With the sixth sense that had kept him alive for thirty-four years, Nick knew something was wrong the moment he saw his new assistant’s face. Surely she’d been on the town long enough not to be confounded by a houseful of women with their aprons riding high. Unless . . . Nick’s fists clenched ’til his knuckles turned white, his lips thinned to a straight line. Unless . . .
He seethed as he helped her into the coach, and as they jounced and squelched their way down the farm lane to the London road. When the wheels finally settled into some semblance of a smooth ride, he snapped, “Well? What’s got you so long-faced? Terrified by a few squalls, are you?”
“Don’t be absurd!” The wings of the bonnet never moved. He might as well have been talking to a wall.
“Did you see yourself then? Did Longmere give you more than bruises?”
He caught her hand an inch short of his cheek. She struggled, huffing in frustration, as he seized her other hand. Her boot shot out, kicking him in the shin. With the ease of a man experienced in close combat, he transferred her thin wrists to one hand, swept back her bonnet with the other. Flashing green met cold gray. “Well? I need to know if I should continue your employment,” he persisted with a sneer, “or should I take you straight back to Boone Farm.”
Even as he said it, something stirred inside him. The something that had inspired him to scoop her up off the walkway and take her home, retrieve her belongings, offer her employment. The something that had pierced the iron control he had fought so long to achieve—setting off an explosion inside him when he thought she might be carrying Longmere’s child. Fury rampant . . . until now, when he saw the anger in her green eyes turn to terror.
Nick groaned and abruptly loosed her wrists. “Beg pardon,” he muttered, “but thought of Longmere tends to set me off. I never meant to frighten you.”
Head down, she scuttled into the far corner of the gray velvet squabs, clinging to the hangstrap as if it were a lifeline. A ray from the lowering sun caught her hair, turning it almost reddish blonde. Although accustomed to the role of villain, Nick had trouble finding his way through the maze of emotions filling the carriage, as blinding as a London fog. He fell back on good manners. Isn’t that why he’d taken such good care to learn them? “I beg your pardon, but you seemed upset, and my mind leaped to the most selfish conclusion. After all, what good could you be as my assistant if I must soon add you to the residents of Boone Farm?”
A half mile of silence before she lifted her head and spoke, though she kept her face toward the rapidly darkening countryside beyond the window. “There were three of us at the Academy when I was there. One did very well, marrying a viscount. I, as it turned out, only thought I had done well when I went with Longmere. And the third? I found her at Boone Farm, abandoned by her wealthy Cit lover the moment she told him she was increasing. Tossed her out with no more than a few bits and bobs of jewelry. Fortunately . . .” She huffed a breath full of irony. “As Fate would have it, mention of Boone Farm was included in our curriculum. Evidently, Holly simply told a hackney to take her there, and they didn’t turn her away. For which I am very grateful,” she admitted, though Nick suspected the admission cost her. “And, no, she added with more than a bit of bite, “I do not expect to need their services for myself.”
Nick sucked in a breath, turning his head away to hide a shocking flash of emotion. Relief, only relief, he told himself. Relief that he wasn’t going to have to kill a peer of the realm.
Silence prevailed until after the coachman rolled to a halt and one of the guards put down his shotgun long enough to light the carriage lanterns, inside and out. When the wheels were turning once again, Nick said, “Personal considerations aside, tell me what you saw today. What did you like? What would you change?”
Cecy gathered her scattered thoughts, shut her eyes, and focused on the three places they had visited, praising much that was good—the children were adequately dressed, seemingly amply fed and properly schooled. But, she offered, the orphanage in Seven Dials could benefit from a more benign attitude and better housekeeping. And both orphanages needed a bit of color.
Other than an occasional nod, Mr. Black showed no reaction, letting her flounder on, searching her memory for more than the obvious. And failing. “Why?” she burst out. “Why do you do it? Ever since I came to London I’ve heard whispers of Nick Black—you’re a legend. You must know what people say: Nick Black frowns and London shivers. But orphanages? A dairy farm for unwed mothers? Do you take me for a fool?”
His reply, when it came, seemed to have no relation to her question. In the dim lantern light, she could barely see his lips move as he said, “Three years ago, I won the house on Princes Street in a card game. There were those, Longmere prominent among them, whose huffs of indignation resounded throughout Mayfair. Little good it did them.”
Cecy, a rebel at heart, heard and applauded the satisfaction in his voice, though the mention of Longmere gave her a bad moment or two.
“My household is a constant source of irritation to my lofty neighbors,” her employer continued, “but I have found more than the satisfaction of annoying them with what they call my ‘comings and goings’ and my ‘parade of bully boys.’ I discovered I’d reached a turning point in my life, a time to step back from a number of my more—shall we say, unsavory?—enterprises. Though I’ll not deny some of that money continues to flow in my direction, I mainly deal in information now. With retribution only when all else fails,” he added softly, setting her stomach to somersaulting. Goosebumps rose on her arms.
“Your charities are a bid for redemption.” It wasn’t a question.
“No.” Short and sharp. Cecy’s brows rose, as caught as the rest of her in the force of his sudden scowl. “I was one of those children, Miss Lilly. With no one to give me a hand up but myself. I begged and stole and fought for every scrap I put in my mouth. And as I grew, I gathered others around me. For power, for a better life. But it was still a life I’d not wish on my worst enemy.” His eyes were unfocused, staring far into the past before suddenly snapping back to the present as he added briskly, “So years later, when I paused my climb out of the gutter and took a look around, I thought, ‘Bloody hell, why not spare a few poor tykes from London’s homeless hordes?’ And what you call ‘my charities’ came to be.”
