Juliana Rivenhall—known to her students as Lady R and sometimes the Dragon Lady—stared out the sparkling glass of the tall windows in her drawing room, part of a new wing she had added to the fortress-like sixteenth century walls of Thornhill Manor shortly after her husband had bequeathed her his fortune, making her the wealthiest woman in the realm. The expanse of grass leading down to the river was winter pale, still gleaming with dew left behind as the morning mist retreated toward the Thames.
Her heart felt just as wintry, and heavy enough to sink like a stone in river’s dark waters. She did not tolerate failure. The whole point of The Aphrodite Academy was to help young women who had plunged into difficulties, sometimes through no fault of their own. Or, as in Cecilia Lilly’s case, through youthful folly. From London’s lost she chose the cream of the crop—not always the most beautiful but the most striking, the most intelligent, the most articulate. She trained them, mentored them, arranged respectable marriages, respectable ways to earn their living, or, if the young woman desired it, the skills to succeed in the world of the courtesan. And if they chose that world, Juliana Rivenhall left nothing to chance, providing her girls with instruction in every manner of sexual proclivities, including what many considered shocking deviations.
None of Longmere’s sexual practices should have come as a surprise to Cecilia Lilly, who had been on the town for some time before Juliana discovered her one night at Drury Lane. Therefore, she had to find out what had happened. Not that there was any excuse for Longmere’s behavior—she would make certain his shocking violence did not go unpunished—but the details leading up to the beating? Those she needed to know, and understand, so she could help her young women avoid such disasters in the future.
And then, of course, there was the problem of Darius. That, too, must be dealt with. Though truthfully, she had no idea how. Just one slim thread to cling to—the chivalrous instincts that would bring him running if he thought she actually needed him. And she did. As much as she’d sensed Nick Black’s fury, he was a stranger. Darius Wolfe was the only man she could truly trust to make the Marquess of Longmere pay the piper. Yet she’d sworn hell would freeze over before she’d see Darius Wolfe back at Thornhill . . .
“Cecilia, my dear,” Juliana said brightly, pasting on smile when, a day later, she found her protégé lying in bed, idly turning the pages of the latest La Belle Assemblée. Cecy’s face was still swollen, as if she were suffering from a severe case of the mumps, and the skin on the left side of her face had gone an ugly mix of blue, green, and mud brown. Her hair hung lank, any semblance of its glossy golden brown as faded as the dull green of her eyes. Nonetheless . . .
Juliana pulled a side chair up to the bed and sat down, meeting Cecy’s inquiring gaze full on. “My apologies,” she said, “but I must speak with you for a moment as headmistress rather than friend.” She paused, not quite sure where to begin, finally settling on, “You saw several demonstrations of ménage à trois during your time at the Academy. You knew this was—”
“Not ménage à six!” Cecy spit out. “And you said we had a choice, that we could say no. Well, I said no a hundred times, and let me assure you it didn’t work! In fact,” she added harshly, fury flooding her face with color, “I screamed no. And not a soul listened.”
Speechless, Juliana sat with head bowed, body shaking, a host of memories flooding her brain. She too had hated multiple partners, using her husband’s basic good nature—always shockingly full of adventurous twists—to opt out of all orgies. Except the one triumvirate that had gone on forever, a staple of her world. Until, more and more, Geoffrey simply watched while she and Darius . . .
Dear God!
Juliana blinked and returned to the present to find Cecy staring at her, clearly concerned. “I did indeed say you would have a choice,” she admitted. “And clearly I was overly optimistic. Although Longmere was not on my list of gentlemen candidates, I should have questioned him more closely. I promise you I will not let such a thing happen again.”
“Men lie.”
Juliana heaved a sigh. “You are, of course, quite right. Nonetheless, I shall make more of a point of preparing the girls. Some, of course, will welcome the adventure, but always, always, they should be given a choice. Truly, Cecilia, I am appalled that I failed to consider that members of the ton can be as violent as a navvy with a doxie.”
