Clayton Harcourt walked into the study of Justin’s house in Brook Street. He hadn’t seen his friend in over a week. Justin had never arrived at their scheduled meeting at the club, had only sent word of his regrets the following day. Clay still hadn’t heard from him, and frankly, he was worried.
If nothing else, it simply wasn’t like Justin to let his business interests go by the wayside.
Clay found him working behind his desk. He rose at Clay’s approach and Clay’s feet stopped moving at the sight of him. Thin and sallow, his cheeks slightly sunken in, he had the look of a man who had recently fallen ill. But it was his eyes that made Clay’s chest go suddenly tight. They looked empty, completely without emotion, and Clay knew in an instant whatever had happened had something to do with Ariel Summers.
“It’s good to see you,” Justin said, coming from behind the desk with an outstretched hand. Clay returned the handshake. “I’m sorry about our meeting.… Something unexpected came up.”
“I thought I had better check on you. It isn’t like you to put off pressing matters of business.”
“Yes, well, I’m sorry about that, too. I’ve signed the necessary papers. We can close the deal on the mine anytime you wish.”
Clay just nodded. He couldn’t take his gaze off the hollow-eyed man in front of him. “It’s obvious something has happened,” he said gently. “Whatever it is, it has to have something to do with the girl.”
Justin turned away. “I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind. Suffice it to say, the wedding is off.”
“Just like that?”
Justin shrugged his shoulders. “It is probably for the best. I was hardly cut out for the role of husband.”
“Where is she?”
Justin reached toward the stack of papers perched on the corner of his desk, began to sift through it. “I imagine by now she has found another protector.”
He said the words with a casual air, but when he glanced up, there was so much pain in his face Clay felt it like a blow. He wanted to ask again what had happened, but pressing Justin for answers wouldn’t do the least amount of good. His housekeeper, Mrs. Daniels, had friends among the servants in the house. He would ask her if she could discover what had occurred.
“Are you certain you’re all right?” Clay asked. “You don’t look very well.” Only one other time in his life had he seen his friend so remote, so painfully withdrawn—after he’d discovered Margaret Simmons in bed with Phillip Marlin.
Marlin? Surely not. God wouldn’t be so cruel. But Ariel had been involved with Marlin when Justin first met her, and Phillip had always had a way with women.
“I’m fine,” Justin said. “Just a little tired is all.”
From the look of him, that was the understatement of the year. Clay forced himself to smile. “Since you are once again unattached, why don’t we make a visit to Madame Charbonnet’s?” He only asked to test the waters and watch his friend’s reaction.
Justin’s lips curved up in the coldest smile Clay had ever seen. “That sounds like a very good idea. I’ve a brief trip to make out of town, but as soon as I return, I’ll hold you to it. After all, one woman is as good as another, once they are flat on their backs beneath you.”
The bitter words, harsh even for Justin, sent a shiver down Clay’s spine. If Justin had been cold and wary before, he was a man of ice now.
Clay thought of Ariel Summers and wished he could wrap his hands around her slender neck and squeeze the life out of her.
Just as she had done to his friend.
* * *
The biting fall winds whistled through the cracks in the walls of the small attic room above the Golden Partridge Inn. Ariel shivered and tried to keep warm. Her money had run out long ago, but the owner had agreed to let her work in the kitchen, filling in for Daisy Gibbons, who was ailing in her last weeks of pregnancy. But money was tight and he had enough help already. Once the baby was born, Daisy would return to work and Ariel would have to leave.
“What am I going to do?” she said more to herself than to Agnes Bimms, the cook at the inn, as she scoured the burnt bottom of a huge iron kettle in the kitchen. “Mr. Drummond has done his best to help me, but Daisy’s baby is due any day now. She needs the money. She’ll be returning to her job as soon as she can. I’ve answered ads in the paper, knocked on doors, tried to find work through an employment agency. I’ve done everything I can think of. Without references, no one will hire me.”
“And a cryin’ shame it is, too, what with your fancy schoolin’ an’ all. Ye’d make a fine governess, ye would, fer one of them rich nabobs in the West End. A shame is what it is.”
“I have to do something. It doesn’t matter what sort of work it is—I’ll take anything I can get.”
