Lord of Pleasure Read online

  The way the man carried on, she was beginning to believe he was used to dusting off paths after himself.

  He turned and snatched up his hat from the seat. As he brushed past, his gloved hand came down and out and purposefully grazed the side of her thigh hidden beneath the layers of her gown. He smiled down at her.

  Her heart skittered as she froze against the seat.

  Without sparing her another glance, he threw open the carriage door and jumped out. The cool air from outside the carriage whipped in, shocking her overheated body.

  His black-gloved hand snapped back inside, toward her, offering his gentlemanly mannerisms to the end.

  As if she were going to take it.

  Tying the ribbons beneath her chin, she jerked the bow tightly into place and gathered up her gown from around her feet. She moved for the door, jumped down onto the cobbled street, and hurried past him and his extended hand.

  She paused and peered up toward her townhouse. Sure enough, the unpainted house, and all of its blasted windows she had yet to pay taxes on, loomed before her. Though the window tax was the least of her worries. Her lawyer was going to be demanding legal fees again. Fees she could no longer afford.

  Charlotte blew out a disgusted breath and shook her head. What an utter waste of a day. She turned and marched toward the front of the carriage, where the driver sat, knowing she had no choice but to pay for her ride, as she certainly wasn’t going to allow this Alexander to pay.

  The bearded driver reached out a dirty, wool-covered hand and knowingly grinned down at her from his seat, showing off sparse, yellow teeth.

  “I’ll mind you to keep all that happiness to yourself, sir,” she snapped up at him. Gritting her teeth, she dug her fingers into her reticule, loosening the ribbon that held it shut.

  “Here.” Alexander stepped between her and the driver and offered up a banknote. A ten-pound banknote, to be precise.

  She glared at him. “A tenner? Are you mad? I wasn’t driving about all year.”

  He bit back what she knew to be a smile. “One would hope.” He reverted his gaze to the driver, still holding up the banknote. “Your silence is much appreciated, sir.”

  The driver reached out and snatched up the money. “I be appreciatin’ me own silence more than you, governa.” He winked and tipped his dusty hat at them.

  “Good man.” Alexander pointed toward the opposite direction. “Take me to Brooks’s and your day is done.”

  The man nodded and shifted in his seat.

  Alexander turned back toward her. The way he continued to silently stare down at her, with that firm stance and set mouth, she half expected him to start preaching to her about the sins of the world.

  She smirked up at him, noting how lopsided his top hat was, despite his serious gaze. “Your hat is crooked.”

  “I like it crooked. It’s more comfortable.” With that, he stepped closer and, to her surprise, grabbed up her gloved hand.

  Though she tried to pull it away, he tightened his hold and brought her fingers up firmly to his lips. Then kissed them.

  Her heart jumped from the applied pressure of those lips as their heat seeped through her glove and into the skin of her hand. How and why did this man continue to affect her so? It defied all common logic.

  “Hold on to your virtue,” he murmured over her fingers. His gaze intently met hers. “It’s worth far more than I or any other could ever afford to pay.”

  He released her hand and touched the rim of his hat in salutation. He then spun away, climbed back into the carriage, and slammed the door shut behind him.

  The driver snapped the reins and off they clattered.

  Charlotte swiped at the top of her hand, where his lips had been, wishing she could remove the very thought of him as easily as she could remove her glove. Him and his insufferable ways. Why, he gave the driver ten pounds. And her? Mere advice. After a bit of indulging!

  A gentleman? No. He most certainly was not.

  Lesson Three

  M any times the past has an odd way of making its way into the present.

  And many times, I confess, the results can be quite pleasant.

  —The School of Gallantry

  11 Berwick Street

  Late morning, the following day

  “Is anyone at home?” The pounding against the front door continued. “Anyone? Anyone at all?”

  Charlotte tightened her grip on the iron poker she’d snatched up when the man first came to the door. For some impertinent reason, he refused to leave. She was certain that the lawyer had sent him to collect the last payment she’d missed. Quite certain.

