For a Scot's Heart Only, page 2
“That’s all? It doesn’t sound very difficult.”
“It shouldn’t be. All you have to do is smile, be friendly, and listen—as one does in the company of men. I call it the art of paying attention.”
“Our four years in London, and that’s how you’ve gathered information?”
Cecelia rolled her shoulder like a woman born to flirt. “Men want to talk to a beautiful woman, which means they’ll be desperate to talk to you.”
Mary pinched her lips. Prettiness was Cecelia’s calling card. For Mary, it was a bother and the subject, a matter of contention. Commentary on a woman’s power often ensued, specifically, Mary refusing to use hers—a silly argument as far as she was concerned.
“I also have friends in interesting places,” Cecelia said, smiling.
“Your paid spies.”
“Indeed, they are paid. But never forget, beauty is as valuable as any coin. Only you decide how to spend it.”
To which Mary huffed. Poised and pale, Cecelia fixed a pin in her hair, the corners of her mouth curving kindly as though she understood a woman’s hidden fears and, at the tender age of twenty-five, was already miles ahead.
“Be safe, Mary.”
“Always.”
Theirs was a gentle parting. Mary stowed her fan in her petticoat pocket, a harmless accoutrement, while a treasonous coin nestled deep in Cecelia’s pocket. Showing it guaranteed admittance to the secret society who gathered in Maison Bedwell; when and where they met inside the brothel was the mystery. Cecelia would probably uncover it tonight.
Mary watched her take the grand staircase, elegant and unhurried, the hem of her green silk sacque gown dragging behind her. Wet-skirted harlots in flimsy attire climbed the same stairs with amiable men in tow.
A wealth of secrets must live in Madame Bedwell’s home. Smile, be friendly, and listen, and she would find them. Was subterfuge really that easy?
Laughter leached from the gaming room, shades of lust coming with it. Two footmen in pink-and-white livery headed toward that hallway with serving trays tucked under their arms. One with auburn hair, broad shoulders, and a lovely smile slowed his step to wink at her.
A soft exhale passed her lips. She smiled back.
Had she acquired a taste for adventure?
She idly stroked the high curve of her breast. Perhaps she had. The gaming room was wide open. Only a certain kind of woman would pass through those doors.
For one night she would be that woman.
Chapter Two
Like a moth to a flame, she strode into Madame Bedwell’s gaming room. A pretty blonde in black silk ruled a green baize table. Faro, by the look. Her slender fingers shuffled cards while men crowded her table with fistfuls of money. Behind her a giant ham-faced rogue presided. The director, the room’s overseer. Not a man to cross.
Mary ambled past rows of card tables and games of Hazard mildly disappointed. If Madame Bedwell spared no expense in the ballroom, she was flinty in here. Carpet was thin, paneled walls were scratched, and the harlots’ silk stays were beyond the first gleam. None of those women gave her a second look. They were too busy draping themselves on men. Sea captains, portly bankers, men of quality. None who cried secret society.
She scrunched her nose. The art of paying attention was not so appealing in here.
Both hands resting in her silk panniers, she slowed her steps and forced herself to absorb the room.
Tables and chairs crammed together. The clamor vulgar. Dice clattering, men guffawing. Paintings of dubious quality covered the walls. A bland repetition of nude women. Her gaze traveled from one painting to the next. All of them were the same—plump limbs and vacant eyes—except the painting at the end of the room.
Goose bumps pricked her skin. A modestly covered woman lounged in a chair, a red flower in her outstretched palm. She squinted at the flower. Was it a tartan rosette? It was hard to tell with smoke fogging the low-ceilinged room. Men and their cheroots.
But the woman in the painting . . .
She marched forward until her nose was inches from the red knot. It was a plaid with thin black-and-yellow lines flanking a wider black weave. One had to be close to see the pattern and the small key underneath the rosette. She searched the plain wooden frame.
The scratched brass plate nailed to the wood read betty burke at rest.
