Her Husband's Harlot (10 page)

Not
that Nicholas had helped. In fact, she thought in a daze of bewilderment and
anger, he had not helped one bit.

How dare
he belittle her decorating skills?

How
dare he refuse her infinitesimally small request to attend the Dewitts' party?

How
dare
he look at her so dispassionately, when but two nights ago he had growled with
ecstasy in her arms?

After
a while, she wiped her eyes on her sleeve and noticed her list lying on the
ground. She picked it up and smoothed out the wrinkles. Well, she had certainly
bungled the first three categories of seduction. Guests? After this, Nicholas
would prove a reluctant participant at best. Location? Obviously, he was not
overly impressed by her attempts to create a domestic paradise. And refreshments?
She sniffled. She was willing to wager he had lost all appetite after their
encounter. As had she.

The
last item wavered in front of her eyes.

Entertainments.

She
closed her eyes wearily. And prayed Marianne would have some advice for that.

The
next morning, Nicholas instructed the driver to drop him off several blocks
away from the warehouse. He wanted a walk to clear his head. Cloaked in a gloomy
yellow fog, the docklands at daybreak perfectly suited his mood. He made his
way along the narrow street lined by cramped buildings, absorbing the
ungoverned energy of those who pushed by him. The sounds of fog horns and sea
gulls echoed through the mist. Nicholas inhaled, the salt and tar-tinged air
loosening and expanding his chest. Leaving Mayfair was like shedding a
confining jacket. Here by the river, he was back where he belonged.

He
stopped at a cart to purchase a bun from a gap-toothed woman and turned left toward
the quay. Once there, he leaned against a wooden post and looked over the
mist-covered water. The fog blanketed the lighters, but he could feel the looming
presence of the ships. Ghost-like, the wooden hulls bumped hollowly against the
wharf. It was a forlorn sound. If it were not for the shouts of the river
men—the colliers and sailors—one might suspect some sort of other-worldly
enterprise, rather than one that was purely human.

Nicholas
took a bite of the pastry and winced. It had the density of a boulder. Indeed, the
bun may have rivaled prehistoric rock in the length of its existence. Chewing
moodily, he reflected on the sumptuous breakfast that would have greeted him at
home. Since Helena's arrival, the quality of the fare served on his table had
improved dramatically. Nowadays, coddled eggs, grilled kidney, and
well-seasoned potatoes greeted him in the morning. On some days, there were cornmeal
cakes, tender rounds brushed with a buttered rum sauce and dotted with currants.
A feast fit for a king—but apparently not for the likes of him.

Because
he
had chosen to skulk like a thief from his own house at the break of
dawn. Without waking his valet. Without eating a majestic breakfast.

Without
running into his wife.

Nicholas
tossed the bun aside. It bounced along the wooden planks, attracting a swarm of
squawking gulls. He felt like a bloody jackanapes for avoiding his own wife. But
for Helena's sake, he had to stay away. To spare her from his bestial needs ...
and God knew what else was lying in wait for him.

I
know your dirty little secret.

As he
had so many times since finding the note, he told himself that in all
likelihood it was merely a prank: an act of spite by some disgruntled worker. That
fellow Bragg came readily enough to mind. The note's message was vague, after
all, so that any recipient with a guilty conscience would feel spooked and brought
down a notch or two. That was likely the full intent of it. A deed of harmless
malice—one with no teeth.

But
what if it was not just a hoax?

What
if someone actually knew who he'd been ... and what he'd done?

Panic
rippled over his heart as he contemplated the water with bleak eyes. He couldn't
risk the taint of his past touching Helena. For now, it was best to distance
himself from her. He'd done a fair job of that, until yesterday. Having run out
of clean shirts, he'd had to return to the townhouse. He'd thought to make a
discreet entry and exit, only his wife had stepped out of the drawing room at
precisely the wrong moment.

Her
voice had called to him, the sweetest of snares. He'd been caught, red-handed
as a poacher, with no choice but to face her. To gaze upon her innocent,
smiling face, her eyes warm as a golden wheat field and her hair wild and loose
as if she'd recently tumbled in one. Instantly, he'd been gripped by competing
torrents of desire and guilt. Aye, it had nigh suffocated him, robbed him of
mind and breath to even converse with her.

So he'd
stood there like a bloody fool.

Wanting
her.

Hating
himself.

What
had transpired next bewildered him even further.

They
had actually
quarreled
. Or something perilously close to that. Though
there had been no harsh words or raised voices, the tension in the room had
been as thick as the fog that presently surrounded him. And over what? A bloody
party, for Christ's sake. Helena had never cared before whether or not he
accompanied her on the torturous rounds of the Season—why did she care now, and
so vehemently? At the mention of the musicale, his heretofore gentle, sweet-tempered
wife had suddenly vanished, to be replaced by a goddess whose ire blazed
brighter than the sun.

Did
she like musicales so much then?

The spark
in her eyes as she'd done battle with him—he'd never seen such spirit in her
before. In fact, she had seemed like another person altogether. In all the time
he had known Helena, she had never asked anything of him. Always, she had been
accommodating, acquiescent, the epitome of womanly virtue.

What the
hell had happened to his demure wife?

It
was bloody confusing.

And
more than a little arousing.

