Margaret Moore (6 page)

He couldn’t even run the risk of having her inadvertently betray him. If necessary, he must drive her away.

“Where is Sir Philip?” he asked calmly, his years of self-restraint standing him in good stead.

Vivienne came farther into the office. Mr. Harding, her savior, stood as stiff as a soldier on guard duty, and she smiled to put him at his ease. “This is a very troublesome situation, is it not? Imagine Sir Philip engaging my advisor.”

“An unforeseen but not insurmountable difficulty,” he replied.

How stern and forbidding he seemed! She might think “heartless” appropriate, if she had not met him under other circumstances.

“It is inappropriate for you to be here alone with me, so I must ask you to leave.”

Halting abruptly, she searched for signs of her kindhearted benefactor in Mr. Harding’s hard dark eyes. “As you may have realized, I sometimes act inappropriately—but I hope you do not think I go about kissing strangers all the time.”

“It matters not to me what you do.”

“I thought it might.”

He regarded her with grim resolution. “No, it does not. Other than to express my regret about your previous behavior, there is nothing more I have to say to you.”

“My
previous behavior?” she demanded incredulously.

“Yes.”

“You would tell me you did not return my kiss?”

“If I did, it was because you caught me off guard.”

Vivienne was astonished by his words. “Do you always kiss so passionately, then?”

“How I kiss, or when, or whom, is none of your business.” He straightened his shoulders, almost as if he were squaring off against an opponent. “Mistress Burroughs, I am sorry if I have led you to believe that there was anything more between us than a single kiss and some advice dispensed when I was ignorant of your identity. However, Sir Philip has hired me since then. It is my duty and my intention to do the best I can for my client in the matter for which I was hired.”

“But you did not know who he intended to marry then, and now you do,” she protested, unwilling to believe what he was saying in that deep, cold voice. “Knowing that I hate him, surely you cannot continue to represent him?”

“He is paying me. Surely you are intelligent enough to discern that I could use the money. I have no well-to-do uncle to support me.”

“For money you will help that odious creature marry me?” she cried incredulously. “You will sell my happiness for money, too, like my uncle? Good God, sir, you gave me cause to expect better of you!”

“Listen to me, Mistress Burroughs, and listen well,” he said severely. “You have money and position and beauty and all the power that goes with it. To be sure, you would prefer to choose your husband. Who would not wish to have some choice in their fate? It cannot be so for most. Not the infant abandoned in an alley on a dung heap. Not the whore poxed before her fifteenth birthday. Not the soldier wounded and forgotten by the government he fought for. Before you bemoan your fate to the heavens, give some thought for those less fortunate than you. Be glad you have a chance for honorable marriage and don’t have to sell your body in the street. Be happy that you have money to save you from begging or thievery and the noose.”

Her steadfast gaze, which had been trained on his face the whole time, did not falter, nor did she move to wipe the single tear that rolled down her cheek. “I may not be a whore, Mr. Harding, but my body is being sold nonetheless. At least a poor man can work to change his lot, as you apparently have, whereas I have no such opportunities. You are right that I am more privileged than many, but I will not think it a crime to want to be happy. If I have done anything wrong, it is to misjudge you, and that is what I regret. So now I give you good day, sir. I hope I never see you again, and may you enjoy the money Sir Philip pays you.”

She turned on her heel and marched toward the door. One hand on the latch, she hesitated and glanced back at him.

Her gaze faltered, then she opened the door and slammed it shut behind her, and was gone.

Gone forever. Driven away. By him.

He had to do it. Beautiful, spirited Vivienne Burroughs must not be stained by her association with a gutter-born bastard said to have achieved his current success by the most vile of means.

S
itting at her dressing table, Vivienne stared unseeing at the mirror and absently shredded the velvet ribbon in her hand.

She was utterly confused and confounded by Robert Harding. That first night, he had been kind and generous, willing to help. Today, he had been harsh and cruel, and when he had ruthlessly chastised her, his words had cut her to the quick.

Perhaps she didn’t understand poverty, but she did understand loneliness and unhappiness. If she married Sir Philip, she might as well be alone, and she would most certainly be unhappy.

Nevertheless, despite Mr. Harding’s harsh remarks, when she had looked at him there at the last, she had seen in his eyes a look of need and anguish at odds with the grim, hard line of his lips.

