Wedded in Scandal

Chapter 6

Robert didn’t go to his home. Nor did he head for his club. He needed time to think and analyze his emotions, and so he headed for the one place he could be himself: his brothel. On the occasion of his sixteenth birthday, Robert had been summoned into his father’s library and told it was time to become a man. But as his father never did anything that was less than grand, he presented his son with not just a prostitute for the night, but an entire brothel, named the Chandler, a place where any man could get his wick lit. And, as was typical with all his father’s business purchases, the reality was a great deal more sordid than the presentation.

He and his father had shown up at the brothel steps, only to stand at the doorway for a terribly, terribly long time. Eventually the door was opened by the only standing “candle” in the house, the rest having been stricken by fever.

His father had taken one whiff of the stench and started to back away. Robert was doing the same, except that the “candle” fainted straight into his arms. At that point, he had no choice. He half carried, half dragged the girl to the nearest settee, then sent his father to fetch a doctor. His father didn’t return, of course, but the doctor did. And together, the two men toiled as no heir to the Earl of Willington had done in generations.

Ten days later, nearly half the candles had survived. And when Robert collapsed, it was the madame of the house who, settling him in her own bed, nursed him as his own mother had never done. From that moment on, Robert and Chandelle were fast friends. And the brothel became something else entirely, though with the same name. It was a hospital of sorts for working girls. A place where the women could heal or die with dignity. If some of its former trade continued, Robert wasn’t aware of it. And he certainly didn’t take a cut of the profit.

What he did take was a back room that was wholly his. In it, he read, relaxed, and dabbled in the one thing he had once wanted to do above everything else: medicine. He kept track of the treatments the girls received, the concoctions and the potions that helped and those that did not. He had visitors of a sort, too. Men of medicine he consulted on one case or another. But mostly, he and Chandelle managed alone, doing their best for the girls who knocked upon their door.

He told no one what he was doing. It was perfectly acceptable for an earl’s son to own a brothel. It was absolutely unacceptable for him to be housing them to no profit and be treating them as human beings, caring for their diseases, and seeing that their children grew up in a wholly different life.

And if his father ever found out that this was the reason there weren’t enough funds to make his disaster of a mine immediately profitable, then there would be the devil to pay for sure. Chandelle and her patients would be safe, Robert would see to that. But the earl would demand a reckoning—and a good deal of money—to recompense what had gone into the Chandler. And sadly, Robert just didn’t have the money in his own right to do that. Not in one lump sum. So he kept his passion secret, and he went there only when he was assured no one would miss him.

Chandelle met him at the door, opening it quickly and ushering him inside. When he would have spoken, she pressed a finger to his lips, then gestured him to her bedroom. He followed her quietly enough to where three children sat completely enraptured by the sight of a mama cat licking clean her new litter of kittens.

“She wandered in and set up right by my fire,” whispered Chandelle. “What was I to do but call in the little ones to watch? It has given their mothers three hours’ worth of peace!”

He smiled as he looked down at the mangy mama cat. Her fur was burned in patches and uneven in others. One eye was gone, and if he wasn’t mistaken, her tail was bent at an odd angle. But the animal was alive and caring for her kittens with all the devotion of the Madonna.

“Well, she looks like she’d be a good mouser.” The cat looked nothing of the sort. But then, he’d learned not to judge people—or animals—by their appearance.

“She’ll teach her kits well, you mark my words. Then you’ll see. Not a rat would dare show its face here.”

“At least not the four-footed kind,” he drawled. They still had problems with men of one ilk or another come looking for a woman or her children. That was why he kept a couple of large guards in the house and paid them well. Mostly they fetched and carried whatever was needed. But other times, they kept the human vermin outside.

