Cheryl Holt (36 page)

“It isn’t?” She feigned obtuseness, anxious to avert whatever dire tidings he was about to share. “I can’t imagine why else you’d be here.”

“I had to warn you.”

“Warn me? About what?”

“You’re about to be arrested.”

They were the words she’d fretted over for weeks, and now that they’d been uttered, they didn’t seem real.

“For what?”

“For Pamela’s murder.”

“She wasn’t
murdered
. The little idiot was drunk. She lost her balance.”

“I saw the two of you fighting,” he pointed out. “I saw the conclusion.”

“The bystanders have described a different scenario, darling, so why rock that boat?”

“Because someone else saw you, too.”

Her heart plummeted to the tips of her bare toes. “Who?”

“It hardly matters.”

“Maybe not to you, but it certainly does to me.”

“She’s a very credible witness,” he claimed, “and she’s been believed.”

“By whom?”

“By those who make decisions in these affairs.”

“The law?”

He nodded. “They’re coming for you, even as we speak.”

“It was an accident,” she fumed.

“So you say.” He shrugged.

“It was an accident!” she repeated, shouting.

As if she hadn’t commented, he kept on. “Because I’ve known you these many years, I’m doing you a favor. Considering the mischief you instigated, I shouldn’t, but I am. I want this over.”

“At this late juncture, what boon could you possibly render?”

“I’m allowing you a head start, but it’s only a few minutes.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“They’re about to arrive, Amanda,” he gently cautioned. “I’ve had your carriage readied, and it’s out in the alley, but you have to leave. You’re out of time.”

“I won’t,” she boasted. “I did nothing wrong, and—as opposed to you—I have nothing to hide.”

He shrugged again. “That’s definitely your prerogative,
but you should remember that the penalty for murder is hanging.”

“Hanging?” As if she could feel the noose tightening, she massaged her throat.

“They think you killed her so that I wouldn’t marry her and toss you over.”

“Of all the ludicrous, inane notions!” she scoffed. “As if that unpleasant child could have supplanted me!”

A large wagon, with an enclosed bed, lumbered down her street and halted outside. Two men on horseback had accompanied it, and they dismounted to parlay over whether they had the correct residence.

“They’re here,” he quietly stated.

“Well, I’ll simply tell them they’ve made a mistake.”

“Fine, have it your way.”

He whirled around to depart, when she panicked. “Where are they planning to take me?”

“To Newgate. To await trial.”

“Newgate!” It was the most squalid, most dangerous, prison in the land, and the idea that they would swagger into her home, seize her, and deposit her there was beyond comprehension.

As the riders walked to the door and banged the knocker, her peril finally sunk in and, in desperation, she clasped Michael’s arm. “I’m terrified. What should I do?”

“Save yourself. Go. At once.”

She assessed him, hoping to encounter a hint of compassion, a glimmer of sympathy, but he stared as if she was a stranger.

“It’s because of that accursed governess, isn’t it?” she snarled. “You love her. I can see it in your eyes.”

He shook off her grip. “I’m not about to discuss her with you. Just let it be.”

“How could you betray me like this?”

“I doubt I could convince you otherwise, but I delayed the proceedings as long as I could. Too much of it was beyond my control or authority.”

He held out an envelope, and she frowned. “What’s in it?”

“Five hundred pounds—to help you get settled—but from then on, you’re on your own. Don’t ever contact me again.”

“But Michael,” she wailed, “where should I go?”

“The choice is entirely up to you, and I don’t wish to be apprised of your location, though it might be wise to flee the country.” He tipped his head. “Good-bye and good luck. You’ll need it.”

He marched out and down, as the men tromped up. They exchanged curt remarks, then the men hurried on, but as they rushed into her bedchamber, the sole sign that she’d been there was a trace of her expensive perfume.

She raced down the rear stairs and out to the mews, and she leapt into the carriage Michael had arranged. The driver whisked her through town to the docks, where she could purchase fare on the next ship prepared to sail.

How humiliating! How galling! After all she’d accomplished, after all she’d achieved in her rewarding, prosperous life, she would escape England with only the envelope of money and the robe on her back.

 25 

“Is the first candidate here, Mr. Fitch?”

“Yes, milord.”

Michael forced a smile, determined to proceed, and relieved that at least one courageous woman had dared to apply. Apparently, there was still a courtesan in the demimonde who was sufficiently greedy that she could overlook the possibility he was a murderer.

“Is she pretty?”

“Very.”

Michael raised a brow. Fitch never had an opinion about his consorts. “Is she wearing a red dress as I requested?”

“An extremely bright shade,” Fitch said. “I believe you’ll be very pleased.”

“Will I?”

“She’s a tad out of the ordinary.”

“Not my usual cup of tea?”

“Not even close.”

“How so?”

“She’s very clever, very friendly, well educated—”

“Educated!” Michael scoffed. “Why would I want a mistress who’s educated? She won’t bore me to death by blathering on about the morning papers or some such, will she?”

“I doubt it,” Fitch replied. “She has other matters to occupy her. You’ll see what I mean.”

“Fitch,” he teased, “what’s come over you? You’re turning into a virtual chatterbox.”

“Perhaps I’ve been spending too much time around you, sir.”

“Perhaps.”

Michael chuckled but without mirth. Fitch’s remark was an offhand reference to the silence in the house. Michael rarely spoke to anyone anymore. What was the point?

