Rake's Guide to Pleasure. (6 page)

"No. But I've heard that. . . she sounds quite . .. unconventional."

"Yes," he said carefully. He dipped a square of linen in the salve and dabbed the pale yellow muck against her leg. "She is that."

He listened for a pained gasp or at least a sigh, but instead, her muscles began to relax. "Oh, that's not too bad at all. Lovely,
 
actually."

"Good."

"I'd imagine your sister has placed a daring wager or two in her life."

"
Mmm
." Hart picked up the length of linen and began to wrap it around her calf. He let his fingers brush the silk skin at the back of her knee. Impossibly soft. "My sister," he went on, "tends to wager more important things than coin. But that is neither here nor there. I've patched you up as best I can."

She flipped the skirt down before he'd even withdrawn his hands, but her modesty left Hart with the sight of his arms disappearing under her skirts. A far more intriguing image than the reality of her injured leg. He would have let his hands linger, but she kicked him.

"Well then." He stood with a nod. "Was it worth the fifty pounds?"

"Suffering your arrogance? Not really."

He sighed, surprised that his pique was mostly feigned. "Then
I'll
take pity on you and leave you to exercise that razor wit on an empty room, shall I?"

"Thank you, Your Grace."

Hart wanted to stay, which was ridiculous really, so he spun around and let himself out the door. She was decidedly unpleasant, so why did he find her sharp tongue entertaining? Perhaps the boredom of winter had finally overwhelmed him. Or the undying boredom of having too much. Too much money, too much power, too much say over who came to his bed and when. And far too much time spent alone.

Chapter 3

"Bess!" Emma shut her front door behind her as she heard
Matherton's
carriage pull away. Her back protested when she crouched down to pop the latch of her traveling chest. She'd stayed up too late the night before, and the long carriage ride from
Matherton's
Wembley
estate had left her spine aching, but she had work to do.

Bess hurried in, wiping her hands on her dingy apron.

"Help me carry these back. I'll be leaving for
Moulter's
in less than a week. The dye will hardly be dry."

Emma scooped up as many dresses as she could hold. As she turned to move toward the kitchen, Bess held up a midnight blue dress.

"What of this one?"

"Too dark. Anyway, if we dye it one more time it will likely fall apart. If we can't rework it I'll trade it for another."

Bess nodded and followed behind with the rest of the dresses.

"I think if we change the bodice on that gray one, it will do. It's a fairly unnoticeable skirt, and the color is even less memorable."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Do we have more indigo? That turned out nicely."

"Yes, ma'am."

Emma hid a smile against the mound of silk and satin. Bess was hard-working, unassuming, and definitely not chatty. And she didn't care a whit that her employer was an impoverished fraud, she was simply glad to be away from her brute of a husband. She was the perfect housekeeper for a scoundrel.

Emma dropped the pile of dresses on the spotless kitchen table and watched Bess do the same. Then her housekeeper hurried to the stove to stoke the coals and start a large pot of water boiling. Emma began examining each garment. "I've only worn this once," she murmured and shifted a dark green dress to the side. "But
Osbourne
has admired the lilac dress twice now. It will take the indigo dye well."

"I'll take apart the gray one, ma'am, while we wait for the water."

"Thank you, Bess. Give me a moment to change into something more serviceable and I'll help. I can rip out seams, at least."

Bess was, thankfully, a serviceable seamstress, because Emma had never sewn a straight line in her life and couldn't afford to send the dresses out. It was all she could do to afford Bess, but this scheme would have been impossible without the woman's help. Emma felt selfishly thankful that Bess had finally decided to flee her husband just as the London coach passed by her tiny hamlet. As soon as the woman had boarded, eyes bruised black and mouth set in a determined line, Emma had started to plan.
There is a woman who needs a new life even more than I,
she'd thought. And so she had offered it, and Bess had quietly accepted.

"Long as you're not staying in London long. I was planning to pass through."

"No," Emma had agreed. "Just long enough."

They had only two months left before Emma lost her lease on the town house. She couldn't afford the jump in rent, and the Season didn't interest her anyway. Two more months to round out her coffers, then she'd leave forever.

She finished her sorting just as a tap sounded at the kitchen door.

"Let me," Emma said, as Bess began to set aside her work. She opened the door to find a scrawny boy waiting in the dank stairwell. "Yes?"

The boy looked her up and down with hostile confusion. "Who're you?"

"Pardon me? Can I help you with something?"

"
Ye're
the housekeeper?"

Emma rolled her eyes at his boldness. "What is it?"

"I got some information might be valuable to you."

"Really?" He didn't look particularly trustworthy. His layers of clothing were blackened with grime and his face had clearly not been washed in days.

"A man is asking after your mistress. Wants information 'bout who lives here and how long."

Emma tamped down her spark of alarm. This boy was likely as much a schemer as she, only he took his nonsense door to door. "Why should that concern me?"

He shrugged. "
P'raps
it don't."