With a wry smile, she gestured him out of her room again. He stepped out and headed for the upper floor of patients. She accompanied him, and he slowed to match her pace. Chandelle had once been a great beauty, or so he’d been told. But now she was in her fifties—an ancient age in her profession—and the sickness that had brought them together so many years ago had yet to leave her joints. That made her stiff as she moved, slow and unsteady with the paint box whenever she bothered, and mostly unfit to do the day-to-day nursing some of the patients required. But nursing had never been Chandelle’s strength. She had an eye for people—their talents and their failings—and she had no reservations about using that knowledge for the good of her charges. As a madame, she’d been a deft hand at blackmail. As the head of a home for sick women, she knew whom to accept and whom to toss from her steps like bad meat. Every one of her charges had helped out in one way or another. And neither she nor Robert would have it any other way.

Today, however, she turned that keen eye on him. Or rather, her keen nose. She sniffed the air as they walked and curled her lip. “You ’ave the smell of the docks on you.”

He nodded. “Spent an extremely unpleasant hour at Mr. Johnny Bono’s Mercantile.”

“Johnny Bono! That bastard! Tell me you won’t have no truck with the likes of him.”

Robert smiled. “No truck, I swear. But I’d be grateful for news of him, especially as it concerns my sister’s dressmaker.”

She stopped halfway up the stairs, pausing to draw breath. Or perhaps it was to eye him with an all-too-clear gaze. “A dressmaker, you say?”

“Mrs. Mortimer. Her shop is—”

“I know it. And I know ’er.” She waited another moment, chewing her lip as she looked at him. Finally she frowned at him. “So you be looking at the lower orders now for your girls? Fed up, are you, with the society women?”

He considered lying for a moment. He could pretend that Gwen’s dressmaker meant nothing to him. But this was the one place in the world where he did not need to pretend, and so he tucked away the urge and opted for honesty. “I don’t precisely know what my interest is.”

“But you are interested. In Mrs. Mortimer, and not the pretty seamstress.”

He smiled. “Not the pretty seamstress, whomever she may be.”

“But the lady?”

He shrugged, turning away to climb the stairs when he grew uncomfortable with Chandelle’s stare. What he felt for Mrs. Mortimer wasn’t up for discussion. At least not until he had an understanding of his own motives. But then again, that was exactly why he came to this place, wasn’t it? To sort out his thoughts. That usually meant talking with Chandelle.

“She makes me think,” he finally said.

Chandelle surprised him with a burst of laughter. “More thinking ain’t wot you need, Robert. Swiving is more like it.”

He grinned. “Well, she makes me think of swiving, too. Does that help?”

Chandelle blew out a low whistle. “So you found ’er.”

Robert slowed as he topped the stairs. “Found who?”

“A woman to match yer brains and yer brawn.” She thumped his arm. “But does she match yer heart? She’d have to have an awful big heart to meet you there.”

He frowned as he shook his head. “I don’t know,” he finally admitted. “She’s a businessman…er…woman. Reminds me of you in that. I admire her strength.”

Chandelle snorted. “She ain’t the one for you, then. Strength is one thing, boy, but a heart is something else. Your woman gots to ’ave heart. A right big one.”

He grimaced, wondering if she was right. Not about wanting a woman with heart. Of course he did, whatever that meant. But about whether the dressmaker lacked something essential. He had no idea. “I asked her to be my mistress.”

Chandelle let out a low whistle. “She turned you down, eh?”

He gave her a wry look. “Down flat.”

“So you came ’ere to lick yer wounds. Want to do some doctoring for women who’d be grateful.”

He raised his eyebrows. Was that what he was doing? Salvaging his wounded pride?

“Ain’t nothing to be ashamed of. No one likes the word ‘no,’ least of all you lords.”

“But—”

“Tut-tut,” she said as she grabbed his arm and hauled him toward the main ward. “We got a whole house full o’ women who’ll say yes to you. And there’s a couple bedpans to be cleaned and that would make me right grateful.”

“Bedpans?” he said in his most haughty tone. “I am a lord, you know.”

“And a right good one, you are,” she said, knowing his protest was halfhearted at best. “Hard work will fix what ails ye. But first off, I want you to ’ave a look at little Steve. He’s the new baby. Ain’t been taking the breast like he were meant to.”

