“I shall have firewood delivered, and food to replace what I’ve eaten these last few days.”
Perhaps pride forced her to say, “Replace what you have consumed, nothing more.”
He stared at her for a moment, an uneasiness filling his chest. A loaf of bread and a sack of wood in no way covered the debt he owed to this angel.
“Should you ever need anything,” he said, retrieving a card from his coat pocket and thrusting it into her hand, “you must seek me out. I swear an oath to offer my assistance.”
Scarlett glanced at the script on the card. “Thank you, Mr Wycliff.”
The pang in his chest sank like a dead weight to his stomach, urging him to do more. “You took me in when most people would not.” He stroked her cheek, the soft caress conveying the depth of a foreign emotion he had no desire to dissect and analyse.
Scarlett placed her hand on top of his, and her eyes remained closed for a time. “Your plea to your mother touched my heart. It is the reason I risked bringing you into my home.”
Before logic intervened, he untied his cravat and removed the gold chain from around his neck. Maria Alvarez would have placed the cross in Scarlett’s palm and kissed her forehead.
Lost in a rare moment of vulnerability, that’s exactly what he did. “Take this as a token of my pledge. It belonged to my mother. Sell it. Use the money to buy something you need.”
“No!” Scarlett shook her head, her conscience refusing to accept such a precious gift as he knew she would. “I cannot take—”
“I insist.” The uncomfortable sensation plaguing his body subsided.
She looked up at him as if he were a respectable gentleman, a deep appreciation swimming in her eyes.
It was the most perfect moment of his life.
As he said goodbye and left Scarlett alone in the cold, shabby room, he questioned why he’d given her the necklace. Numerous answers entered his head as he climbed into Cavanagh’s curricle. Some too ridiculous to contemplate. He settled on the one suitable for a heartless rogue—Damian Wycliff always pays his dues.
Chapter Two
London
Three years later
Nerves pushed to the fore as Lady Scarlett Steele climbed down from her carriage and studied the facade of the three-storey townhouse on Theobolds Road. Raucous laughter tumbled out onto the street. Music, singing and feminine shrieks told every passerby that this was the place for frivolous entertainment, a place to indulge one’s wild fantasies, one’s carnal whims. It was a place of excessiveness, too, for the golden glow of candlelight blazed from every window.
The demi-monde took pleasure in being indiscreet.
They made no secret of their sexual promiscuity. But for all their blatant disregard for propriety, they were loyal to their own kind. Unlike the pompous cowards in the ballrooms who plotted and schemed, there wasn’t a person in this house who would dare cross the notorious Damian Wycliff.
“I’ll turn the carriage around and wait across the street, milady,” Alcock said. “You only need blow the whistle, and I’ll barge the door and knock every one of them prancing pheasants on their arse.”
r /> Scarlett couldn’t help but smile. “It takes a great deal to shock the jaded members of the demi-monde, but I suspect they might raise a brow once they realise you’ve breasts beneath your greatcoat.”
The coachwoman, built stronger and sturdier than any man of Scarlett’s acquaintance, doffed her hat. “Aye, and it will shock ’em even more when they discover I punch harder than any of them whelps at Jackson’s.”
“You’ll have no need to fight tonight. These people thrive on pleasure, not pain.” Still, knowing her servant would brawl in the street to protect her proved comforting. “I shall be twenty minutes, no more.” Unless, of course, her quarry was engaged in lewd activities or lay sprawled on a bed, hugging an empty bottle of brandy.
Keeping the hood of her red cloak raised, Scarlett approached the front door. A succession of rhythmical raps on the wooden panel—a code given to a select few—resulted in her coming face-to-face with a young and incredibly handsome majordomo. Trying not to gape, she handed him the calling card given to her by the owner of the house, the scandalous Mrs Crandell, along with the ten-pound fee required from all newcomers and novices.
The majordomo’s emerald gaze journeyed over her partially hidden face, perused the entire length of her body. Upon noting the black dress beneath the vibrant cloak, the servant said, “Ah, the Scarlet Widow. My mistress wondered when you would come.” He stepped back, and with a dandified wave gestured for her to enter. “Enjoy your evening, my lady. You’re certain to find something here to suit your tastes.”
Stepping into the house of the debauched was akin to stepping into a den of wild dogs. Danger lurked in the shadows. Soon, the hungry would be out roaming the plains, ready to chase their prey into a quiet corner, to nip, lick and bite.
But she was the infamous Scarlet Widow.
A lady who had inherited the surname Steele and the same metal rod for a backbone. A lady who wore black to insult her husband when he was alive and breathing, who wore red in celebration as he lay solid and stiff beneath the soil. One sharp glance from her and the pups would scamper back to the safety of their pack.
With a straight back and an arrogant gaze, Scarlett sauntered along the dimly lit passage, past the bucks and rakes who tore their mouths from their scantily clad companions to leer at the new bit of skirt.