A thrill spiked in her veins. Betty Burke, the identity Charles Stuart took when he dressed like an Irish maid and fled Scotland. One could even say the maid’s features were strikingly masculine, even similar to the pretender.
Someone has a sense of humor.
And she found her first clue.
Chin up, she took a triumphant half step back. At least the woman wore a shift and stays, which was more than the other paintings in the room.
Another step and—
“Shouldn’t you have less clothes on?” a beer-drenched voice called out.
She spun around. A bald sailor was leering at her across a square table.
A white-bearded sea captain close to her hip turned in his chair. “’Course not,” he said. “A man’d miss the pleasure of undressing her.”
Men snickered. Her pannier was bumping the captain’s chair. She brushed the silken mass aside.
“I seem to have disturbed your game. Please forgive me, sir.”
He manacled her wrist with one hand. “You’re a fine piece.” The captain slapped his thigh. “Come join me.”
She was horrified. “On your lap?”
“Best seat in the house.”
She gagged on his whisky-imbued chuckle, but fine manners forbade her from pointing out he had no lap. His belly sagged over most of it.
“Thank you, but I am not interested in a game of cards.”
A smirking harlot sauntered by. “Stumbled into the wrong room, have you?”
Her esteem for those women rose a notch. How did they manage this night after night? Cooing, flirting, laughing, the women in Madame Bedwell’s employ never stopped, and she was too irked to smile, be friendly, and listen. A useless strategy when a man’s sweaty hand clamped her wrist.
She tried to pull free. “Unhand me, sir.”
The florid-faced captain laughed and jerked her closer as if they played a game. Angry heat gathered behind her mask.
“What a despicable man.” She yanked harder, a curl flopping over her eye. “Let. Me. Go.”
His mirth fading, the captain squeezed her wrist, but pride forbade her from crying out as he hefted his bulk from the chair.
“Got a sharp tongue on you.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
They were nearly toe to toe, his bushy white nose hairs visible. Perspiration sprang from his temples, and his eyes had shrunk to cruel, dark spots. What an abominable oaf. Shoulders set, she speared him with a haughty stare.
“My first night in this establishment and I have come to a conclusion.”
The captain leaned in menacingly. “What might that be?”
Not to be put off, she leaned in too. “That London’s finest actresses live here. They’d have to be to feign ardor for one such as you.”
A harlot lounging against the wall clapped a hand over her mouth. Another turned away, giggling. Unfortunately, those two didn’t rush to help. Mary was alone in this fight—an adventurous spinster’s misfortune.
“Think you’re too good for the likes of me?” the captain asked.
Fury sharpened her syllables. “I am too good for you.”
His face turned claret and she swayed backward into a wall.
“Let her go, Culpepper,” said a deep-timbred voice.
Tension shot to her toes. Not a wall, a man. Firm, tall, and solid as brick.
A possessive hand slipped around her waist. She swallowed hard, owned by the man behind her. There were layers of silk and linen and sturdy boned stays between them, but the shock stuck to her skin.
The captain glared above her head. “I saw her first.”
“Doesn’t matter. She’s here to meet me.” A hint of dockside toughness seeped into her rescuer’s vowels. “All night, if you must know.”
All night? There was no mistaking his inference, a point made clear when warm fingers caressed her neck.
She was breathing faster, and his scent was . . . distracting.
But the captain still had a vise grip on her arm. At nearby tables men were lowering their cards, and the director’s glower reached across the long room. His stance shifted as if he might leave the faro table to investigate the goings-on. She frowned, a bit desperate. To be tossed out her first night here would be most inglorious—she, who’d never been tossed from anything.
“If you don’t mind, I would like to leave with a minimum of fuss.” To Culpepper she offered a hasty, “There are plenty of women here. I’m sure one of them would enjoy the pleasure of your company.”
“As I shall enjoy yours,” the man behind her said for benefit of all.
He was toying with her choker’s gold medallion. Soft, featherlight touches chased by sweet, irksome tingles sliding down her neck. The thud-thud-thud of her pulse in her ears drowned out conversation. Culpepper might’ve said something, but the man at her back consumed her.