  “What is it that you want?” she finally yelled through the bolted door. “My employer doesn’t permit me to associate with anyone who doesn’t have an appointment.” A fib, for she lived entirely alone, but much warranted. She knew better than to open the door to every Jack who wanted in. Especially when said Jack was being sent by someone who wanted money. Money she did not have.

  There was a pause. “I certainly hope this here delivery counts for an appointment, Miss!” the man hollered back.

  Charlotte frowned and edged closer to the smooth surface of the door. The good news was that he wasn’t looking to collect money. The not-so-good news was that she hadn’t ordered anything. Which meant that most likely he would still be looking to collect money.

  “What is it?” she demanded through the door. “Is it paid for? Because if it isn’t, take it away!”

  The man grumbled on the other side. “I don’t know what it is, Miss!” He was clearly losing his patience. “Though, yes, it’s been paid for! It be urgent, I was told! Ain’t allowed to even set it down! Now, be a good lass and open this here door! I don’t get paid until it’s delivered, and I’ve six mouths to feed!” He pounded against the door again, with what had to have been his foot.

  Though she was hesitant to open the door, she sensed that the man was in fact genuine. Otherwise he wouldn’t be so rude. Or persistent.

  Shifting the poker into her other hand, she quickly unbolted the door, edged it open, and peered at the mustached man whose face was bright red against the strain of the large trunk he held.

  “Forced to use my damn boot to knock, I was,” the man grumbled on, shifting beneath the weight of his delivery.

  “My apologies, sir. My employer refuses to be disturbed when unnecessary.” Charlotte threw the door farther open and stepped back, hiding the iron poker behind her while taking on the persona of a humble maid. “Set it right here in the corridor.”

  The man stumbled forward with the trunk then set it on the floor. Blowing out a breath, he glanced about the bare corridor and the adjoining empty parlor. “Your employer just moved in, did he?” He glanced toward her.

  “Uh…yes.” She smiled tightly and gestured with her free hand to the door. “Thank you.”

  The man nodded curtly and hurried out.

  Charlotte slammed the door behind him, thankful to be rid of him, then set the poker into the corner next to the door and bolted all four locks. Leaning her forehead against the cool surface of the wood, she huffed out a breath, hating how utterly defenseless she always felt. Even in her own home. There had to be a better way to live. There simply had to be.

  She pushed herself away from the door and slowly turned toward the large leather trunk at her feet. What could possibly be in it? And who could it be from?

  Kneeling, she ran her bare hands along the length of the thick, leather straps holding it shut. The trunk alone was worth a solid pound.

  She tilted her head to the side and slowly unbuckled each strap. She then pushed the lid back and let it fall open with a thud. Charlotte blinked. Several embroidered full muslin gowns, trimmed with lace and satin, were neatly folded atop one another, creating a contrasting array of lovely pastel colors.

  A folded parchment sealed with red wax had been set on them. She caught her breath and plucked up the letter. She had an inkling as to who they could be from, yet refus
ed to acknowledge it.

  The letter H was deeply embedded into the pressed, hard red wax. Cracking apart the seal, she hastily unfolded the parchment and was surprised to find only a single sentence neatly scribed in black ink.

  “More to come,” she read aloud. “Sincerely, H.”

  More to come? She gurgled out a laugh. She needed money for legal fees, taxes, coal, and food. Not bundles of silk and lace to flounce about in.

  Charlotte slowly turned over the parchment paper, wondering if it was from him—this Alexander. Though there was no other written form of correspondence inscribed upon it, she knew it was him. Who else would be so bold and cheeky?

  She flung the letter aside and hovered over the large open trunk, examining the dresses without touching them.

  The amount of detail embroidered into the pale pink muslin of the most visible gown was astounding. White and yellow stitched flowers, both small and large, lined the long sleeves and tucked waist. The collar was trimmed with matching pale pink satin and yellow lace. All signs of expensive tailoring. Even the buttons trailing down the sleeves were made from teardrop pearls. None of which could have been tailored overnight.

