Seven Nights to Forever (10 page)

A little smile tipped her lips, breaking the determined expression. He accompanied her whenever she left the brothel, even if it was only to remain in a rented hackney while she visited various shops and tradesmen. Just knowing he was nearby was a welcome reassurance, one she could never thank him enough for. But that didn’t mean she shouldn’t try.

“Thank you.”

“For what? For not having any plans for the afternoon?”

“No,” she said, with an indulgent shake of her head. “For . . . well, graciously allowing me to drag you with me about town. I truly appreciate it.” She didn’t know what she would do without him.

“Think nothing of it, my dear.” So casually spoken, but his warm smile indicated he understood. He leaned forward and gave her knee a little pat. “Best get on with it. I would ask you to give Dash my regards, but seeing as he doesn’t know I exist . . .” He trailed off on a half shrug. “I’ll simply wish you a pleasant visit.”

“One can hope.” After flicking the hood of her cloak up over her head, she reached for the brass lever and exited the hackney. The sun hung high in the clear, blue sky, glinting off the windows of the large, white stucco building. It was a beautiful, warm day. A rarity for early April. She shut the door and went up the stone steps leading to the exclusive bachelor residence. Fortunately she found the corridors empty as she made her way up to the third floor.

The low rumble of a male voice seeped through the first door she passed. Stopping at the second door, she flipped back her hood and knocked once. She had written Dash over a week ago that she planned to be in Town and would visit today, so he should be expecting her.

She had just about given up hope when the door opened, revealing her brother, his black hair disheveled and a pair of wrinkled trousers hanging from his lean hips. Had he gotten taller in the past two months? It seemed like it. He must be over six feet now with another stone’s worth of muscle filling out his once lanky frame. New muscles that were on display for all to see, courtesy of the fact that he had neglected to pull on a shirt.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, squinting down at her through eyes heavy with sleep. “Must you stop by so early?”

“It’s two in the afternoon,” she said, stepping inside. Given Dash had developed a preference for late nights, she had purposely waited until early afternoon to visit.

After giving her cloak to him, she passed through the small entrance hall and into the parlor. Shafts of glittering sunlight cut through the breaks in the partially closed drapes covering the windows, providing enough light to illuminate the room in all its untidy glory. At least a half dozen empty glasses were strewn about, on the cabinet, the side table, and one on its side next to the couch. A black coat, one of its sleeves turned out, covered the back of the wingback chair next to the gray marble fireplace. The dining room beyond the parlor was in an equal state of disarray. Discarded playing cards and a couple of empty bottles littered the mahogany dining table, the chairs pulled out, clearly left exactly as they were when their occupants got up from the table. His bedroom was just off the parlor, the door open, revealing a glimpse of his untidy bed, the dark green damask coverlet bunched at the footboard. Thankfully the bed appeared empty. She would be absolutely mortified if she saw a pair of bare feminine feet sticking out from beneath that coverlet. Dash may be eighteen years of age, but he was still her younger brother.

“I thought you had a maid.” She paid the bill for one, in addition to all his other bills.

“I do. She doesn’t come by until later.” He tugged open the curtains on one of the two windows and then draped her cloak over the back of a nearby armchair. “You can sit down if you’d like,” he said, indicating the couch.

Careful to avoid the empty glass on the floor, she settled on the couch. “Do you think you could put a shirt on?”

“Why bother? I’m going back to bed as soon as you leave.” He sat down on the arm of the chair that held her cloak. At her disapproving frown, he added, his light blue eyes alight with mischief, “Just be thankful I pulled on a pair of trousers before answering the door.”

“Dashell Robert Marlowe,” she muttered with a roll of her eyes. “One does not answer the door in the nude.”

“It’s not like you haven’t seen me in all my glory.”

“You were three.” And he had been running through the house, adeptly avoiding his nanny. The poor woman had definitely had her hands full with him. She stared at him, waiting for his sense of proper decorum to kick in and for him to get off that chair to retrieve a shirt.