Geoffrey had never been violent—that ugly aspect of sexual congress she had been spared. Though Darius, ever a realist, might have warned her about Longmere. If she hadn’t sent him away. If she hadn’t wanted to shut that part of her life away forever and ever.
“I can’t do it,” Cecy choked out. “Never again.” A strange echo of Juliana’s own thoughts. Poor child. She knew all to well how the girl felt.
Juliana placed a firm hand over Cecilia’s, managed a warm, reassuring smile. “I perfectly understand, my dear. For now, rest and become yourself again. We’ll talk about the future when you’re feeling more the thing.”
A few minutes later, Lady Juliana Rivenhall sat at the desk in her bookroom and, after a good many false starts, produced a note of unprecedented brevity: Mr. Wolfe, kindly call on me at your earliest convenience. J.R.
She had become accustomed to the finer things in life, Cecy realized after ten days of rest and pampering brought color back to her cheeks, a sheen to her waves of golden brown hair, and a cool spark of intelligence to her green eyes. A spark that said she had passed beyond being wholly absorbed in the determination to survive and was now, very carefully, embarking on the difficult road of assessing her future.
Fortunately, only one blow had struck her face. The swelling was gone, the discoloration nearly so. Her cracked ribs were mending, if slowly, the tight strapping hidden beneath the flounces of the many boudoir ensembles the marquess had purchased for his delectation. Cecy allowed herself a tiny smile of satisfaction, both for the irony of the marquess paying for the garments she wore during her recovery and at the thought of the mysterious benefactor who had made certain every last bit and bob she possessed was delivered to Thornhill Manor. With the exception of her horse and carriage, which, a brief note from Mr. Black assured her, were now safely stabled in the mews behind his house on Princes Street.
Cecy’s shoulder slumped. She was sitting in a wing chair near the warmth of a fire in a guestroom of lavish proportions. She was warm, comfortable, well-fed, only a few twinges remaining from her ordeal. But thought of her much-prized horse and carriage brought a stab of painful reality. What did Cecilia Lilly need with a horse and carriage when she would rather go into service than let a man touch her?
“That’s what you think now, my dear,” Lady R had said during one of their many conversations. “But the pain in your mind will pass, though it may take considerably longer than the pain in your body.”
Since only the lowest minds or most imaginative among London’s ton had ever suggested that Baroness Juliana Rivenhall had taken a lover in the years since her husband’s death, Cecy considered this statement patently ridiculous. “No, it won’t. As you very well know,” she had added with a petulant glare.
Her amber eyes darkened by Cecy’s thrust, Lady R had blinked then countered, “I can afford to go my own way, Cecilia. You cannot.”
Which, of course, was all too true. Six months as mistress to the Marquess of Longmere had provided her with enough assets to live comfortably, if modestly, for a year or so, but she was far short of the amount needed to retire to the country and start a new life.
So what was to become of her? She could remain a sycophant, clinging to the Academy, accepting a position teaching young women the skills at which she had been so proficient. But it would never work. She would end up regaling them with the folly of trusting any male of the species, and that would be that. The Dragon Lady—as the Academy students frequently referred to their headmistress—could not allow such a defection from the ranks.
Governess? Living the life of a Nonconformist clergyman’s daughter had been austere at times, but she’d had a good education and absorbed the ways of the aristocracy during long summer visits to her grandfather, who had not been a vindictive man, even though his youngest son had strayed so far from the fold. But a position as governess was out of the question. Even if a respectable female could be found to write her a glowing reference, no woman in her right mind would add a striking beauty like Cecilia Lilly to their household. Not even if she went back to the perfectly horrid name she’d been born with—Chastity Singletary.
A position as housekeeper was beyond her reach for the same reason. And anything less, she had to admit now that she was thinking with more clarity, was an offense to her inborn arrogance, no matter how dire her situation. A sob welled up, taking her by surprise. She was the one who’d flirted and teased, practically taunting the squire’s son to take her on the soft grass by a rushing stream, the stain of strawberries still on their lips. He’d been almost as inexperienced as she, fumbling and inept, leaving her, instead of revolted by the messy process, eager to discover the something better she knew must be out there somewhere, just waiting to be discovered.