“A deep, dark secret, lest your reputation might suffer.”
“A negligible part of my holdings,” he intoned with grand indifference, as if the three establishments they’d visited today could go up in smoke and he wouldn’t care a whit.
Bemused, Cecy studied her wavering reflection in the carriage window. Pale face, hair flattened and barely visible beneath the hideous bonnet, lips that were threatening to turn up in a smile. What an odd man was Nick Black. And here she was, driving through the dark of night with the king of the underworld beasts . . . yet with her he was tame as a tabby cat. She shouldn’t trust him, but somehow she did.
As they passed through Cavendish Square, Cecy cringed back against the gray velvet squabs. She would not look at Longmere House. She refused to remember—
But Nick Black had come to attention, was leaning forward, his gaze fixed on something outside. And then she was jerked across the width of the carriage, her bonnet knocked back, her face held fast in a window that seemed to open of its own accord. She found herself staring straight into the face of Jason, Marquess of Longmere, who had just settled himself onto the seat of his crested coach. Horrified, she could only gape, feeling Nick Black’s face nestled close to hers, watching Longmere’s eyes go wide.
They were past, moving into Princes Street. Abruptly, Nick Black let her go, thrusting her back into her corner. Why, why, why? She’d thought he sympathized with her plight. How could he be so callous? How could he care so little what the sight of Longmere did to her?
“Fair warning,” he said coldly, as she shivered in place, fearing she was about to be sick. “Longmere is about to experience a great many troubles, and it seemed only fair to toss out a warning. Seeing you with me should be sufficient.”
Cecy leaned her forehead against the cool glass, struggling to keep the contents of her stomach from ending up all over the carriage’s elegant interior.
“I have made my fortune by seizing opportunities, Miss Lilly. My apologies if my methods are too rough for your taste.”
Momentarily distracted by Nick Black apologizing for anything, Cecy fisted her hands in front of her mouth and sat back against the squabs. “I never, ever, wanted to see him again.”
“Oh, I believe you will enjoy seeing him broken, disgraced, forced to sell up and retire to the country.”
Cecy’s nausea gave way to awe. “How?” she whispered. “Surely a marquess is above any effort to destroy him.”
“He gets to keep his title and entailed holdings. There are plans to relieve him of the rest.”
Again . . . why? Why would Nick Black take on an opponent so high in rank when there were bound to be repercussions? Had Lady R asked him to? Was she paying him to ruin Longmere? That seemed the most likely. Nick Black did nothing without recompense. “You’ll pardon me if I find the concept difficult to believe.”
“I have a colleague in the City who is a known master of subtlety when it comes to arranging, or disarranging, finances,” her employer offered. “And I, of course, have my own methods of retribution—nothing to trouble your head about. I will not let him touch you.”
She believed him. Whatever he was, he would not let Longmere harm her. As for himself . . . Nick Black should wear a sign: King of the Wild Beasts. Beware!
“Dinner will be at eight,” he told her as the carriage pulled up to the house on Princes Street. “It’s time you met the rest of the household. Proper eveningwear,” he added. “And consider–ah–adjusting my men’s manners as part of your duties.”
Devil! He was outside the carriage, holding out a hand to help her down, and she couldn’t move. Arrogant swine, who did he think he was to put her in charge of the manners of his bully boys?
Your employer. The man who is going to ruin Longmere. For you.
But when Pike, the butler, opened the front door, Cecy pulled away from Nick Black’s firm grip on her arm and rushed up the stairs, where she threw off the hated cloak and bonnet and cast herself into a comfortable chair before a well-tended coal fire. Warmth, light, security. Food on the near horizon. All the comforts a girl might want. Except for the man who dominated her vision, no matter which direction she looked.
She was chattel, as much his property as his house, his carriage, his horses . . .
As much as if she were his wife . . .
Almost as much as if she were his mistress . . .
Which was why she’d been so delighted to become a graduate of The Aphrodite Academy, to be offered the opportunity to rise to the rank of courtesan of the first stare. A woman who was her own mistress, not the property of anyone.
She had failed. On her very first foray into the world of high-flyers, she had stumbled and fallen, disastrously so. And now . . .?
Her independence was submerged under the dominance of a man far more dangerous than Longmere. A man who seized what he wanted and never let go. Her choices were few. She could run back to Lady R. She could change her name and appearance and run as fast and far as she could go. Or she could stay, tolerating the insufferable beast until she could delve behind the mask—
Oh no, not a good thought. For that would require skills she no longer cared to use. Actions she had vowed to turn her back on forever.
A soft knock, and Emerson entered the bedchamber. “Time to dress for dinner, miss. And I must say it smells a treat,” she added. “Friendly they are, the kitchen staff. Not what I expected, I must say. Mr. Black has a valet, would you believe?”
Cecy grimaced. Her only ally, seduced away by camaraderie, good food, and a touch of snobbery. She heaved a sigh and reminded herself Nick Black had plans to ruin Longmere. Surely, for that alone she owed him good service.
After a careful perusal of her gowns, she chose the most demure evening gown she owned, a forest green silk trimmed with four-inch cream lace. With it she wore a necklace of emeralds and pearls Jason had given her in better times. Her hair was held back by a matching green silk bandeau with a rose fashioned from the cream lace.
After a last look in the pier glass. Cecy’s lips curled in a satisfied smile. The gown’s décolletage was carefully hidden by a fichu of cream gauze. If she had to correct the manners of Nick Black’s minions, then she would be certain they were listening to her and not allowing their eyes to stray below her neck!
“Merde,” she muttered, echoing Lady R’s favorite profanity. It was time to discover what brave souls dared sup with the Devil.