Agnes cocked a woolly gray eyebrow. She was a short, stout woman with a tuft of whiskers on her chin and kindly blue eyes. “There is one thing ye might wanna try.”
Ariel’s head came up. “What is it, Aggie?”
“They’s a mop fair this Saturday, down to the park near the corner. Ye might give that a try.”
“A mop fair? I’m afraid I don’t have the faintest idea what that is.”
“’Tis a hirin’ fair, don’t ye see? Ye go there and whoever’s in need of a servant or worker takes a look at ye. If they like what they see, they’ll hire ye for a year. Then permanent, if ye do a good job.”
Ariel smiled, feeling a shot of hope. “Oh, Aggie—that’s a wonderful idea. Surely there’ll be someone there in need of a good worker.”
“I’m sure there will be, dearie.” Agnes handed her another heavy pot to scrub, but the hard work couldn’t wipe the smile off Ariel’s face. This time she would find work; she was sure of it.
On Friday, Daisy Gibbons returned to her job in the kitchen, and on Saturday, Ariel packed her satchel, left her drafty attic room, and headed for the mop fair. Dressed in a simple brown skirt and white blouse and wearing her sturdiest shoes, she was among the first to arrive. She had considered wearing something a little nicer, perhaps the soft gray wool, one of the two fashionable gowns she had allowed herself to keep, in the hope of finding a position as governess, where she could at least use her painfully acquired education, but something told her that without references her chances would be slim and she would be far more likely to find work if she dressed more simply.
The mop fair was in full swing by midmorning. At one end of the grass a platform had been built, and a crowd of people gathered around it, some of them well dressed, obviously there to hire, the rest attired more simply. On the platform itself, job seekers climbed the stairs to allow potential employers to get a better look at them.
It was a little like purchasing a cow or hog at the farmers’ market, Ariel thought, suppressing a shiver at the notion. It was a humiliation she would rather not have to endure, but she didn’t have any other choice. For a while she simply watched, noticing that certain workers wore distinctive articles of clothing or carried a symbol that identified the sort of labor they performed. Freight haulers tied a piece of whipcord around their hats; roof thatchers carried a fragment of woven straw.
She wasn’t sure what symbol represented ordinary household servants, so she waited a little while longer. She searched the crowd, hoping she might find someone who needed a governess, but no such person appeared. She went up on the platform with a group of young women applying for the position of lady’s maid, but they all had experience or references, and she wasn’t chosen. She went up twice more, for a job as a cook’s helper and later as a housekeeper, but the same thing happened each time. Finally a man came forward looking to hire a chambermaid. Determined not to be disheartened, Ariel climbed up on the platform again.
A well-dressed man with thinning brown hair stood on the ground in front of them, carefully surveying each young woman in need of a job. Ariel had been passed over so many times that she blinked and simply stood there when the man pointed at her and motioned for her to come forward.
She did so hopefully, trying to control her pounding heart. She thought for sure he would ask how long she had worked as a chambermaid, but this time her lack of experience didn’t seem to matter.
“How old are you?” he asked instead.
“Nineteen.”
“Where are you from?”
Ariel nervously moistened her lips. She had nowhere to spend the night and no money. She said a silent prayer that he would give her the job. “I was born on a cottager’s farm near the hamlet of Greville.”
“Any family here in London?”
Ariel shook her head.
“Then you’ll be wanting room and board as part of your employment?”
“Yes, sir.”
He nodded, seemed satisfied. “Get your things,” he said curtly.
“You’re giving me the job?” Hardly able to believe her good fortune, she hurried toward the stairs leading down from the platform, her pulse leaping with excitement.
“Lord Horwick is giving you a job. I’m his steward, Martin Holmes.” When she reached his side, he turned and pointed to an open carriage. “Wait for me there. When I’m finished, I’ll take you to the house and you can get settled in.”
“Yes, sir.” She made a brief curtsy. “Thank you, sir.” Relief filtered through her. At least she would have a roof over her head and food in her belly. And perhaps Lord Horwick had children or knew of someone who did. In time, if she proved herself, she might still get that job as a governess.