And she had. Oh yes, she certainly had. Before violence destroyed her sweet nest, fractured her confidence, and left her tossed up on the shores of disbelief and disillusion.
So there, she accepted it—this debacle was all her fault. She could never again go as a mistress, nor could she accept one of the marriages Lady R was so good at arranging. (It was surprising how many impecunious young gentlemen were willing to welcome a wife of dubious background if she came with an eye-opening dowry.) She had also rejected life as a companion with a shudder. Surely anything was better than life at the beck and call of a demanding elderly lady, likely with ten or a dozen cats!
The stage? Odd, but it seemed less daring to be a courtesan than an actress. Perhaps it was her Methodist upbringing. And, besides, she had no talent for it, more’s the pity.
Yet another impasse.
Drooping more than her physical condition warranted, Cecy dragged herself out of the depths of the chair and rang for a maid. Lady R, as usual, was right. She needed to get out of bed, do something with her face and hair, consider exploring her old haunts at the school, perhaps even meet some of the new girls. Not today, she qualified hastily, but soon. Certainly there were no answers for her here in the confines of her room.
“Chastity Singletary!” Nick echoed, lips twitching, his customary imperturbability pierced by the absurd.
“God’s truth,” the somewhat scruffy man standing in front of his desk swore. “Her pa’s a Methodist preacher, would you believe? Son to the Earl of Kingsbury—now there’s a fine kettle of fish! Ma’s gentry too. Comes from a long-time county family. Girl’s got a younger brother and two sisters, all as proper as you please. None of ’em acknowledge her existence,” he added. “Got most of my information from the townsfolk.”
“Including what led her astray?”
Nick’s investigator squirmed a bit. “Well now, sir, there was some said ’twas the other way round.”
“Did they now?” Nick studied the polished surface of his desk. The vision of an eager, daring, incurably curious young girl, imprisoned in the drab world of Methodism, rose before him. Though why he was attracted to the so-called Cecilia Lilly he could not have said. His tastes, though firmly controlled and seldom practiced, tended toward the more spectacular. Striking women with dark hair, exotic eyes, and full figures. Women with sass. Not petite females with hair some indeterminate color between blonde and brown, with blue eyes, pale skin, and the bad taste to accept carte blanche from Longmere.
Nick waved a hand and the investigator hastened out, grateful for not having his pay docked for saying what he likely shouldn’t have said. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the Guv quite so tetchy. A cool cove was Nick Black. Least most of the time.
Nick removed a carefully folded piece of paper from a desk drawer and spread it out, reading it for perhaps the tenth time.
Dear Mr. Black, I wish to thank you for the return of my possessions, which arrived today. It was most kind of you to make these arrangements, as you had no more obligation to do so than to rescue me from Longmere’s wrath. There can be little doubt that of the two of you, it is you who are the gentleman. As for my horse and carriage, you must not take on the burden of their care. It was never my intention to add to my already grave obligation to you. Please sell them and consider the profits recompense for your kindness to me. Most sincerely, Cecilia Lilly.
As happened with each reading of this particular missive, Nick’s eyes grew dark. No insult had been intended, he was almost certain, but the implication that he accept money for doing what he’d done . . .
She’d called him a gentleman. That assuaged the sting a bit.
But the chit had the soul of an aristocrat—she couldn’t help but see him for what he was. A child of the streets aping his “betters.” A man who expected to receive money for services rendered.
Just as she did, whispered his inner voice. No matter the yawning gap in their origins, they were each paid, and paid well, for their services. Absurd to expect her to actually treat him as a gentleman.
Nick crumpled the letter in his fist, lobbing it into the fire with a vicious toss. So much for the aristocratic little tart. Why he’d bothered—or let her bother him—he didn’t know. She’d gone with Longmere. She deserved what she got.