Only then did he realize he’d taken the liberty of her name, the name he used when he thought of her. “Not on purpose,” he answered, “but because you can be exasperating, Miss Lanscarr. I should not have forgotten myself. Please forgive me.”
Her lips formed a pout. “We are back to formalities. I give you permission to use my name, if you wish.”
“I donotwish. I was improper. I beg your pardon.”
“No pardon needed,” she assured him.
What he had anticipated to be a three-minute conversation of him telling her not to form anattachment to him had turned into her talking circles around him. “Miss Lanscarr, donotallow me liberties—”
“I—” she started, and he rolled right over her, cutting off whatever she was about to say. She needed to see sense.
“I spent my childhood in a brothel. Ilivedamongwhores.”
There, he’d said it. He wasn’t just the son of a whore. He’d lived that life. It was his shame, his secret. Not even Wagner knew about his mother or any of the circumstances of Beck’s parentage. Fortunately, it wasn’t a conversation that came up among men at war.
Except there were those who knew, or so he suspected. The murkiness of his past had been one of the reasons he believed General Danvers had frowned upon his suit for Violet’s hand. There was something unsettling about a boy raised without family or ties. Any caring father would be wary of him.
Except, Gwendolyn didn’t shudder with horror. Instead, she interrogated him. “You lived in the brothel until—what? You said you went to school.”
Beck threw himself into the corner of the coach and crossed his arms against his chest. He no longer cared that his leg brushed hers or that she smelled of clover and daisies. No, right now, she was maddening, and he knew she had bested him. She’d not rest until she was satisfied. “You want the whole story?”
“I expect it.”
“So be it,” he ground out. “When I was around five or six, maybe seven—”
“You don’t know your age?”
“No.”
“Didn’t your mother tell you?”
“I don’t know my mother.” That was a terrible thing to confess. Except Gwendolyn nodded as if it made sense. “I don’t know when I was born,” he reiterated as if she didn’t completely understand. “Whores don’t keep careful records.”
“I supposesomedo.”
Beck scowled. “Minedidn’t. I don’t even know who she was. I never knew her.”
“How did you survive? You were very young to be on your own.”
“By doing what I was told and staying out of harm’s way.” Something she would be wise to emulate. “I worked in the scullery, I emptied chamber pots, I cleaned out ashes, the jobs a child could do.”
“But you have no inkling of how you came to be there?”
He paused, considering, and realizing that he’d never truly thought deeply about how he had ended up at Madam’s. “I was young. I can’t recall.”
“But you did know whom your father was?”
“Not until Middlebury’s man came to see Madam. She was the bawd who owned the house. The next thing I knew, I was yanked out of the only home I’d known and sent to Faircote, a school up north.”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“Wonders never cease,” he said. “An answer you accept without another question.”
A hint of a smile came to her eyes as if she enjoyed his sarcasm and even this conversation between them. He realized he didn’t mind it all that much himself. He preferred keeping his affairs private... but he knew Gwendolyn would push until she knew all. Besides, she hadn’t flinched over learning his parentage, and he had to admit he was impressed... and a bit grateful.
Therefore, he continued. “I wasn’t even to know I was Middlebury’s until Madam made a comment about it. She gave up the secret, and she shouldn’t have. Middlebury’s man struck her so hard she fell to the floor. Up until then, she was the most powerful person in my life,” he explained, wanting Gwendolyn to understand how shocking this was. “She had a bodyguard named Dervil who could snap the arm of anyone who created trouble at the house. Everyone was afraid of Madam. She was afraid of Winstead.”
“That is Middlebury’s man?”