Did he not mean all that he said, then? Was there any cause to hope that he might yet come to her aid—or was she better off trusting in her own efforts to save herself from a loveless marriage?

What would his continuing representation of Sir Philip mean to her? He had told her how to avoid marriage to his client. He would know what she was trying to do if she asked many questions. Would he tell Philip?

Surely he would not wish to tell his client what he had done, even though at the time he hadn’t known who she was. Whatever the circumstances, that would not endear him to Philip.

No wonder he had acted as if they had never met, and that might explain why he was so cold and cruel.

She sighed wearily. It was as if there were two different Robert Hardings, one a coldhearted solicitor, the other a passionate, chivalrous gentleman.

She rose and went to the window, looking down at the roof of the stable that abutted the back of the building. If she had to, she would go out that way again. The next time, however, she would avoid Bankside altogether and go straight for the Oxford road.

The door to the dingy dwelling hit the wall with a bang as sharp as the report of a pistol.

The young woman in the fusty bed gave a scream as Jack Leesom scrambled off her and reached for his knife. Then he glared at the man who had entered the room in so noisy a manner.

“Bloody hell, Rob,” he growled as he put his knife back on the bedside table. He covered his naked torso with the threadbare sheet. “I coulda killed ya.”

“Good evening to you, too,” Rob said, surveying the well-known room and breathing in the familiar odors of ale, wine, sweat and dirt. “Polly said she thought I’d find you at home, and not alone. Is that Nell Gwynn?” he asked, nodding as the pretty young woman, unabashedly unclothed, sat up and stared at him. “Given up on the theater, have you?”

“No, I ain’t,” she retorted, grinning. “Just having some fun with Jack is all, on me night off.”

Rob sat on the only other item of furniture in Jack’s shabby quarters, a large battered chest with a broken clasp. Years ago they had found it discarded behind a shop and lugged it here. “I’d like to speak with Jack about a job, if you don’t mind, Mistress Gwynn. In private.”

“Oooh, ain’t he lovely with his Mistress Gwynn?” she said with a charming laugh. Her eyes shone with avid curiosity. “What job?”

“Don’t you think you’d better put some clothes on?” Rob replied. “I wouldn’t want you to catch a chill.”

Nell threw back her head and laughed again, her pert breasts jiggling. “I’m in the bed, warm as warm can be … or nearly. Nice o’ you to care, though, I must say. I didn’t catch your name.”

“It’s Rob,” Jack growled as he pulled on his breeches. “A friend o’ mine.”

“A friend of yours?” Nell asked.

“Yes. He doesn’t sound like me because he had an education.” He straightened and gave her a rueful smile. “I’d be careful around him, Nell. He’s an attorney and can probably get up to all sorts o’ legal mischief.”

“Mistress Gwynn, why don’t you get dressed and run down to the tavern and get us some wine?” Rob said, passing over Jack’s comments.

“That’s generous of you,” she replied with another grin as she got out of bed and started to dress, not a whit embarrassed to do so in front of the men. “And while I do that, you two can have your talk without me about.”

“Thank you very much.”

“Yeah, thank you very much, Rob,” Jack grumbled. “Thank you very much for interrupting. Thank you very much for making me get out of bed. Thank you very much for stopping by, old son. I should think some wine the least you could do.”

Rob shrugged. Jack could be touchy sometimes.

“Oh, Jack, don’t be such a bear,” Nell cooed as she tied her bodice lacing, then held out her hand expectantly toward Rob. “I’m not a bit sleepy yet.”

She gave Jack a saucy wink, then eyed Rob speculatively as he gave her a coin. “You should come to the theater tomorrow,” she suggested with a toss of her thick, curling hair. “The king’s going to be there.”

She darted a secretive glance at both of them before saying with merry roguery, “And I’ve undone the seam of my dress right up to my hip. I hear Charles likes a nice pair o’ legs, and I mean him to see mine. He will, too, unless he’s blind.”

“You
are
the clever one, but I don’t think they’re your best feature,” Jack noted.

“They’re the best one he can see from a distance,” she retorted.

Jack grabbed her by the waist and pulled her to him. He nuzzled her neck, working his way toward her breasts as her trill of a laugh filled the room.

