Page 6 of Against the Wind

Martin followed the servant through a black and white marble-floored entry hall, passing a wide staircase leading to the next floor, at the base of which stood a large man with blond hair. He stared straight ahead, ignoring them.

Down another corridor they went, to the right, and Martin noted the impressive furnishings of the rooms he passed. They would compete well with those he’d seen in Mayfair. Finally, the butler stopped and bade him enter a small, well-appointed room. The first thing Martin noticed was the crystal chandelier hanging above two brocade sofas flanking a marble fireplace. A gilded mirror set over the mantel made the room appear much larger than it was.

The butler departed, closing the double doors. A well-attired woman in her late forties, dark brown hair pulled back into a knot, faced Martin with appraising hazel eyes.

“You are Sir Martin Powell?”

“Yes, ma’am. And you would be…Miss Abby?”

A genuine smile spread across the woman’s face, and Martin relaxed. She might have been a treasured aunt, this woman with the twinkling eyes, someone in which you would confide all your secrets. A comforting presence. Not at all what he’d expected.

“I am Miss Abby, and this is Willow House. Lord Eustace commends you to me as one who has the trust of the Prince himself. That is a high honor. Welcome. How may I serve you, Sir Martin?”

“Well…I was hoping to meet one of your girls this evening. Willow House comes highly recommended by Eustace. I have been away from London for many years, and have no…attachments.”

“You speak with a slight accent, Sir Martin.”

“Ah, yes. My mother is French and I’ve been living in Paris.”

“Of course,” the woman said as she poured him a brandy. He accepted the drink and took a healthy swallow, appreciating the gesture and the fact she asked no further questions. The war had been over for more than a year, but he was reticent to speak of his time in France. Even to a favorite aunt with twinkling eyes.

“You may stay the night if you like,” Miss Abby continued, “and even stay for breakfast. Or, you can leave earlier, as you desire. We are very flexible and very discreet. No questions will be asked.”

“Right, then.” Martin was suddenly anxious to move forward. He set down his half-empty glass.

“Do you have any preferences, sir?”

“Ah…no.” He felt himself smiling. “Just ‘beautiful,’ but then I’ve heard that is never an issue at Willow House.”

The madam returned his smile. “If that is your only requirement, I believe we can meet your needs rather well.”

Martin was done with polite conversation. “If you will just tell me where to go?”

“Upstairs, the next to the last door on the right. If you need assistance, the rather large Scot in the entry can assist you.”

Martin thanked her and left the room, thinking he heard a soft chuckle behind him. Had it been so long since he’d been with a woman that he appeared anxious? The thought was disconcerting. After many years of serving the Crown, he was no randy youth. Paris, too, had beautiful women.

He headed quickly in the direction he’d come. In the entry he passed the large blond man standing guard. The Scot, Martin guessed. Up the carpeted stairs he went, but at the top he struggled to remember what exactly Miss Abby said. The end of the corridor was dark. Which door on the right? The last door? Yes, that was it.

Martin slowly opened the door and moved into the shadows. Inside, a young woman stood before the room’s only window, the light of the fire behind her dancing in waves of long auburn hair that fell nearly to her waist. Moonlight from the window cast pale rays of light across her profile, revealing delicate features, a slim neck and ivory skin. He was surprised to find such a treasure in a brothel, even a high-class brothel. The girl appeared otherworldly, ethereal, like something out of a dream.

He was drawn to her as if summoned.

Kit stood at the window, lost in thought and staring out into the night. What had happened to her life, to her dream of a husband and family? How had it come to this? She and Anne had been raised as daughters of an earl!

Anger rose within her, an anger that caused her teeth to clench. It was the fault of her father, who, lost in grief upon her mother’s death, gave himself to gambling and drink. Caring little for life, he had not survived to provide for his daughters, abandoning them to husbands he would never have chosen. Kit had determined she would never lose herself in a love like that, nor would she cling so desperately to a memory that she would welcome her own demise. She had been strong for both herself and Anne. But she wasn’t feeling very strong tonight. Just weary and alone.

Oh, God. What’s to become of me? If only someone would hold me and tell me it will be all right.

As if in answer, a deep voice came out of the darkness. “Come to me,” it said.

Kit spun, her blood running cold. A tall figure stood in the shadows. Deep in her thoughts, she’d failed to hear the door open or close.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice quavering.

The figure took a step forward. Firelight cast a warm glow onto the sculpted features of the tall man, and sooty dark brown hair framed a handsome face with high cheekbones, a strong nose, and curving, sensuous lips. To Kit’s artist’s mind, the man was very nearly beautiful. Like a painting by Thomas Lawrence. Like the knight she’d dreamt would one day come for her.

His mouth twitched up on one side, almost a smile. “Miss Abby sent me.”