  Which only meant…

  Dread swept through her as she continued to stare at the dresses. What if these were his wife’s gowns? It would certainly explain his hypocritical behavior in the carriage. Yes. H. For hypocrite.

  He’d been guilt stricken and thought it best to humiliate her with a scolding, though not until after he’d helped himself to a bit of this and that. She should have known such a good-looking man would have already been spoken for.

  Charlotte sifted through each and every gown, searching for proof that they indeed were secondhand garments. Initials, perhaps. A subtle stain. A small tear. But there was nothing. Not even a hint of female perfume.

  Agitated, she tossed all eight gowns aside, onto the back lid of the trunk. And paused. For there, at the bottom of the velvet–lined trunk, was a beautiful rose-colored corset made of satin. All the busks were perfectly tucked into place, as were the set of matching laces.

  He would remember.

  Charlotte reached in and poked at it, shifting the corset and rustling something beneath it in the process. She poked at it again, curiosity sparking her, and eventually exposed what lay beneath. Her hand stilled and her eyes widened at the tidy pile of crisp-looking banknotes. At least a dozen of them. At about ten pounds each.

  Charlotte jerked her hand away from the trunk and wiped it against the side of her bombazine gown. This could only really mean one thing. He intended to collect in one form or another. For no man ever offered such blatant generosity without asking for payment in return.

  “Hold on to your virtue, says he,” she grouched aloud. “It’s worth far more than I or any other could ever afford to pay, says he. I am not a charity case, Mr. H.”

  Though she was by no means a fool, either. She needed this. Which is what agitated her most. She hated the idea of being at the mercy of others.

  Pinching her lips together, Charlotte reached out and angrily forced every dress back into the trunk, not at all caring that they were being brutally mangled.

  She’d simply sell them all. For each and every touch and kiss he’d claimed under false pretenses. And if he thought that his trunk of charity was going to earn him a place between her legs, there was an iron poker waiting for him. For she was more than done meeting the needs and pleasures of a man. She had her own needs to focus on. And that is exactly what she meant to do.

  A loud thud resounded from deep within the walls.

  Charlotte’s gaze snapped up, her pulse fluttering. She stared down the length of the narrow, shadowed passageway before her, just past the staircase, where the dull, gray morning light from the windows did not reach.

  She slowly stood and eyed the walls around her. Was that the movement of…rats? Oh, how she hoped not. They sounded about the size of raccoons.

  Dragging in a harsh breath, she inched backward, toward the door, then reached out behind her and snagged her trustworthy weapon from the corner.

  Another thud resounded in the corridor, this time vibrating the floorboards beneath her slippered feet. She glanced up toward the ceiling and noticed dust particles floating down from the empty space where the crystal chandelier that she had sold off had once been. They drifted down like snow.

  Panic swelled her throat shut. The house! What was happening? What—

  The sharp cracking of splintering wood roared against her ears, and the next thing she knew, part of the oak-paneled wall on the far end of the corridor flew off and crashed against the opposite wall beneath the staircase. A giant, heavyset man with a mop of curly hair, dressed in full dark livery, stumbled out of the wall and into the corridor.

  Charlotte released a high-pitched scream and blindly raised the poker up over her head, waiting for the beast to rush at her.

  Yet the giant merely stood there, looking quite dazed himself as a plume of dust floated and settled in around him. He rubbed at his head with a large hand and glanced about. “Where am I?”

  Charlotte refused to lower the poker wavering above her head. “What do you mean where are you?” she choked out. “You’re in my home, is where you are! In. My. Home. Now get out! Out!”

  “Harold.” A heavy French-accented female voice drifted out toward them from somewhere within the gaping hole in the wall. “Mon Dieu! What did you do?”

  Charlotte’s brows shot up in continued disbelief as a beautiful, silver-haired, voluptuous woman dressed in a pale blue morning gown breezed out of the wall and into the corridor, holding up a glass lantern. She delicately coughed and waved away the settling dust, the glowing lantern swaying in her gloved hand.

  Merciful heavens. Where were these people coming from?

  The giant reached out and took hold of the woman’s lantern, looking rather sheepish.