He didn’t move. He simply met her stare, a chunk of his wavy hair hanging over his brow.

“What brings you to Town?” he asked.

“You. I haven’t seen you in a couple months. I just want to make certain you are getting along all right.”

“Thanks, Rosie,” he said, with that sweet bashful smile that never failed to make her want to envelop him in a great big hug. “But your concern is unnecessary. I’m getting along just fine.”

“I can see.” She passed an eye over the room.

“The maid will set it all back to rights.”

“So you can untidy it again tonight?”

He gave a little confident tip of his head. “Exactly.”

She chuckled. She shouldn’t encourage him, but she couldn’t help it.

“And how have you been? Any news from Bedfordshire? Has any gentleman caught your eye yet?”

“I am fine, as always. No news, and no, no gentlemen have caught my eye.” That last part was a lie, but she knew what Dash was asking, and her line of work notwithstanding, James could never be a candidate to fill that particular role.

He passed a hand over the back of his neck, the devil-may-care confidence giving way to concern. “I worry about you, Rose. All alone at that house. Don’t you want a husband?”

Why did he have to ask that question?
Of course I do
, she wanted to scream, gripping her clasped hands tightly. But no decent man would ever take a whore to wife. She had reconciled herself to that ugly fact ages ago, but still, the reminder hurt.

Squaring her shoulders, she did her best to appear nonchalant. “I am perfectly content on my own.” Yet another lie. “And I am not alone at the house. I have Mrs. Thompson to keep me company,” she said, referring to her housekeeper, the only household servant she could afford to employ. “Though if you’re so worried, you could visit from time to time.”

A scowl flickered over his face.

He hadn’t been to Paxton Manor in years, preferring to spend holidays with his friends, and now that he wasn’t in school, he spent his time in London. She wished he would at least visit occasionally, if for nothing else than to show some interest in the property that was his birthright, but on the other hand, his complete lack of visits meant he was blissfully unaware she was not at the house one week out of every month.

“Have you given any thought to returning to Oxford for Easter term?”

That scowl deepened. “You came by to pester me about university again, didn’t you?”

“Dash,” she used her most patient voice, “it’s important that you finish school.”

“And I will, in my own time.”

The same determined and vague answer he had given the last time she had asked. She had learned yesterday on her visit to Tattersalls that he had not planned to return for the next term, but she had to bring up the subject. One didn’t purchase a team of two and a curricle unless one planned to stay in Town to show it off. Horses. One more bill to add to Dash’s ever-growing pile. A pile that had been much larger than anticipated when she had made her rounds yesterday afternoon with Timothy.

“So you intend to stay in Town for the interim?”

“I like London. It suits me, and it has none of the monotony of the country. It’s so frighteningly dull in Oxford.”

“It’s not supposed to be exciting. You’re supposed to be focused on your studies.”

His pursed lips said that was the last thing he wanted to be focused on. To some extent, she could understand. He was a young gentleman from a good family who believed he had a significant inheritance at his disposal. London surely posed a strong lure.

“I stopped at the bank today and put some more money into your account.” An account he had bled dry. Again.

“Must you keep me on an allowance?”

“Yes. I daresay most of your acquaintances live on an allowance from their fathers, so you cannot claim it is unheard of.” The allowance kept him from discovering the truth of his inheritance. Not that it limited his spending one bit. He simply purchased on credit, leaving her to see to it. She knew that if he was aware his bills were paid from her own pocket, then he would not be so frivolous. But she couldn’t very well disclose that fact—he would then ask how she had come about the money. That was the last thing she ever wanted him to discover. Still, even though the situation was partly of her own making, she needed to somehow rein him in. If he kept spending at this rate, he would soon surpass her means and then she would never succeed in replacing what their father had gambled away from the family’s coffers. “I’ve also taken care of the bills at your tailor, the boot maker, your club, and Tattersalls. Are there any others that I’m not aware of?”

“Thank you, Rose,” he mumbled. His gaze skipped about the room before dropping to his bare feet.