Three hours later, he was grateful for Chandelle’s wisdom. Hard work had indeed cleared his thoughts. He’d looked at nine patients in all, only sending for the doctor on one—Steve’s mother. The babe likely sensed that his mother was dying and wouldn’t drink from her. So he’d tasked Chandelle with finding a wet nurse. And while Chandelle had done that, he’d changed bed linens, made the special foods that two of his patients required, and yes, he’d even taken care of the bedpans. After three hours, he felt refreshed and productive, as if he’d fought a hard battle and won. It didn’t matter that the fight would continue tomorrow or that by week’s end, he’d need to find a new mother for little Steve. For now, he felt good. So he was whistling as he left the Chandler, his mind emptied of everything but the tasks he had performed this day.

Sadly, other tasks would hit him the moment he returned home. He was due for another visit to his father’s thrice-cursed mine. He had to study the latest suggestions from the steward at the seat of the earldom. And who knew what sort of scolding would come from Gwen and his mother the moment he walked in the door. Which meant now was the perfect time not to go home, but to begin his seduction of one feisty dressmaker.

He looked at his watch and realized he would arrive at the dress shop just in time for a late tea. It never occurred to him that she would have customers. As a rule, ladies shopped during the morning, not the afternoon hours. But then he crossed the street to the shop door and was nearly bowled over by a thin woman with a pinched nose and a worried expression.

“Oh! Excuse me, sir!” the woman gasped as she veered out of his path.

He recovered easily, grasping her bony elbow when she might have fallen in a puddle. “Entirely my fault,” he said, because that was what a gentleman said even though she was the one who had run into him. “Careful of your step!”

“Lord Redhill!” cried Mrs. Mortimer from the doorway. She had obviously been showing her customer out, only to be startled by his presence. He smiled at her, his gaze taking in her new attire. No longer was she dressed in padded black, but in a flowing gown of soft green. She looked like a young tree right before its first full season. Her figure was mature, but her body and her face still had some youthful innocence. Her curves were not so much ripe as modestly covered and yet ready to burst free with just the right touch. It was an odd thought to have about a woman, but he could not shake the impression. Nor could he stop imagining how he would undress her slowly, peeling away the bark, so to speak, until he reached the tender, sweet wonder beneath.

“M-my l-lord?” stammered the customer, who was still caught in his grip.

He forced his attention back to the unknown woman. “Have you found your feet then? I am sorry I startled you.”

The woman gaped at him as he gently let go of her arm. Meanwhile, Mrs. Mortimer stepped into the conversational breach. “Mrs. Richards, may I present to you Viscount Redhill.”

Mrs. Richards’s eyes widened even farther. “G-good afternoon, my lord. I-I hadn’t realized…” Her voice trailed away as she looked at the dressmaker with dawning speculation.

“His sister is Lady Gwen, one of my customers,” she said rather coldly. “He is no doubt stopping by on an errand from her.”

A lie, of course, because Mrs. Mortimer obviously wanted to make clear that he was not visiting for any salacious reason. And since he saw no reason to broadcast his private affairs, he cheerfully agreed. “Some bother about yellow silk,” he drawled. “It shall just take a moment.”

“Of course, my lord,” she answered.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Richards curtsied to him. “I have met your sister,” she said. “A lovely woman.”

“Thank you,” Robert murmured, uninterested in prolonging the conversation.

Thank God the woman took the hint. “Well, thank you for your time, Mrs. Mortimer,” she said. “I shall return next Tuesday with Francine for our fitting.”

“We will be ready.”

Given the dismissal, the woman had no choice but to nod and depart, though her gaze lingered as long as possible on him. But eventually she disappeared around the corner, and at that moment, Mrs. Mortimer released her breath in a long, heavy sigh.

“She will think the worst of me. Indeed, I believe you have merely locked in her poor opinion of my morals.”