“Jack, I don’t want to be all night,” Rob said.

His friend let go of Nell. “Off you go, then,” he muttered, patting her buttocks. “Don’t be too long.”

“Oh, I won’t.” With her hips swaying with outrageous—and rather effective—sensuality, Nell Gwynn left the room.

Jack sighed as he looked at Rob. “You would have to come right then.”

“I’m sorry, but this is important.”

“Must be, to make you go to Polly to find me.” He ran his gaze over Rob. “Allow me to make an observation, m’lud,” he continued, imitating an aristocrat to perfection. “You look like you could use a stiff drink and a night with a sprightly whore.”

“I require neither.”

Jack made a skeptical face.

“Do you want to earn some money or not?”

“Course I do.”

“What do you know about Sir Philip Martlebury?”

“Martlebury, Martlebury,” Jack muttered thoughtfully, rubbing his hand over his stubbled chin. “Name’s not ringing any bells in the tower.” He regarded Rob steadily with his dark brown eyes. “Should it?”

“He has hired me to do some work for him and I have my doubts about his financial solvency.”

“You’re not talking to your jack-a-dandy friends, Rob.”

“I’m not sure he’ll be able to pay my fee.”

This was true enough, and while he believed Vivienne Burroughs was clever enough to discover anything that would dissuade her uncle from going through with the marriage plans, he was not averse to learning more about his client, too.

If Jack did find something against Sir Philip that Vivienne did not, he would tell her and cease to represent the man.

“Now you’re talking sense,” Jack said. “So you want me to see what I can find out about him, eh?”

“Yes.”

“And if he can’t pay, want me to make it clear to ‘im he should find the money somewhere?”

“No.” Rob rose, signaling the end of the interview. “I just want you to find out what you can.”

“Right. Besides, if there’s any points need makin’ in that regard, you can always do it yourself, eh?” Jack finished with a wink. “We should ‘ave kept track of how many bones you broke, eh, Rob?”

Rob winced. “I do my battles legally now, Jack.”

“Sure ya do, sure ya do, and right well, too, so I hear,” his friend said. “Polly says if you come by, you can have a go for free.”

“She always was a kindhearted, generous woman.”

“Too kindhearted and generous, if you ask me,” Jack observed. “You can afford to pay—but you was always her favorite.”

“Plenty of the girls preferred you.”

Jack’s grin was devilment itself. “So they did, and right clever of them, too. Where’s this Sir Philip live?”

“The Strand. Martlebury House.”

Jack guffawed. “O’ course. Shoulda thought o’ that. But I guess we can’t all be as clever as you, can we?”

“Whatever you do, don’t let him realize you’re interested in him or be seen following him.”

“I’ll be careful.” Jack slid closer to the end of the bed. “Say, Rob, it ain’t that late. You could get yourself a girl and we—”

“No,” Rob snapped. He made an effort to smile. “I’ll leave you to your sport.” He reached into his purse and pulled out some more coins.

Jack counted the money. “Very generous of you, Rob, very generous. Nice o’ you to think of your old friend in times of need.”

Rob nodded and walked out while Jack hid his payment before Nell got back.

The next morning, Rob headed from his chambers to his office below. He could not sleep, so he might as well work. Upon opening the inner door, however, he discovered that not only was the diligent Bertie already at his desk, but somebody else was there, too.

Bertie’s quill hovered uncertainly over his work, as if temporarily blinded by the clothes of brilliant blue, scarlet, green and gold sported by the round-faced, rather befuddled and forlorn man sitting dejectedly near him. Lost in his thoughts, the young man twisted the brim of a wide-brimmed hat adorned with several ostrich feathers.

Rob immediately recognized Fozbury, Lord Cheddersby, a friend of Sir Richard Blythe, and an aristocrat with the kindest, friendliest mien Rob had yet encountered. Unfortunately for the hapless Lord Cheddersby, he seemed nearly overwhelmed by his garments of fine and costly velvet. Indeed, between the clothes and his fulsome, curling wig, he made Sir Philip look like a model of sartorial restraint.

“Lord Cheddersby, is it not?”

The fellow jumped to his feet, which made his full, pleated breeches puff out like a ship’s sail before the wind. He bowed with his right leg extended, bending his left knee and sweeping his hat across his chest. “Your servant, sir.”