Her spirits were high on the way to the carriage until she heard two women speaking in whispers as she walked past: “Poor gel. She don’t know about old Horwick. That old lecher will have her skirts up over her head and a bun in the oven afore she’s been there two months.”
Ariel flushed crimson and kept on walking. Whatever sort of man Lord Horwick was, she needed this job. If a problem arose, she would simply make it clear to him that she was a chambermaid, not a strumpet.
A memory of her near-rape by Phillip Marlin arose, followed by a painful image of Greville. She had dealt with far worse than a lecherous, aging aristocrat. If Horwick had anything other than employment in mind, it wouldn’t take her long to disavow him of the notion.
* * *
Justin leaned against the back of a gold brocade settee in Madame Charbonnet’s House of Pleasure. Clay sat in a chair beside him, one leg casually crossed over the other as they watched a parade of beautiful, nearly naked women walk past. Clay had chosen a tall redhead with a slight French accent. She stood behind him, lightly massaging the back of his neck while Clay finished his glass of brandy and waited for Justin to choose.
“How about the brunette?” Celeste Charbonnet suggested. Celeste was a tall woman in her thirties, dark-haired and elegant, with excellent taste in everything from clothes to fine French wines. She had made a fortune out of understanding the likes and dislikes of men, and the women she employed were the most beautiful—and talented—in London.
“Gabrielle has skin as smooth and soft as a baby’s, and hands … Such beautiful hands could please the most discriminating of men.” The chestnut-haired woman parading past them was lovely in the extreme, but Justin shook his head.
“Blond, I think, for this evening.”
Gabrielle took the rebuff with a smile. There were a number of patrons in rooms throughout the house. She would have no trouble finding a man to entertain for the night.
His attention turned toward the gold velvet curtains. They parted to reveal a young blond woman, petite but full-figured, smiling seductively, walking toward him in nothing but a nearly transparent swath of lilac silk that fell from her shoulders to the curve of her bottom.
Justin frowned. “Too short. I’m in the mood for someone taller.”
Two blondes came out this time, Norwegian twins. They were beautiful, strong-boned, and elegantly built.
“Two is certain to double the pleasure,” Celeste said. But something wasn’t right. The color of the eyes, perhaps. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He simply knew they weren’t the ones to satisfy his needs for the night.
“I want someone more slender, blue-eyed, and more…” Justin stopped midsentence, the words trailing away as he realized with dawning horror exactly what he was doing. He chanced a look at Clay and saw that his friend was frowning.
Justin closed his eyes as Celeste snapped her fingers and another blond woman walked into the room, a lovely little English rose, naked to the waist, wearing white silk stockings and blue satin garters. She was perfect in every way, but he knew she wouldn’t do.
She wasn’t Ariel Summers.
Justin rose from the settee, cursing himself, cursing Ariel for what she had done to him. “Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all,” he said to Clay, who was watching him with a worried expression, ignoring the redhead who now sat on his lap, her naked breasts pressing into his chest.
“Perhaps it wasn’t,” Clay said, setting the girl back on her feet and standing up as well.
“Don’t let me spoil your evening. There’s no reason for you to leave.”
“It’s all right. I wasn’t really in the mood, either.” He smiled at Madame Charbonnet. “Another time, perhaps.” He dropped a heavy pouch of coins into her long, slim fingers. “So the girls won’t forget us.”
“Do not worry, m’sieur. They do not forget either of you. That you need not fear.”
Barely conscious of the lady’s words, Justin reached the door and pulled it open. He paused outside to drag in a lungful of air. “Sorry,” he said to Clay. “I didn’t mean to disappoint you. I don’t know exactly what happened in there.”
“I do,” Clay said gently. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll come back again some other time.”
Justin just nodded. He had tried to block Ariel from his mind and most of the time he succeeded. Once in a while, like tonight, he remembered the woman he had foolishly believed she was, remembered her gentle laughter, her intelligence, remembered the sweet, innocent girl of her letters. He remembered the woman he had made love to, had trusted as he never had another woman, and pain unlike anything he had ever known knifed viciously into his heart.
His jaw clenched. He took a deep breath and slowly released it. “I’m a bit more tired than I thought. I believe I’ll go on home, if you don’t mind.”
