William brought him out of the memory. “That is your father talking. And he’s wrong. I wish you could see that. I wish you’d told Nate you were back and spent more time with him.”
“I know.” Instead, he’d tried every gaming hell in the city, linking up with a new crowd of aristocrats with generous allowances like his. Young men with too much time and too little maturity on their hands who filled the hours with drinking, gaming, and wenching. Unlike William and Nate, they did not make him feel guilty about his lack of purpose. “I didn’t want to drag him into my mess. He works too hard for me to burden him. As do you. I am not your responsibility.”
“Nor do I see you as such. You are my friend.” The clock struck six in the evening, and William rose. “I must go. I came to tell you we’ve unearthed yet another tangle of papers and I may not be able to get away for a few days. I’ll ask Nate if he can check on you, but—”
“Don’t. The poor chap starts work around the time I usually get home. Leave him to his passion, his ‘folly.’ I shall be fine.”
“I’ll send a note round when I free up, and we’ll go to Nate’s neighborhood pub to meet him, shall we?”
Luke waved a desultory hand. “Sure.”
William let himself out.
For once, Luke did not pour another drink. Instead, he sat rolling his glass between his palms. Perhaps his friend was right and he needed a passion. Or to be someone’s passion. The friend of William’s widow... Mrs. Ross? Rosso? had been annoyingly bossy, and he’d been painfully hungover, but her sensual allure had kept him riveted. Months later, he still remembered her rose scent, midnight wavy hair, and luscious lips. His cock stirred half-heartedly, sluggish from whisky. He didn’t recall the last time he’d been interested enough in a wench to act on it. Spirits and dice were his lovers now.
Luke glanced at the clock again and heaved a sigh of relief. It was time to head to his club and forage for dinner and mates to drink with until they had gathered enough steam to sow their oats at the tables again.
Chapter Three
Belle had beenso hopeful when Bessie Dove-Lyon’s note had arrived only days after their meeting. She spent as much time on her toilette as she did for a first meeting with a new client. After all, this next visit might include an introduction to her future husband. She was almost past safe child-bearing years as it was, and she was more than ready to move on from the shadow world of the demimonde.
Following the black-garbed assistant into the Black Widow’s office, she cast surreptitious glances to the corners for a gentleman. Even in the dim light, it was apparent there was no one else in the room.
Bessie gestured her to a visitor’s chair and sat behind her massive desk. “I have reviewed your file and have some prospects in mind. However, in the meantime I have need of your expertise. Your fee will be reduced to reflect this service.”
“I beg your pardon—what service?”
“I seem to recall that you helped a young actress over a laudanum dependency a few years back. She ended up leaving both the stage and London to avoid temptation and is quite happily married to a vicar, of all things.”
Belle blinked. The fact that Mrs. Dove-Lyon kept abreast of most of the Ton’s goings-on was well known. She’d had no idea that the woman’s knowledge extended to the working class.
Hester’s face swam in her thoughts. Belle had kept ties to the theatre where she’d once found refuge with some vague idea of paying forward the help she’d received from an actress. When Hester struggled with the demands of her work—and the men who sniffed around backstage—and fell down a dark well of laudanum, Belle had stepped in.
She’d taken the young woman, barely older than Belle had been when she’d first found the theatre, to her home. She’d made mistakes, not realizing the woman would look to spirits and wine in the absence of laudanum. They’d fought—arguments that nearly became fisticuffs. And finally, they’d found calm acceptance for the girl. She was sober enough to understand what she loved and hated about the theatre, London, and even her life.
Belle had called in a favor from a client and sent her to Devonshire with a promise of work and a safe bed. There, Hester had reestablished her relationship with her Almighty and in the process met the man she married. But that month of overseeing Hester’s retreat from dependency had been overwhelming. She’d had to sever ties with her patron as she could not be as available to him as she should. The experience was not something she wished to repeat.
“You are correct.”
“A young man has been coming here most nights the past two months, drinking too much and betting beyond his means. As you know, I have an image to maintain and cannot let this continue without him finding some means of payment. Thus, he must be removed or I shall need to contact his family regarding collection.” She turned a hand. “I have plenty of business from people who can pay their debts without adding to the negligenceof young lords. I do so hate those establishments that continue to allow men to get further and further into debt with no way to pay.”
Belle held her breath, worried she knew what was coming.
The widow continued. “You are just the person to help him. Not many have the patience and experience to help someone reevaluate their choices. Even fewer could do so without harming their reputation.”
Belle’s lips twisted. No one need worry about protecting her good name. Ironic that the widow wanted to capitalize on the very reason she was here bargaining for her future. But not only did she hate the idea, she did not want to delay her quest for a month. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I am not a nanny.”
“No, but you have been a teacher in the past, if I’m not mistaken.”
Belle looked at her sharply. There was no way the widow could know of her training Charlotte in certain bedroom skills her former husband had desired... was there?
Bessie added, “Given the child’s age, consider this more of a temporary governess post. It shouldn’t take more than a month.”
The Black Widow never asked. Her word was law.
Belle reminded herself of the goal. Someone interested in more than a contract, more than her playing whatever role they chose. She wanted permanence and reciprocity, and most of all, children. So... “I suspect I don’t have a choice in this.”
Chapter Four