“But why?” he asked. “I am merely here about the yellow silk.”

She snorted. “You are a terrible liar, you know. You should have made demands regarding a bill or the like. That she might have believed. But to discuss fabric? A viscount on behalf of his sister? Never.”

He pursed his lips. She had a point. He would never have come here on a task from his sister. “Why does she already think the worst of you?”

“That was Francine’s mother.” When he didn’t readily place the name, she gestured with her hands, indicating a large woman. “You remember, the girl with the lush figure.”

Robert finally placed the girl in his memory, but then he compared her to the stick-thin, prune-shaped woman he’d just met. “That can’t be her mother!”

She laughed. “Francine takes after her father in her body’s size.”

“He must be—”

“Have a care, my lord,” she warned before he could finish his thought. “Francine is my friend and I dislike certain words, especially when applied to my friends.”

He immediately moderated his tone. “Of course. I merely meant that Francine’s father is likely a man of some stature.”

She snorted. “He is at that. Tall and broad and fair-minded. It is her mother who is less charitable in all aspects.”

“She doesn’t like how you have dressed Francine.” He couldn’t blame the woman. Her daughter had been gowned in an entirely inappropriate fashion, in his opinion. Too lush by half.

“She will come around,” Mrs. Mortimer returned calmly. “She loves her daughter and wants her to be happy. The right clothes can only help with that.”

He didn’t argue with her because what she said was correct in principle. And as she already knew his opinion of the gown—he’d made that quite clear before—he saw no reason to be contentious. So, feeling very virtuous, he simply nodded and gestured to the inside of her shop.

“May I come in? I’d like a moment of your time, please.”

She didn’t budge from her position in the doorway. “My lord, it has been a long and tiring day.”

“Tea will be the perfect restorative.”

“My lord…”

“Please. I owe you an apology, and I would prefer not to deliver it on the street.” She had no choice but to let him inside now. Good manners demanded as much, and so she gave in. She dipped her chin and stepped aside. He followed as close as he could manage, lifting her arm and escorting her to a chair. He gave her no time and no space to thwart him, and in a moment, she was exactly where he wanted her to be.

Helaine was beginning to resent Lord Redhill’s very high-handed ways. He all but forced her into her own shop, shut the door, and half guided, half pushed her onto the settee. Then he sat across from her and dropped his hands on his knees before frowning at the table between them.

“First, allow me to apologize. I did not understand the situation at the warehouse, and I fear I have made things worse for you.”

She didn’t answer. She had no desire to think about the disaster that awaited her if she ever returned to Johnny Bono’s warehouse. And she had no idea where else she could buy fabrics. Irene was a miracle worker—or had been as a girl—but she had never tried to purchase things on the scale of what a dressmaker’s shop would need. And she had already sent around a note saying the task was harder than she expected and would take more time. Perhaps after Lady Gwen bought clothing at other establishments, things would be easier. Merchants would advance her some small amount of credit. Or perhaps Francine’s payment would help, assuming her mother could be convinced to approve the dresses…Her mind spun on with possibilities and dangers, and all of it stopped cold at his lordship’s question.

“Tell me what I can do to make up for the problem I have caused.”

She didn’t have to think long about that. The words came quickly. “Never, ever interfere in the running of my shop again. And that includes your sister’s choices.”

“Done.”

She shook her head, almost laughing at the ease with which he said it. She already knew that he was much too high-handed to do as he promised. It wasn’t that he was malicious, just unthinking. He would interfere without remembering his past promises or any future consequences.

“Swear it, my lord. Upon your honor, upon your family’s honor.”

He reared back, startled by her demand. But she was the daughter of a drunken earl. She knew that the only thing an aristocrat valued above his brandy was his family’s good name. In the end, her father had valued his drink more than his name, but she didn’t think Lord Redhill was the same sort. So this oath would bind him as securely as anything.

“Your oath, my lord. Or you may leave my shop now.”