“No…” Clay said. “I don’t mind. Take care of yourself, my friend.”
Justin nodded and turned away, wishing he hadn’t come, wishing he hadn’t seen the pretty little blonde who reminded him of Ariel—reminded him that she was just as much a whore as the girls at Madame Charbonnet’s.
* * *
Working for the Earl of Horwick proved to be a difficult job. The house itself was huge and the staff kept at a minimum. The place was old and drafty, always full of dust, and difficult to keep clean. Not only was Horwick a demanding employer, working his servants from dawn till dark, serving them meals that were scarcely fit to eat, but he was also every bit as lecherous as the woman at the mop fair had said.
A disgusting little man, slightly obese, thick-lipped, and smelling of liquor and cigars, twice he had come upon Ariel in the hallway, pressed her up against the wall, and tried to steal a kiss. Each time, she had avoided his unwanted advances and escaped down the passage.
She hated working for a man like him, and over the weeks avoided him as much as she could. She needed to find another job, but she had heard what he had done to other girls who had left him, refusing to give them references and spreading lies about them, making it nearly impossible for them to find other employment. She would have to continue to save her money and bide her time, keep searching for a job on her one day off. Once she found something suitable, she would be able to quit.
“We’ll be needin’ the beddin’ changed in the last four guest rooms in the east wing.” Mrs. O’Grady, the housekeeper, passed by her in the hall. “Lady Horwick will be arrivin’ from the country on the morrow. She’s plannin’ her usual round a’ parties and a special ball for her niece’s birthday. There’ll be relatives arrivin’ in droves.”
“I’ll see to it immediately, Mrs. O’Grady.” She made a curtsy to the portly gray-haired Irishwoman who ran the earl’s house on the skimpy budget he allotted. Ariel liked the stout little woman she had come to think of almost as a friend. She grabbed up the broom she carried and headed upstairs, hoping old Horwick was nowhere around and grateful that Lady Horwick was about to arrive. Surely the fat old lecher wouldn’t try any of his tricks with his wife in the house.
Ariel worked all morning and into the afternoon. Unlike much of the house, a number of guest chambers and all of the main-floor salons were lavishly appointed and showed none of the wear evident in the rest of the aging mansion. She had just about finished with the last guest room when the door opened and a short, barrel-shaped man walked in.
“Hello, my dear,” Horwick said. “I’ve been looking for you. I hoped I would find you in here.”
Ariel’s heart sank. “Looking for me? What do you want?”
Horwick frowned. “You’re not frightened? If you are, there is certainly no need. Surely by now you must realize how attractive I find you.”
“I have work to do,” Ariel said, carefully backing away from him as he strolled toward her.
“Yes, I imagine you do. I could help in that regard, you know. If you would be a bit more cooperative, your work load could be lightened quite dramatically.”
“I don’t mind the work.” Her back came up against a rosewood dresser. Horwick stood a little to the right, so she skirted to the left, hoping to duck around him. “I do the job I was hired for.”
“Yes, you do, and quite admirably, I might add. Perhaps a bit of a raise in your salary would make you a bit more … amiable.”
He moved to block her way again and Ariel stiffened. “I’m a chambermaid, my lord. It would be unseemly for me to become … amiable … with a man of your social status. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” She darted to the left, but as rotund as he was, he could move quite quickly, dodging in front of her, spreading his short, thick arms, and catching her like a fly in his web. Ariel shrieked as a blunt-fingered hand grabbed hold of her bottom and he gave it a punishing squeeze.
He chuckled as she tore herself free and bolted for the door, escaping the room as if the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels, her face flaming scarlet. She rubbed the bruise on her bottom. Damn the old bastard to perdition! The next time he tried that she would … she would … What could she do? She needed this job, at least for a little while longer. She would have to find a way to stay out of his clutches.
Ariel sighed and headed off down the hall, her mind still shouting angry epithets at Horwick. She worked the rest of that day and late into the evening. The following day Lady Horwick arrived.
Ariel was more than grateful. At least for a while, she’d be safe from the woman’s lecherous husband. Unfortunately, with the festivities her ladyship had planned, Ariel’s work load nearly doubled.