Well, he was good. Not pushing too hard. His eyes suddenly glinted with wile. "You don't believe me.
A'right
. But he asked if you'd come six weeks ago. And you did."

Emma cocked her head. "True. But you'd know that, I suppose, if you lived nearby."

"I do." His chin inched up. "That corner one street over is mine. But I don't know if you come from Cheshire. Do ye?"

The blood fled her face and left her cheeks cool. The air flowing down the stairwell was suddenly too cold to bear.

The boy's eyes brightened another notch. "That's what he said. 'Find out if they're from Cheshire way.'"

Oh, God. Matthew.
She'd worried he might try to follow. He would ruin everything, given the chance. Emma forced herself to focus. "And what did you say to this man?"

"Well, I took his
ha'pence
. Told him I'd find out."

"Is that why you're here? To find out?"

"
P'raps
. . ." He smiled suddenly, revealing straight white teeth. "He didn't look entirely well-to-do. I thought I'd take my chances with your household. One
ha'pence
won't change my life, or the life o' me mum."

Emma nodded. He was honest about his scheming, at least. More than she could say for herself. "What is your name?"

"
Stimp
."

"
Stimp
?"

He shrugged away her question.

"All right,
Stimp
. A penny now and another penny after you talk to him again."

"A shilling. No charge for the return trip."

"A shilling?" She looked him up and down again. He had shoes anyway. Shoes polished to a fine shine that spoke of a wage. A boot black perhaps. He wasn't a beggar. "Fine. A shilling, but it will wait until you come back."

He grinned, revealing a plan to flee with her coin if she were dumb enough to hand it over. "Deal."

"Now tell me more about this man."

Emma smoothed a hand down her deep blue skirt. If there were ladies at this party who cared about such things, they likely thought her unfashionable, or at least too poor to afford more elaborate dresses. The truth was that she could not afford dresses at all, except to buy them secondhand, then alter and dye them until it seemed she owned a full wardrobe. It would not do to appear too desperate, after all, or her gambling would take on the taint of work instead of eccentricity.

"The lovely Lady
Denmore
," a man purred from close behind her.

Emma glanced over her shoulder to spy Lord Marsh leering down. She fought the urge to sigh in disgust. "Lord Marsh," she answered.

"I hoped you might make it to my little gathering."

"I'm pleased to be here. I understand the play is excellent at your tables."

"Indeed. I endeavor to please."

"Mm." She pretended not to notice his flirtation. She couldn't stand the way he licked his lips whenever he looked at her. He'd likely be terribly chapped by the end of the evening.

"Let me show you my home."

Unable to think of a polite way to extricate herself, Emma was forced to take his arm and follow him up to the first floor of his town house. Several gentlemen tipped their heads in her direction as they passed, but none stopped to introduce their companions. This party was less than respectable, and she'd never have been admitted if anyone knew the truth about her marital status. But widows could get away with more than virgins, and the presence of a few of the demimonde was hardly enough to shock her.

Still, her muscles tensed as Lord Marsh led her to the first room and stopped just inside. "Piquet," he said simply, and indeed, that's all it was.

It's just a gambling party. Nothing more.
Nothing like her father's "gambling" parties, for instance, where you were as likely to see a man laying a woman on a table as you were to see him laying down cards.

"But piquet is not your game, is it?" Marsh asked.

"I play, but 'tis not my preference."

"Too simple, I'd imagine. You enjoy more stimulation."

Emma cut her eyes at him to let him know he'd gone too far, but he only smiled back unashamedly. "Come. The next room." And so they proceeded through six rooms, each one eliciting some barely veiled entendre from Lord Marsh until Emma didn't care if she offended him or not.

"Thank you for the tour, Lord Marsh. You may leave now."

Unfortunately the man remained
unoffended
. He waggled his fingers in farewell as she turned and headed for the second room she'd seen. A footman stood at attention with whisky and champagne. Emma chose a whisky and tossed it back as she observed the play.

No women sat at the table, though a few had gathered around, leaning against the shoulders of the players. Emma had seen a woman downstairs whom she recognized, but the females in this room were likely demireps or even common whores. Good. They'd keep the men distracted as Emma divested them of their coin.

"Lady
Denmore
?" a familiar voice growled as she took a step toward the nearest table.

Emma spun around to glare at the Duke of
Somerhart
. His sudden, unexpected presence flashed heat through her blood.

His blue eyes scorched her as they flicked down over her body. When he met her eyes again, he scowled. "What are you doing here?"

"Why, gambling, of course. What else do I do?"

"Nothing, as far as I can tell."

"Just right, Your Grace. A pleasure to see you again. So charming."

Except that he didn't need to be charming. When she started to turn away,
Somerhart
wrapped his hand around her elbow and sent more warmth gliding into her veins. Overbearing bastard. He could be as rude as he wanted, because his hands were hot and strong. She could still feel his thumb exploring the most sensitive parts of her foot, her ankle . . .

"Is there something wrong?" Emma snapped.