Who is he?
His hand on her stomacher applied masterful pressure, enough to keep her in place, let her know he was in charge. She covered his hand with her own and explored. Large, warm, rough knuckles. A man who labored, yet his consonants were a gentleman’s, clean and round. Definitely educated.
Long fingers linked with hers.
“Are you satisfied?” he whispered above her ear.
Their clasped hands tugged a thread inside her. This was the first time a man held her hand, albeit from an awkward angle. More grasp than hand-holding, she decided, yet potent enough to make her thoughts watery and vague.
From three tables away, a black-haired gentleman preoccupied with his cards spoke up.
“Let her go, Culpepper. This is not a Wapping Wall brothel. Women in masks pay for their entertainment, and women without masks are the entertainment.” His glance sliced the captain. “Know the rules or you’re gone.”
Culpepper grumbled under his breath and released her. “My mistake, milord. I meant no harm.”
She rubbed her sore wrist, a reminder that she was the insulted party on the tip of her tongue. Wisdom made her swallow it. Men. They had the finesse of mongrels. One fact was certain; the black-haired gentleman held court at his table. Equally noteworthy was a tall blonde woman in leather breeches and jackboots standing by as if she had his lordship’s back.
Quite an establishment, was Madame Bedwell’s. London’s oddest creatures gathered here.
A droopy-eyed man at the captain’s table sniffed loudly.
“Captain, are you in? Or out?”
Culpepper looked sourly at Mary and the man behind her. “Deal me in,” he grumbled and dropped into his chair.
Relieved, she sank against her brawny rescuer. Liquid pliancy lingered in her veins. The din resumed. Men talking, women laughing, cards shuffling. She tried to spin around but a strong arm lashed her waist.
“We’re not done,” was the murmur at her ear.
“No?”
“Culpepper’s had too much to drink,” he said. “And he doesn’t take kindly to slights.”
“Don’t worry. I wasn’t going to let his table of cutthroats hurt you.”
His low laugh vibrated along her back. “A good tongue-lashing doesn’t work on that sort.”
Her exhale stirred the curl hanging over her nose. “You, I collect, are skilled at keeping that sort in line.”
“I do well enough.”
She angled her head, catching a hint of cedarwood and musk. “And now you’re volunteering your services to see me safely away.”
“For a price.”
His scandalous warmth seeped into her like a cozy blanket. She didn’t want to leave. If she pushed an inch off her toes, his lips would graze her ear, and her bottom would brush his baubles.
Eyes glazing, she was sorely tempted to test the symmetry of his body with hers.
“I’m sorry to disappoint,” she said. “But unlike other masked women here, I am neither titled nor wealthy.”
“Which makes your presence at Madame Bedwell’s all the more interesting—Miss Fletcher.”
She stiffened. “You have the advantage, sir.”
She slipped her hand behind her and dug her fingernails into the gentleman’s wool-covered thigh. He was big and unyielding. Definitely a laborer.
“Move your hand a few more inches,” he said quietly. “And you’ll find a more telling part of my anatomy.”
Heat rippled through her. She breathed more of his cedarwood musk.
He smelled like an expensive mistake.
“Sheathe your claws,” he said. “Then, you and I can continue our conversation in a safer place.”
“Why should I? When I can simply walk away from you?”
His breath tickled her when he whispered, “Are you not the least bit curious?”
Heaven help her, she was. His voice alone poured sweet goose bumps down her back.
“Of a man threatening blackmail?” she whispered back, peevish.
“A harsh word, blackmail. You’ve trusted me in the past, Miss Fletcher. It’s in your best interest to trust me again.”
Peals of laughter expanded in the gaming room, the noise enough to scramble one’s mind. Or was the chaos inside her entirely because of the gentleman at her back? His confident arms slid across her stomacher, and just like that, she was free.
She touched where his hand had been on her neck and turned, stunned.