She was exhausted by the time the house was ready for Lady Horwick’s first affair, a small soiree for an intimate group of her husband’s friends and business acquaintances. Even after the grueling day she’d put in, the woman expected her to help serve the refreshments. Ariel stuffed a strand of loose hair up beneath her mobcap and gave up a weary sigh. She could hear the strains of a small string orchestra playing in the music room. Guests were still arriving. By the time the entertainment—one of old Horwick’s relatives performing on the pianoforte—was over, the late buffet was supposed to be on the table in the adjoining salon.
Carrying a silver platter heavy with assorted cold meats, Ariel started out of kitchen and headed down the hall. She had almost reached the door to the salon when she heard the butler’s voice and realized another of Lord Horwick’s guests had arrived.
“If I may please have your hat and coat, my lord, I shall be happy to announce your arrival.”
“Of course. Thank you.” With those few words, Ariel froze midway down the hall, her head snapping toward the sound of the familiar deep voice. She saw the tall, imposing figure dressed mostly in black, and a weight crushed down on her heart. She wanted to flee, but her feet wouldn’t move. She wanted to disappear, wanted to vanish like a puff of smoke, never to be seen again in her simple black skirt and white cotton blouse, the silly little mobcap that sat askew on her head.
By sheer force of will, she summoned the wit to flee. She started back down the hall, nearly ran into a footman hurrying in the opposite direction, pressed the tray into his hands, and kept on going. She had almost reached the safety of the kitchen when she heard the sound of a man’s heavy footfalls behind her.
“Ariel! Ariel, is that you?”
She kept on going, past the kitchen and out the back door, into the moonlit night, hoping to escape him completely. She heard the door slam open behind her, heard his shoes crunching on gravel, felt his long fingers closing around her arm, stopping her mad flight and forcing her to face him. When she did, one of his slashing black brows arched up as if he couldn’t quite believe his eyes.
“So it is you,” he said darkly. “What are you doing here?” His eyes ran over her from top to bottom, taking in her simple clothes. Then he frowned. “And why are you dressed in the garments of a servant?”
She wanted to laugh in his face. She wanted to weep. Instead she simply lifted her chin and forced herself to look at him. “I’m here because this is where I work. I’m dressed in the clothing of a servant because that is exactly what I am.”
His frown grew deeper. “What about Marlin? I assumed—”
“You assumed what?” She couldn’t keep the anger from her voice. She didn’t even try. “Pray tell, your lordship. I should like very much to know what you assumed.”
“Let’s not play games, Ariel, shall we? I saw you and Marlin together. The night you met him in the stable. I was watching from an upstairs window.”
For a moment, it was hard to make sense of what he was saying. She had buried thoughts of him so very deep it took a moment to recall the scene. Then she realized that he believed she had gone there to tryst with Marlin and her throat tightened. A bubble of hysterical laughter threatened to erupt, but she fought it down. The anger she was feeling turned white hot.
“You saw us that night? Did you, really? You mean you saw both of us going into the stable—isn’t that what you mean? Too bad you couldn’t have seen through the walls of the stable as well. Too bad you couldn’t have seen what went on inside. If you had, you might have seen me telling him I wanted him to leave me alone. You might also have seen how angry that made him. Mad enough to try to tear off my clothes. Mad enough to try to”—she swallowed past the hard lump building in her throat—“to force himself on me. If it hadn’t been for Mr. McCullough, your groom, he might very well have succeeded. Now—if you will excuse me—I have to return to the house. I have work to do.”
She tried to walk past, but Justin stepped in front of her. “You’re lying.”
She lifted her chin. Angry tears burned her eyes. “Am I? You’re the liar, Justin. Everything you ever did, everything you ever said, was a lie. I’m glad you threw me out of your house when you did. God only knows how many more of your lies I would have believed.” Turning away from him, blinking against the wetness that blinded her vision, Ariel raced back into the house and up the servants’ stairs.
Halfway to the top, she paused, listening for the sound of the closing door that would tell her Greville had returned to the soiree. She never heard the sound. She thought that the earl must have left without ever seeing Lord Horwick, but she didn’t check to be sure.
She didn’t want to think of him. Not now, not ever again.