His eyes narrowed in anger, but he complied. “You have my oath as Viscount Redhill, as the future Earl of Willington, and as a man of honor that I will not interfere in your business again. Not unless you ask.”

“I shall never ask.”

He arched a brow. “That remains to be seen. Now, am I forgiven? Will you accept my apology?”

She exhaled, relieved that one of her difficulties had been solved. “Yes, you are forgiven. Now if you please, it has been a long day.” She started to stand, but he forestalled the movement by touching her arm.

“We spoke of tea. Would you still like some?”

She felt her shoulders slump with weariness. Really, would she never be rid of the man? Did he not understand that his very presence added more work to her life? “Tea has to be made and served, my lord. Will you do that for me? Or will you snap your fingers and demand that my partner leave off her work to wait upon us?”

His frown deepened. “I had thought I would get it myself. I was still in shortcoats when I learned how to make tea and slice a loaf of bread.”

She bit her lip. She was being churlish, and he was acting rather kind. More kind, in fact, than her own father had ever been. She wished she could tell him to go to the devil. But he was Lady Gwen’s brother and she needed the man’s goodwill. And even worse, she rather liked that he had offered her tea. Though she very much doubted he would actually rise and make it himself. And right there was the solution to her problems. All she need do was keep demanding things from him. First tea, then something more improbable. Then more. Eventually he would tire of the game and leave her alone. And in the meantime, she could amuse herself by watching the man try to serve her tea in her own establishment.

She leaned back against the settee and released a long breath. “Tea would be lovely, Lord Redhill. The tray is over there. Pray do make us a pot.” She waved languidly in the direction of the kitchen.

He smiled at her, as if he knew exactly what she was doing, then immediately grabbed the tray. A moment later he disappeared into the kitchen, which was really part of the back workroom. Helaine waited, listening to the bang of pots and the like. What was he doing back there? And where was Wendy? Wouldn’t they be talking or something? Unless his lordship refused to speak to someone so low in status as a seamstress. But that couldn’t be true, could it? And really, it was rather bad of her to send the man back there and not warn Wendy. What if he upset Wendy somehow?

So it was that within a minute of resolving to have him serve her, Helaine pushed to her feet to see exactly what disaster he was creating in her ordered kitchen. She moved quickly but silently, the instinct to keep invisible well ingrained from her childhood. Which meant she was able to observe him as he scooped filtered water from the bucket and into the pot. His movements were efficient, his bearing easy, as if he had indeed made tea for himself many a time. But how could that be? He was the son of an earl!

He set the kettle to boil then went about searching for the tea tin. He found the fancy tea, the one purchased for clients, and was already pulling it down when she stepped forward. “Not that one. Behind it. That is what I drink.”

He frowned then peered into the cupboard, finally bringing out the cheap tin. As she expected, he opened the lid and wrinkled his nose at what was inside. “Surely you don’t prefer this.”

She arched a brow. “It is what I drink. You may of course take from whatever tin you choose.” But that would require two different pots of tea. She waited for him to refuse or simply make the expensive tea and convince her to share it with him. But he didn’t. He put away the expensive stuff and waited with her for the kettle to boil.

Meanwhile, Helaine glanced at the rest of the workroom. Wendy was nowhere in sight. Her work was laid out, but the room was empty. It wasn’t like her to waste daylight when she could be sewing. “I wonder what happened,” she said to herself as she moved through the back room.

He followed her as she meandered among the tables. Then she saw it: a box opened on the chair Wendy usually used. Out from the box spilled the most gorgeous scarf she had ever seen. Blue, black, and gold danced about on fabric almost too delicate to touch. The design was paisley, but that in no way described the elaborate, shimmery display.

Behind her, Lord Redhill whistled in appreciation. “Your seamstress is most fortunate in her lover.”

Helaine turned around. Trust a man to leap to the most scandalous conclusion. “A lover! No, no, this is from Wendy’s brother. He’s a seaman and sends her the most beautiful things from wherever he visits. This must be from China.”

