Expecting to surprise some gormless lackey posted to monitor his movements, Aubrey returned to the pavement and rapped on the curtained window. He was taken aback when a familiar cherubic face peered at him through the glass.
“Good Lord!”
He wrenched open the door and she gazed out at him, her expression severe rather than inviting. “I was writing you a note, Sir Aubrey.”
“Indeed.” He thrust his arm into the dark interior. “Perhaps you’d care to come inside and explain why you felt a note was more desirable than your company.” Despite his irony, he was exhilarated. She must have left Vauxhall and come promptly to his townhouse. Her lackluster response to him in the supper box had been part of the pretense.
“Really, you’ll catch your death of cold.” He patted her gloved hand as he helped her out before paying the jarvey, and was even more amused by her apparent reluctance. As if she hadn’t planned this from the start.
As he led her up the stairs to the front door, he was impressed at how well she played the young lady of fashion. Her dress, her mannerisms had been learned to a fine art. He dampened the flash of curiosity as to her origins, saying instead, “That’s right. Dombey will take your things.”
When she hesitated once inside the lobby, he chuckled. “It’s too late to play the coy maiden now when you’ve already cast discretion to the winds. Up the stairs we go. That’s right. Along that passage. I want to hear exactly what you’re up to and what’s in this note.”
For a brief moment, she hesitated at the top of the stairs. As well she might,
the little baggage, he thought almost fondly before suspicion gained the ascendant. Could she really be spying on him? Was it possible she’d been recruited by Lord Debenham?
As soon as they’d gained the sanctuary of his private quarters, she swung around to face him. “Let me make it plain, Sir Aubrey, I have no interest in further dealings between us other than to warn you that I believe you have enemies,” she stated baldly. “That is why I am here.”
The defiance of her tone and the way she squared her shoulders was so at odds with the soft and ladylike creature she presented in all other respects that he was assailed by a pang of something resembling tenderness. Dismissing his earlier suspicion she might be a spy, he almost hugged her to his chest.
Instead he tilted his head and replied with his usual heavy irony, “Indeed.”
Trembling, she thrust something at him.
“Your dance card? Empty? Is this the device now employed by those who seek to emulate their betters? Hardly novel.”
She glared. “I won’t stay if you’re going to make fun of me. I simply thought it might interest you to know I stumbled upon two gentlemen hiding in the bushes outside your supper room and overheard part of their conversation that concerned you, sir.”
This shocked him though he tried to hide it. He hadn’t wanted validation of his suspicions that his enemy was engaged in further eroding his standing. He cocked his head, thinking perhaps it was he who was jumping to conclusions. He was the blameless party, after all. He had nothing to fear or hide. All anyone had to go on were rumors and he knew they could never be substantiated.
“Try another gambit, my dear—”
“Harriet,” she said. “Harriet’s my name.”
Gently he pushed her so she fell backward onto the bed. “Like hiking up your skirts, dear Harriet, so we can get to the business that really brought you here. It’s the only way you’re going to be paid, isn’t it? And paid more than you would have for a quick fumble in the supper room. You’re quite strategic, my dear. Admirable.”
To his surprise, she struggled beneath him. Not the token struggle he was so used to but a concerted struggle, which made clear her objection to being taken in this way. He straightened and stepped back.
“What games are you playing now, poppet?” he asked. Suspiciously, he added, “If this is a ploy, I might remind you that Madame Chambon charges like a wounded bull. I’ll not be bled for more…unless you can offer me something very novel.” He licked his lips.
“No!” she said quickly, shaking her head. “You took my virtue the other night, sir, and you introduced me to many wonderful feelings, but I will not be taken anytime like some common jezebel.”
“Ah, Jezebel,” he sighed, recalling his previous flighty and unlamented mistress before realizing that’s not what she meant. “So what do you want?”
She looked uncertain, as if assessing the merits of continued intimacies. “Maybe you could talk to me first.”
He let out a shout of laughter. “Of course, how careless and ungentlemanly I must seem. You want to pretend to be a lady. You want to show off the skills Madame Chambon taught you.” He tugged on the bell rope that hung by the bed, adding, “You want to prove you can hold your knife and fork properly so that I might just consider making you Lady Henrietta. Ah, Briggs,” he said to the sleepy lackey who answered his summons, “a bottle of champagne. Not my best but good enough for present company, eh?”
He quirked an eyebrow before grinning at the clearly fuming little miss before him. “What? You’re offended I didn’t order the finest my cellar has to offer? My dear, if I intended to make you my wife, I most certainly would have. Right now my intention is simply to take the edge off your objections so that you’ll part your legs with all the obedience your calling requires of you.”
She gasped, ducking with surprising agility beneath his restraining arm as she dashed for the door.
Realizing it was no act, he dragged her back, genuinely contrite and with the real fear that she might indeed leave when suddenly the success and enjoyment of his evening hinged upon her company.
“I apologize for my vulgarity.” He truly did. This was not the way to speak to this young lady, and if she had once been respectable rather than spawn of the gutter—it was always impossible to tell with Madame Chambon’s girls—she’d consider him perfectly vile. “Please stay.” Gently, as if enticing a frightened animal, for indeed she reminded him of a dear little fawn, he contoured her soft cheek with his forefinger. “If you are indeed a gentlewoman fallen on hard times—though let me be clear, I do not wish to know your history—my words show me up as the scoundrel I am.”
“What does it matter if I were a gentlewoman fallen on hard times or a streetwalker who has never known better?” Her eyes flashed as she delivered her rebuke, though he noticed she closed her eyes at the physical contact rather than stepping back. “No real gentleman would speak in such a manner. I’m sorry, Sir Aubrey, but I really have no further desire to consort with you. I merely wish to inform you that you have enemies.”