She didn’t want to remember the sight of him standing there in the moonlight, so tall and unbearably handsome. She didn’t want to remember the pale cast to his usually swarthy skin when she had told him what had happened that night in the stable.
* * *
The coach thundered up the alley behind the house in a swirl of dust and dead leaves, and Justin leaped out before it had come to a shuddering halt. Though the hour was late, he headed straight for the stable.
“Where’s McCullough?” Rousing one of the young grooms from his bunk, Justin waited impatiently as the youth named Mickey began a nervous stutter the moment he saw the black look on his employer’s face.
“He’s … he’s…” Mickey swallowed. “I think he’s upstairs in his room.” Justin had started in that direction when he heard the Scotsman’s voice.
“I’m right here, milord.” The brawny man strolled toward him from a lantern-lit stall, wiping his hands on a rag he’d plucked off the saddle he had been oiling. “Ye wished to see me?”
Justin glanced around, saw several of the stable lads peeking out from the door to their quarters. “I need a word with you … in private.”
The Scotsman jerked his head toward the stairs. “We can go up to my room.”
Justin nodded. “Fine.” They made their way in that direction, and as soon as the door to McCullough’s room was closed, Justin turned to face him. “I want to know what happened the night Miss Summers was out here with Phillip Marlin.”
The Scotsman looked suddenly wary. “I’d rather the lassie be the one to say.”
“Miss Summers is no longer here, as perhaps you may have heard. Now I’m asking you to tell me what went on.”
McCullough scratched the growth of red stubble on his jaw, then gave up a sigh of resignation. “’Twas late. I was havin’ a bit o’ trouble fallin’ asleep. I heard noises below stairs. I thought ’twould be wise if I had a look.”
“And what exactly did you see?”
“I saw the two of ’em, the blond mon—Phillip, she called him—and the lassie, Miss Summers. She was talking to him real nice, tellin’ him that she was sorry, tryin’ ta make it clear she dinna have feelin’s for him, no the sort he was wantin’ her to have. She told him it would be best if he left, that you wouldna like it if you found out he had come here.”
“What else?”
“She told ’im … She said she loved ye.”
Justin’s mind spun. It was impossible. It couldn’t have happened. But one look in the Scotsman’s eyes said it was the truth. His heart seemed to stop beating. For a moment, he thought he might be sick. “You’re certain that’s what she said.”
“Aye, sir. ‘I love ’im.’ That’s what the lassie said.”
He was sweating. It was cold in the stable and his shirt was wet with sweat. “What happened then?”
“I started to go back upstairs. It weren’t my business, ya ken? And I dinna want to eavesdrop on the lassie’s conversation. Then I heard the mon say he was gonna have her—whether she wished it or no.” He shook his head. “I’m no’ a mon who caters to another mon takin’ what a lassie’s no’ willin’ to give.”
Justin closed his eyes, pain cutting into his chest like shards of glass.
“I pulled him off her,” the Scotsman went on. “I hit him and he went down. I sent the lassie back to the house.” He grinned. “Then I hit him again.”
If he could have, Justin would have smiled. He was certain he would never smile again. “Thank you, Mr. McCullough, for telling me the truth … and for taking care of her.” He started for the door, stopped, and turned. “One last question.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
“The mon were the son o’ an earl. He threatened to have me tossed into gaol for hittin’ him. The lassie, she told him he had better no’ say a word or she’d tell you what he’d done. She said none o’ us was to speak o’ it again. ’Tis exactly what I meant to do till ye came here tonight.”
Justin just nodded. Ariel had come out here to tell Marlin she was in love with another man. Knowing her as he did, he knew that she would have felt she owed Philip that. For her honesty she had nearly been raped, and instead of protecting her, instead of asking her why she had gone to see Marlin, he had assumed she had betrayed him and tossed her out in the street.
But Ariel had never betrayed him. Not in the beginning. Not that night with Marlin.
It was he, Justin Bedford Ross, who had been the betrayer. It was he who had taken her innocence, who had used her viciously that morning in his study, who had crushed her like a newly opened flower beneath the heel of his boot.
Justin paused on the path leading up to the house. Beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead and his stomach churned with nausea. Turning, he took several long strides off the path, bent his head, and violently retched beneath the branches of a rosebush in the garden.