Keeping Faith (Fair Cyprians of London 3)

It was not the way Crispin intended to live his life.

With a sigh, Lord Maxwell made a move towards the door, his tone testy as if reading his son’s thoughts, “If plans for the French Riviera came to nothing, I certainly don’t advocate you mouldering here, in this musty townhouse, entirely alone with your books.”

Crispin straightened, suddenly alive as a thread of possibility pierced his brain. “I don’t intend to, Father. You’re right. I’ve taken your words to heart, and I think I will head off to the country for a few days. Perhaps for some duck shooting. Perhaps to walk the peaks. Or, perhaps I’ll visit Aunt Angela and Uncle Barnabus for the next ten days. They said I was always welcome.”

“They are away, although the house is yours, if you wish it for a change of scene, of course. They’ve always said that. And, if you have a predilection for horsey women or career spinsters and country Assembly balls, for I’m sure nothing has changed in that part of the Cotswolds in fifty years, then I’m sure it’ll do very nicely.”

Crispin didn’t care that his father considered the idea with as much enthusiasm as a plate of cold porridge. If there was little probability of being visited there by him, then all to the good.

His father farewelled him upon the threshold. “Not too much more studying tonight, Crispin. The light is poor and you need exercise. Perhaps a turn about Hyde Park would do you good.”

Crispin shook his head. “No, there are a couple of other errands I need to do and the walk will do me good.”

He joined his father on the front portico and stood for a moment upon the top step, staring at the setting sun. What palette could do justice to the pinks and golds that melded into each other? No longer did the French Riviera or a week of duck shooting hold any enticement for him.

As he watched his father’s carriage disappear into the sunset, he frowned, wondering if his aunt who lived only two streets away, might know the address of Lady Vernon.

Chapter 8

How had it come to this?

Faith’s terrified scream was muffled by Lord Harkom’s cynical laughter as he straddled her, pinning her arms above her head with one strong hand while the other gripped her thigh.

He pinched her and she yelped; the wooden floor hard beneath her tailbone.

“You don’t suppose your gracious madame is going to come to your aid when I’ve paid her such a hefty sum for the breaking in of you, do you?” He chuckled, clearly enjoying himself now that he had mastery over her.

His fingers crept higher up her thigh. Faith thought she was going to be ill. Was this what the sex act was all about? Mastery? Brutality? Power? The other girls were clear enough about their disdain for what was required of them. Some of them made a joke of the feigned pleasure gasps they’d perfected for earning themselves a tip.

Faith squeezed her eyes shut and forced her body to go slack. If a struggle was what he wanted, then she wasn’t going to humour this man in any way. She opened her eyes, and it was the devil staring down at her.

It galvanised her to action. Meekly taking what was coming to her so as to lessen the pain was not how she’d play things. She’d not spent three years being turned into a lady only to be cast to the wolves and consumed like a sacrificial lamb the moment she fell short of Mrs Gedge’s expectations of her.

She’d kill him. That’s what she’d do. And then she’d run. She might have to jump out of the window first, but she’d not whore herself out to any man off the street willing to pay for her. She’d not whore herself for anyone except…

Yes, there was one exception. She could do it for Mr Westaway. With Mr Westaway. One man. Mrs Gedge’s revenge. That was the mission for which Faith had been groomed, and she’d been prepared to compromise herself with only one man in order to earn her freedom.

“Lord Harkom!”

A furious pounding on the door was met by his lordship’s horror.

“What is the meaning of this?” he shouted as Madame burst into the room.

“You’ve not spoiled her?” Madame demanded breathlessly. “Thank God!” she added as she ran her gaze across his still-buttoned breeches. With heaving bosom, and heels clicking across the floorboards, she arrived at Faith’s side and, seizing her arm, yanked her to her feet. “Beg pardon but there’s been a terrible mistake, my lord. Naturally, you’ll be adequately compensated. I’ve any number…”

But Madame did not finish, for as Lord Harkom straightened his clothing as he stalked to the door, he was well into his threats against her house, issued from the threshold, that her business would suffer for the terrible insult he’d just endured.

Dazed, Faith stumbled into the passage as Madame led her past young women lounging with or without gentlemen consorts, who all eyed her curiously as she was pushed into Madame’s private sitting room.

“You’re to say nothing of this, do you hear?” Madame’s voice was a low hiss, her body trembling with suppressed emotion as she pointed to the red-velvet upholstered sofa, indicating for Faith to sit.

To Faith’s astonishment, a brandy was thrust into her hand with the order that she drink it all.

Madame sat down opposite her and fixed her with a beady stare.

“Nothing! Do you hear?”

Faith was trembling so much she could barely manage a reply. She nodded dumbly. What choice did she have but to agree? She’d been spared, and she had a roof over her head. She could count herself lucky.