He was all alone, and with the scandals he’d endured, he’d quickly discovered how many friends he truly had: none.

Emily had married her cousin. Alex had run off to be a husband and father. Margaret was sequestered at an isolated boarding school, though she would reside with Alex and Mary once they were settled.

Only Michael was left on his own.

At a prior interval in his life, he’d have pretended that he didn’t care, but the recent trials had unlocked a reservoir of yearning over which he had no control. He wasted his days pining away for what might have been, and he passed his nights ruing and regretting his terrible choices.

He couldn’t step foot outside his door. The rumors were vicious, the stories much more horrendous and
graphic than what had actually occurred. Amanda’s escaping to Europe was currently the hot topic of conversation, and Michael couldn’t bear any of it.

He wanted peace, wanted privacy to carry on as he had before the gaggle of crazed females had descended on him and wreaked their combined havoc.

Previously, he’d suffered through trauma, and he’d learned to cope with the worst. He’d buried his emotions and was gliding along in a void where nothing signified. No one would ever discern how distressed he was. No one would ever guess how he was raging on the inside.

All of London condemned him as a foul, immoral beast, so let them be proved correct.

“Don’t keep me in suspense, Fitch. I’m anxious to meet this harlot who has you so fascinated.”

“I wouldn’t call her a harlot, sir.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“I would.”

“You’d be mistaken.”

Fitch was offended on the strumpet’s behalf! How hilarious! “Show her in, Mr. Fitch. Show her in. I can hardly wait.”

Michael refilled his whiskey and tried to relax in his opulent chair. He gulped the contents, poured another, then gulped that, too, but the potent brew had no effect, which was so frustrating. At a period when he was desperate for oblivion, naught could render him numb.

He listened as Fitch welcomed the woman, as they approached the library, and he tensed, hoping to experience some spark of curiosity, some sizzle of desire, but he was totally uninterested.

Why am I going through with this?

The annoying question taunted him, and he shoved it away. Since Emily had fled, his passion had fled, too. He had no rampant physical drive to be sated, no unbridled need to debase himself with every promiscuous hussy who batted her lashes. If he grew any more chaste, he could join a monastery!

Where had his lust gone? Why couldn’t he get it back? He was about to participate in a session of anonymous, nasty sex, which had once been his favorite distraction, yet he couldn’t generate any enthusiasm for the endeavor.

The woman crossed the threshold, though she was shielded by the gauze harem curtains he’d had put in place. She was slender, curvaceous, but he didn’t feel a glint of titillation. Scolding himself, he bucked up, coaxing himself to act as if he were eager.

“You may enter,” he proclaimed, ready for the games to begin, ready to rekindle what was lacking. Maybe a brief, raucous carnal encounter would thaw his frozen, detached self.

“Thank you, my lord and master.” As if she were his slave, she bowed obediently; then she rose and slipped through the curtain. He blinked and blinked again.

“Emily?” he murmured.

His pulse pounded with elation, but he ignored his surge of delight. He’d loved her once, beyond all reason, but he’d managed to dispose of the idiotic sentiment, and he refused to have it resurface.

Though he’d never admit it in a thousand years, he’d been crushed by her abandonment, had been terribly wounded by the ease with which she’d deserted him. At
his most dreadful hour, she’d forsaken him. His heart was still broken, and it was a pain he was resolved never to suffer again. He had to protect himself at all costs.

Sanity was restored with a vengeance, and he snapped, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Hello, Michael,” she cooed.

Her dress was red, as Fitch had mentioned, but it wasn’t so much a dress as a negligee. It had two tiny straps across her shoulders, and it fell to the floor in a crimson wave, the thin fabric outlining every delicious inch of her torso. She had to have been in the house for quite some time, had to have changed in an upstairs bedroom.

He bristled. Who had let her in? How many of his employees had helped her without his consent? Had he any authority in his own home?

A shimmering, shiny vision, she floated toward him, and a flood of panic washed over him where he wondered if he should run out the rear door and continue running. From the minute they’d met, his life had been a string of disasters. Due to his inexplicable fondness for her, he’d made one wrong choice after another, had taken the wrong turn at every fork in the road.

“Go away! Please!” he entreated, alarmed by how ecstatic he was to be with her, but she kept coming, so he called, “Fitch! Mrs. Barnett was just leaving. Would you show her out?”

“I told Fitch to retire for the evening,” she said. “He doesn’t need to wait up for us.”

She was at his chair, and she balanced both hands on the arms. She leaned forward, and her bodice was loose so he could see her breasts—if he was inclined to glance down. Which he wasn’t!

They engaged in a staring match, but it was obvious he was losing. Her green eyes were open wide, her ruby lips moist and so close to his own. If he but dared, he could pull her to him, could kiss her senseless, and the notion terrified him.

Around her, he’d never had any willpower, and he didn’t know how to fight his attraction. She goaded him to absurd levels of wanting, had him chafing and yearning in ways he couldn’t abide.

And she was married! He absolutely would not philander with a new bride. What was she thinking?

“Why have you come?” he probed, bewildered by her arrival.

“Aren’t you interviewing for a mistress?”

“Well . . . yes,” he stammered, loathe to confess what he was about. She’d left him because he was an indecent animal, and even at this late juncture, he abhorred that he would bolster her dismal opinion.