sebastian had to wonder what his sister would say if she knew their family was on the brink of ruin? With his father’s continued absence and drain on the family coffers to finance his explorations, along with his mother’s and sisters’ unrestrained spending, they would soon find themselves in debtor’s prison.

Then again, hadn’t he caught himself once or twice in the last week wondering what his life would be like if the ill-fated ship did return with its holds full of spice and riches?

No, dreams and wishes wouldn’t save them now. The
Agatha Skye,
indeed! Pure folly. The only course of action was for him to hurry up and secure Miss Burke’s hand in marriage.

And where once the thought that he would be able to save his family name from the disgrace of ruin had given him a measure of satisfaction, it no longer held the same sense of accomplishment.

Not since he’d kissed Lottie and tasted the passion of something he’d never imagined.

But before this conundrum could confound him further, the carriage came to a stop and the driver opened the door.

Hermione went to scramble down, but Sebastian stopped her. “You and Miss Wilmont will stay in the carriage and out of sight until I ascertain if this…this—”

“Herr Tromler,” Charlotte supplied.

“Yes, Herr Tromler lives here.” He got down and
closed the door. “Stay put,” he ordered both of them, then marched toward the door.

He stopped halfway up, his gaze fixed on a sign in the window of the house next door.

To Let.

For some unfathomable reason, the little empty residence at No. 4, Little Titchfield Street, stopped him. He looked up into the shuttered windows and empty flower boxes and frowned.

Suddenly a different version of the house filled his mind. Lace curtains. A welcome light in the front window. Winsome feminine laughter spilling out. And music. Haunting, elegant strains that could fill a soul with longing. And the door was all wrong. Green, when it should have been blue.

The same hue as Lottie’s eyes.

“What a charming little house,” came a winsome voice at his side.

He turned to find Miss Wilmont, basket in hand, gazing up at the address with a look of longing and regret.

But for what? he wondered, especially when he had the very same feelings.

“Wouldn’t that be a wonderful little house to live in?” she asked.

“Here?” he sputtered. “I daresay the neighborhood—”

“I don’t see anything wrong with it, besides, it’s the house I like,” she said, tipping her head and studying it. “But something isn’t right.”

“The door,” he replied absently.

“Yes!” she said. “It should be—”

“Blue,” they both said at the same time.

Sebastian gazed down at her, her blue eyes beseeching him for something, something he couldn’t give her. For to
surrender to his desire for this woman would put his entire family in dire straits. He looked back at the empty little house and realized he had only one, lonely choice.

Yet when he looked down at her again, it was only to discover Charlotte was gone. In those few seconds, she’d gone up the next set of steps and rung the bell at Herr Tromler’s boardinghouse.

“Really, Miss Wilmont,” he protested, “you should allow me to make the inquiries.”

She stepped aside and allowed him to ring the bell again.

The door opened only partially, and a pinched-faced woman with a shock of dirty gray hair stared out. “Off with ye! I don’t rent rooms for just the afternoon.”

“Madame, we are most certainly not looking for such a thing,” he told her in his most lofty of tones.

The woman appeared unimpressed. “Then what do ye want?”

“We wish to see Herr Tromler.”

The landlady’s eyes narrowed to flinty slits. “What business do you got with ’im?”

“None of yours, madame. Now summon him immediately.”

The lady snorted and crossed her arms over her skinny chest. “Why should I do that?”

Much to Sebastian’s chagrin, Charlotte edged past him. “If you please, ma’am, we’d like to hire him to play his violin at a party. In Mayfair.”

Two words lit the landlady’s greedy eyes. “Hire” and “Mayfair.”

“You’ll pay ’im?” she asked suspiciously.

“Yes, ma’am,” Charlotte told her. “In gold.”

“Wait here,” she said before she went scurrying up the
stairs. Halfway up, she stopped and came back down. Catching Charlotte and Sebastian by the arms, she pulled them inside the foyer and closed the door. “Better you wait inside.” Then she raced back up the stairs, screeching at the top of her lungs, “Tromler! Mr. Tromler! You’ve got guests. The paying type!”

“I would have got to the reason for our visit without your help,” he muttered.

“Yes, my lord,” she replied most contritely. And it would have been sincere if it hadn’t been for the mischievous sparkle in her eyes.

He leaned over. “I thought you didn’t have any gold left.”

“I don’t.”

“Then how do you propose to pay the man, like you promised his landlady?”

“I was sort of hoping you might make a small donation to the arts.”

Before he could tell her that under no circumstances was he going to invest in any more of her harebrained schemes, a shabby-looking fellow came down, his nose twitching almost immediately as Charlotte very wisely pulled the cloth from the basket and let the scent of warm scones waft up toward him.

“Herr Tromler,” she said, holding out her hand and letting the fellow raise it to his lips. “It is a great honor to meet you.”

The landlady, who was watching the proceedings like a hawk (most likely for any sign of the promised gold) snorted.

Charlotte ignored her. “Can I implore upon you to come and play Thursday night at Lady Routledge’s soirée?”

For a second the man’s eyes lit up, but then his small
chest fell, as did his gaze. “I fear I can’t, Fräulein. I sold my only coat last week.”

“And you’ll be selling your trousers and that instrument of yours if you don’t pay what ye still owe me,” the landlady added.

Leaning forward, Charlotte pressed the basket into his hands. “I think you will find a replacement for your lost jacket beneath the ham.”

“A jacket?” Sebastian said.

“A ham?” the landlady echoed with the same astonished tone. She poked her thin nose over Herr Tromler’s shoulder and eyed the bounty.

Charlotte smiled at the poor musician. “I thought you might like something befitting such a special evening—and I believe you’ll find it fits quite admirably.”

Sebastian stared at her, then at Herr Tromler. Where the devil had she gotten a man’s coat when she professed to have no money?

As she struck the final arrangements with Tromler, Sebastian took another look at the fellow, who, though thin, was about his own height.

His height?

No, she wouldn’t have! She couldn’t have!

With their business concluded, Sebastian escorted her out the door, but before they got down the steps he had to ask, “Miss Wilmont?”

“Yes, Lord Trent?”

“Should I be surprised Thursday night when that man appears at Lady Routledge’s soirée in a jacket that looks vaguely familiar?”

She smiled up at him. “Well, it won’t be much of a surprise now, will it?”

Well, of all the cheek!

They continued down the next two steps.

“Lord Trent?”

“Yes, Miss Wilmont?”

“Try not to be too surprised if Herr Tromler’s shirt, cravat, and waistcoat also look oddly familiar.”