  The older woman set her gloved hands onto her corseted waist and glared up at the giant. “I asked that you find a door. Not make one.” She gestured toward their surroundings. “Och, look at this mess. Terrible. Terrible.”

  The giant winced. “My apologies, Madame. I misunderstood.”

  The woman sighed and shook her head, her silver chignon bobbing. “Gather it. Make it tidy.” She then glanced at Charlotte and halted. An arched silver brow went up as she gracefully turned in her direction.

  Charlotte blinked and lowered her weapon, still somewhat stunned by the unfolding scene.

  “Bonjour, Mademoiselle. I am Madame de Maitenon.”

  The woman sashayed toward her, her full skirts rustling and shifting elegantly around her as the tips of her powder blue satin slippers occasionally peered out. She paused at the foot of the large trunk that sat between them. The woman, standing about a head taller than Charlotte, swept a rather appreciative gaze across the length of Charlotte’s figure.

  Charlotte tried not to squirm beneath the blatant scrutiny of those firm, blue eyes. The woman’s presence, though not in the least bit intimidating, was rather overwhelming. Something about her reminded Charlotte of music, champagne, wine, and chocolate rolls. All of which she had once loved so dearly but could no longer afford to indulge in.

  “We French usually have more manners than this, I assure you.” Madame de Maitenon waved her hand about, sending a waft of crisp mint in Charlotte’s direction. “You see, while remodeling my new home a few months ago, the workers discovered a sealed door hidden beneath the panels of the wall. Odd, non? Which is why when the work had been completed, I instructed Harold here to remove it. And voilà! We discovered a spiral staircase leading down into a mysterious tunnel. I admit I have not been this excited in years.”

  Madame de Maitenon lowered her hand and smiled, the wrinkled edges of her eyes brightening every aspect of her oval face. “So. What number did we arrive at? We must be at least three or four townhouses in.”

  Charlotte’s brows rose in astonishment. No. It wasn’t possible. And yet…it had to
be. This woman had actually unearthed the Sutton Tunnel. The same tunnel her great-grandfather had created as a means of visiting his mistress without the world knowing.

  According to her mother, every Sutton had made use of it in some manner or another. Although her father was the one to ultimately mend all their naughty ways. Upon marrying her mother, he boarded up the entrance and had workers bury it within the walls of the house—as a noble gesture and proof that his love for her would never require him to stray.

  Charlotte released a shaky breath and tossed aside the iron poker, sending it clattering against the wooden floor. “I wish to see the tunnel. Might I see it?”

  Madame de Maitenon swept a hand in the direction of the corridor behind them. “Mais oui. It is yours, after all.”

  Gathering up her skirts, Charlotte hurried in the direction of the giant still gathering all the splintered wood which had been scattered across the passageway. She paused just outside the darkened entrance of the tunnel.

  Moist, cold air pushed through the opening, kissing her skin with luscious mystery. Rotting wood and the smell of mold filled her nostrils, hinting of secrets long buried.

  A small smile tugged at her lips as she eyed the uneven stonework that lined the short, jagged, rectangular entrance. She stepped toward it. Reaching out her hand, she slid a lone finger across its cool, stone surface. It appeared that the door had long been removed, or perhaps had even rotted out. For only the iron hinges remained intact.

  She had always thought the Sutton Tunnel had been nothing but a fanciful tale woven by her mother, who had always playfully challenged her to find it. Yet it appeared that the Sutton Tunnel had finally found her. Long after her mother’s death.

  Tears blurred Charlotte’s sight. Overwhelmed, she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to prevent the drops from overflowing as renewed regret seized her. Regret for having ever trusted Chartwell.

  For it wasn’t until she had intercepted a pleading letter from one of her mother’s servants, a letter that remained half-burnt between the coals of the hearth, that she discovered the horrid truth. That her mother hadn’t been angry with her for marrying Chartwell, as she’d thought. That, in fact, her mother’s silence had been caused by Chartwell himself, who thought her mother was a nuisance. This coming from a man who couldn’t keep his trousers buttoned.