Dazzling aquamarine eyes clashed with hers. Like pieces of polished glass, those eyes. They belonged to Mr. Thomas West, owner of a whaling concern. A strapping man with a piratical scar on his cheek, he embodied rough refinement. Sun had streaked gold in brown hair clubbed at his nape. His jaw was shaved and his cravat starched, a sign of his civility. But she wasn’t fooled. The rugged shipmaster carried a bit of salt air and rigging wherever he went.
A sea wolf to be sure.
“Mr. West.” She was cool, her hand dropping to her side.
“Miss Fletcher.”
He took in the silk mask and her hair piled on her head, sparks searing her wherever his gaze wandered—especially when it landed on her bosom. The shipmaster’s mouth quirked as if he couldn’t believe his fortune at being the sole recipient of an up-close, magnanimous display of flesh.
She wanted badly to regain her composure, but a curl still hung over her eyes from her tangle with Culpepper. She brushed the lock off her face with all the hauteur a spinster in a brothel could muster.
“I daresay you have some questions,” she said.
His attention climbed to her face.
“A few.”
“Then you will be pleased to know I won’t answer them. So don’t bother asking.”
He grinned and shook his head. “Not one question?”
“No.”
The memory of his hands on her body unsettled her. They were business acquaintances after all. During the autumn season she purchased whalebones and baleen from West and Sons Shipping for her shop, and oil for her lamps. And she was always properly garbed. Neckerchiefs, mobcaps, practical wool.
Once she’d visited his shipyard at Howland Great Wet Dock to forge a key, an arrangement brokered by Will MacDonald, a friend of her league’s. She was pleased Mr. West didn’t mention that.
She was equally pleased not to receive a lecture about the damaging effects of being in a brothel. The latitude given to noblewomen did not trickle down to shopkeepers. At almost thirty years old, she’d lived too long and seen too much to care. Perhaps the same was true of Mr. West? There was a rawness about him. A man who’d tamed the sea, whispered to mermaids, and lived to tell the tale. He was a gentleman, of course, but that scar and his tantalizing scent—dangerous.
She pulled out her fan to blow cool air on hot skin.
“I’d prefer you simply walked away and forgot that you saw me.”
“Liar,” he said in a silken voice.
She balked, but skin crinkling at the outer corners of his eyes softened her ruffled feathers.
“Admit it, Miss Fletcher. You’re just as surprised at finding me here as I am at finding you in this unlikely place.”
She pursed her lips. “Perhaps.”
His unblinking gaze was backlit with enough admiration to send fresh warmth up and down her body.
“Considering your encounter with Culpepper, it’s advisable that we keep up our ruse.” He checked the room and dropped his voice, “It gets lively in the wee hours here.”
Lively was a kind description for the room full of raucous, glossy-eyed men. Servants were scurrying in with frothy pints, ensuring patrons would stay deep in their cups.
“By our ruse, you mean that I’m here for an assignation,” she said.
“Yes.”
She touched her mask like a talisman. The brothel teemed with life, its own cosmos. Sensual currents floated as free as the haze of smoke from men puffing their cheroots. Women threaded the room, their strides fluid, but none were masked. Earlier in the evening, plans for finding the information about the secret society had dominated her conversation with Cecelia, leaving her sparse on the particulars of Madame Bedwell’s house rules.
“Do women of means come here often?” she asked, entranced by the interplay of men and harlots.
“I’m not aware of their frequency, but, yes, a small number do.”
She lifted her face to his, intent, curious.
“Do women come here to meet you?”
Aquamarine eyes flared with astonishment until a dark primitive flame overtook their depths.
“Answering that would be . . . indelicate.”
“Yet, you didn’t hesitate to say that I’m here for an assignation.”
“For the greater good of helping you.”
She leaned close, almost touching him. “But you imagined it. My assignation . . . with you.”
His mouth tugged beguilingly. “I did.”
Her heels were sinking in a sea of possibilities, a delightful metaphor for the forbidden mire in which she found herself and the tall, scarred shipmaster. The black fire in his eyes expanded, and his voice changed, low and grained, the more they talked.