“Dash.” Suspicion began to tighten her stomach at the way he was avoiding her gaze. She looked to the dining room, to the cards strewn across the table. His bank account had been empty and his bills much larger than usual, indicating he had not paid for anything with his own funds for some time. Were those cards the reason? Gambling was a common pastime for gentlemen, but Dash was an impetuous sort. “Are there any other bills?”

“I have an
allowance
.” He practically spat the word. His demeanor changed in a blink of an eye. From a defensive boy to a man fairly bristling with affront. “I’m capable of taking care of
some
of my own affairs.”

Oh no.
Please, don’t let him be in debt
. She could not watch him become their father. “Dash, have you been gambling?”

He stood, his back ramrod straight and his eyes hard. “Is there anything else you wish to pester me about? If not, thank you for the visit. It was good to see you.” With that, he held out her cloak.

So much for a pleasant visit
, she thought with a heavy heart as she settled the cloak about her shoulders. She wanted to say something to help him understand how very concerned she was for him, how she only had his best interests at heart, how everything she did was for him, but feared any attempt would push him further away. At the moment, she felt the loss of their father acutely. The man had his vices, but he had been the only person Dash respected.
Adored
was the more apt term. Dash would not have practically shoved him out the door, but listened and given weight to his concerns. Her own? Chalked up to pestering. So without merit that an eighteen-year-old adolescent refused to even consider them.

“I do love you,” she whispered.

He let out a heavy breath that broke some of the tension in his spine. “And I you.” Then he turned on his heel. “I trust you can see yourself to the door,” he called in a flat voice, as he disappeared into his bedchamber.

She made her way back down to the hackney and found Timothy in the same spot she had left him, sprawled on the bench and with the newspaper in his lap.

He glanced up when she opened the door. As soon as she took a place opposite him, he rapped once on the roof and the carriage lurched forward. She looked out to the third floor of the white stucco building, to the window with the open drapes, the one beside it closed. Dash had gotten so defensive, so quickly. Did that mean he was already heavily in debt? What would happen when he could not make good on his vows? She hadn’t a clue who he was currently associating with in London. From what little she knew, his old friends were still at university. Why hadn’t she thought to ask? She either had met at some point or knew by reputation most of the male population of London. Perhaps that was exaggerating. At least most of the male population who had any sort of social standing. There was a good probability she would have recognized any name he threw out, and then she would have an idea if he was rubbing elbows with the wrong sort, who would not react well if Dash couldn’t repay his debts.

The carriage turned a corner and she lost sight of the building. He had given her no real information. Hadn’t confirmed or denied her questions. Still, her mind couldn’t help but jump to the worst possible outcome.

“Young Mr. Marlowe was not receptive to a discussion about the bills he had left about town?”

“No.” She turned to Timothy. “I fear he’s gotten himself into debt.” At his raised brow, she clarified, “Gambling. Oh, Timothy. What am I going to do? What if something happens to him?”

He flicked his paper to the bench and moved to sit beside her. “Is it that bad?” he asked, taking her hand in his, concern reflected all over his face.

“I don’t know. He wouldn’t discuss it other than to practically shove me out the door when I asked if he had been gambling. One would think if he wasn’t, he would have denied it.”

“He shoved you out the door?” His incredulous tone left no doubt to his feelings on the subject.

“No, not physically. More told me to leave in no uncertain terms.”

“That brother of yours needs to be reminded of how one behaves around a lady.”

“Timothy, the sentiment is appreciated, but Dash’s manners are the least of my worries.” Nor was she in the mood to deal with another bristly male at the moment.

“Yes, of course.” He patted her hand. “Forgive me. We can stop by a few hells, and I can inquire with the croupiers and cashiers. We can start there. He hasn’t been in town all that long. Surely it can’t be so bad.”

. . . yet.
But Timothy’s suggestion was a good one. She should not allow the worry to overwhelm her until she had something more concrete to base it on. Vague, whisper-thin assumptions did more harm than good.