Lips pressed tight, she watched as he pulled on his trousers and left the room, while she bit her tongue. Ice washed over her heart, and she wilted back into the bed, unsure of what she should feel, but something was starkly clear now—William did not feel the same way she did.
Foolish, naïve heart.
Splashing his face with icy water, William hunched over the basin, his knuckles white. The storm of emotion inside him did not seem to have a halting point, and he could only stare at his reflection in the water, the image shifting by the moment. He was confused by the intensity of emotion she provoked in him.
Why does she have such an effect on me?
“Your Grace?”
“Yes, Lane?”
“A letter has arrived for you,” Oliver said calmly. “I must add, under your salutation is the words, underscored three times,urgent.”
Turning, he plucked the letter off the tray and unfolded it, eyes flying over it.
Your Grace,
I have searched my records from top to bottom for the last two years and I have found a record for a Frederick Wycliffe who borrowed fifty pounds from me and has paid me. He is the Viscount of Marchwood but his estate is empty, debts higher than the clocktower in London.
However, I have asked around for you and I found that this same Frederick is or was a frequent visitor and patron of The Cytheria, a rather posh bawdy house for a pauper, don’t you think?
G. Alfonso.
“Lane,” William muttered. “Prepare a bath for me. I will be going out tonight.”
Pausing, William stared up at the unassuming structure where the tall columns of pure white marble rose up to a gilded, Corinthian capitals, where they met an elaborately painted ceiling. To the inexperienced eye, the building, set in a quiet corner of Soho, had all the makings of a peer’s manor house—and they would be right.
Until they passed the foyer, and the lady there took your coin and sent you to a room. He dropped the cowl over his head and moved up the gravel drive to the flat, marble steps and rapped briskly on the wide double doors.
A footman pulled the door in, and he bowed. “Welcome.”
“I need to speak with Madame Maera,” William began. “The Beast of Brookhaven is requesting an audience.”
“Please, enter, and I will relay the message promptly,” the footman replied.
William entered the glistening circular marble foyer and gazed at the story above; the landing was shaped as round as the floor below it. He remembered many a time the madame would stand there in gauzy silk, gazing down at her guests like a Queen presiding over her count.
Glancing at the paintings on the walls, elegant portraits of past madams who were dressed like ladies of the realm, elegant gowns stretching back to Henry the Eighth, William held back a nod of respect. Some of them had married lords, some were favored mistresses to lords, and some had borne children for lords.
“Your Grace,” the footman returned not a moment later. “Madame Maeara will see you now.”
With a nod, William took the steps to the level above, took a corridor down the east wing, and ended up at the last room on the right. He knocked, then stepped in, not caring if he had earned permission.
The lady was reposed on a chaise, her book on her lap, her gown one of masterful creation. The silk of that gown matched impeccably with her skin tone and gave the illusion that she was draped in sensuous silk and little else.
“Your Grace,” she began smoothly. “I have not seen you in a lifetime. I am honored you have returned. What service may I perform for you?”
“It is certainly not in your bed,” he cut off her hope in one swift stroke. “I require access to your records. I have it on good source that your girls have serviced a Frederick Wycliffe, and I need them to tell me what they know.”
“I sense some praise in those words, but I must ask why you believe my girls have such information?” the lady asked blithely.
He laughed. “Do not try to bluff your hand, my lady. You and I both know the real currency of the underworld is secrets. Men who have been wined and satiated are less than likely to keep their lips sealed. Your girls winnow secrets from men by the hour and use them to their advantage. So, I will ask only once more, allow me to search your records or send me the girl who he favored.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” She calmly slid her legs from the divan and stood, smoothed her skirt, and moved to the large desk across the room.
Watching her go, William felt no inclination to admire her; even while she was young enough to still hold her curves, he actually craved to return to his home and Bridget.
She’s admitted, or almost admitted to loving me… what do I do about that?