“India, I believe. And I assure you, this is not a gift a brother sends.” He lifted the piece up from the box. The scarf was larger than she’d thought; indeed, the sheer fabric went beyond the length of his arms and down almost to her knees.

“Do you know what a man thinks when he sees something like this?” He did not wait for her to answer, but stepped up to her and slowly draped it across her body.

“We shouldn’t touch that. It’s Wendy’s,” she said even as she was marveling at the smooth caress of the fabric against her cheek.

He didn’t listen but slipped the scarf around her shoulders. “He imagines her naked and wearing just this. He sees the pink blush of her skin as it mixes with the gold threads, and he wonders what part of the pattern will touch the dark rose of her nipples. He thinks of slowly unwrapping her like a present on his birthday, one that is revealed in the sweet privacy of his bedroom. And he dreams of laying her down on top of this as he gently settles between her thighs.”

“Lord Redhill!” Helaine squeaked, her face burning in embarrassment. “That is a most inappropriate conversation—”

“If you would consent to be my lover, I would buy you the most amazing fabrics from India, China, and even the Americas. We will dress you up in them and I will stroke the fabrics across your flesh so that you can feel every exquisite caress. And as the colors skate across your skin, I will kiss every inch. Silk, velvet, even soft wool shall float across you until you are delirious from the sensations. And then, when you can take no more, I will lay you down and show you even more.”

Helaine stared at him, her thoughts whirling with the images he described. They were not even all that graphic. He spoke of skin and kisses, and every inch of her body responded. Her insides went liquid from the intensity of his gaze, and when he stroked his thumb beneath her jaw she gasped as a tremble seized her. It was a quiet sensation, like a shimmer just under her skin, and it frightened her almost as much as it intrigued her.

Never before had a man’s words stirred her so effectively. And never before had a man looked at her with such sensual promise in his eyes. Other men had wanted her, but it had been for their pleasure, their amusement. Lord Redhill talked of what she would enjoy: pleasure such as she had only imagined.

Then he leaned forward to take her lips. She wanted to deny him. She knew she ought to turn away, but she could not. She wanted to feel what he promised, to know what women with good lovers experienced in their beds.

She let him kiss her. She lifted her mouth to his and let him tease the edge of her lips with his tongue. Her flesh swelled beneath his stroke, and she closed her eyes to better experience it. She felt his teeth, nibbling along the edges until his tongue thrust inside. He was not bold in his possession, but careful and so very thorough. She did not know what to do. And yet, apparently she did. Without conscious understanding, her tongue dueled with his. Her neck arched and her head angled, and soon she was taking part in a kiss as never before.

Then his hand found her left nipple. He cupped her breast and rubbed a thumb back and forth across her bodice. The shimmer beneath her skin caught fire, and her nipple was like a flashpoint of heat. And still his thumb continued back and forth, back and forth, like kindling added to the fire. Her breast swelled, her breath caught, and it became too much. Too hot, too hungry, too…too much.

She gasped and spun away, her forearms clutched against her breasts. She felt the hard center of her nipples and the ache that they had become. Her breath still came in stuttering gasps and she half stepped, half stumbled backward. He caught her, of course, beneath the elbow with his warm, strong support. He held her up effortlessly while his eyes narrowed and his expression tightened with confusion.

And into that long moment came a whistle. The teakettle, finally ready. Perhaps it had been singing for a while. She did not know. But at least it gave her something to focus on rather than her thudding heart. She straightened, meaning to go to it, but he was faster. As she supported her own weight, he released her arm and crossed to the kettle. Not seeing the rag, he used his own jacket sleeve to pick it up. He’d already set the leaves in the pot, and so he poured. The leaves were steeping in less than a minute, and then he finally turned to stare at her.

She swallowed. Surely an independent woman such as herself would have something to say. But her body was still not her own. The overwhelming feelings were beginning to fade, but they were replaced with a keen yearning to be touched like that again.

“So,” he said slowly. “You were never Lord Metzger’s mistress.”