Nicholas
rubbed his forehead, damp from the misty air. Damn his lustful appetites to
hell and back. The truth was a good fight always stirred his juices. It had
been a fortunate thing that he'd made his exit quickly, graceless as it was. A
minute more and he might have done something to truly regret. It was just
another reminder of the differences between the two of them: his wife had
engaged him in a genteel disagreement, while he'd had the urge to solve the
problem in a much more primitive manner. By quelling her words with his mouth.
And other parts of his anatomy.

Apparently
even bedding the whore had not assuaged his desire to fuck his wife. Seeing the
fire in Helena's eyes and knowing he was the cause of it, he'd been seized by a
primal urge to toss her onto the floor and cram himself inside her. All the way
inside, so deep that there would be no separating her flesh from his. So deep
that she would be marked forever his. So deep that she would scream with
pleasure, even if she remained royally pissed at him.

All
this he'd wanted, tortured himself over—and his wife had just sat there, looking
as fresh and ripe as a summer orchard. God, he almost resented her for it. As a
result, he'd acted like a complete and utter ass. He'd deliberately belittled
the considerable improvements she had brought to his home. The irony of it, he
realized, was that his boorish behavior might prove the best thing for the both
of them. It might serve to drive his wife away. The farther the better, for her
sake.

Shoving
his hands in his pockets, Nicholas trudged toward the warehouse. He had to stop
ruminating, or else he'd go mad. About a block away from Fines and Co., he
chanced to look down one of the alleys between the buildings. He saw two
figures standing there in the shadows. Their backs were turned to him and their
heads huddled as they spoke. He was too far away to hear their whispered words,
but there was something furtive about their postures, the way the lapels of
their coats were pulled up high about their faces.

Nicholas
stopped and squinted, trying to discern the identity of the figures. As if
alerted to his presence, one of the men jerked his head up. Nicholas had a
glimpse of small malicious eyes and black-bristled jowls before the figure
turned and walked rapidly toward the opposite end of the alley. The other man
followed close behind. Within seconds, they turned the corner and vanished from
sight.

Nicholas
continued on his way to the warehouse. On the main floor, he nodded to the
greetings from the workers, his thoughts churning. What the hell was Isaac Bragg
up to? For he was certain the man he had seen was the surly porter. Why was
Bragg lurking like a cutthroat in the shadows, and who was the second man in
the alley, the one Bragg had been conspiring with? Had any of this have to do
with the note?

Nicholas
had a mind to let Bragg go and be done with the business, but there was the
morale of the other porters to consider. Bragg, damn his stinking hide, had a
way of stirring the pot. Besides, what if the blackguard actually knew Nicholas'
secret? What would he plan to do with such information—blackmail or some other
such infamy? And if he knew, why hadn't he done anything yet? Frustrated, Nicholas
had to admit the cleverness of the note's ambiguity: he could not question Bragg
directly without giving away the fact that he had something to hide.

So
lost was Nicholas in his thoughts that he all but collided with James Gordon as
the younger man rounded the corner. Gordon fell backwards, his crutch clattering
against the wall behind him. The sack he was carrying exploded as it landed. Coffee
beans rained upon the floor. The porter rushed to gather the scattered pods,
but slipped again in his haste. With a sigh, Nicholas heaved up the stammering Gordon
and handed him his crutch.

"Have
a care, lad," Nicholas said. "You don't want to go breaking anything
else now."

"S-sorry,
sir," Gordon said, his face red as his hair. His blue eyes were huge with
fear. "I'll clean it up right aways. I swear, I'll get every bean back in
the sack and sew it up myself—"

"I'm
not talking about the coffee," Nicholas said in exasperation, "but
your bloody bones. I'd like to leave Dr. Farraday some time occasionally to see
patients other than you."

"Y-yes,
sir. Th-thank you, sir."

With
an impatient jerk of his chin, Nicholas sent the lame porter on his way. Nicholas
headed up to the office and planted himself at the desk. Opening a ledger, he
proceeded to study the accounts of the past week. After all of five minutes, he
slammed the book shut with an oath. The single-minded focus he prided himself
on was nowhere in evidence. Instead, a morass of images swirled in his head:
Helena's smiling eyes turning to golden fire, the ripe bounce of the whore's breasts,
ghosts of fog rising all around ...

The
knock on the door nearly sent him out of his skin.

Jibotts
peered in. "My lord? I was wondering if you had a moment. If not, I can
come back ..."

Recovering
his senses, Nicholas noticed the stiffness of the other man's wiry posture. Old
Jibotts had a stick up his arse to begin with—his eye for detail, in fact, made
him an exceptional office steward. Whatever the cause, the stick appeared
especially large today. The thought cheered Nicholas. He could use the
distraction.

"A
problem?" Nicholas asked.

Frowning,
Jibotts took a seat opposite the desk. The steward's back was ramrod straight,
and he immediately opened the black leather notebook that accompanied him
wherever he went. "I have just now been reviewing inventory. It appears we
are short this week—by a negligible amount, but short nonetheless."

"By
how much?"

"Two
crates of tobacco, three sacks of coffee, and a barrel of rum, sir."

Nicholas
snorted. This was indeed negligible. Most traders suffered hundreds of pounds a
month on losses without turning a hair. As a member of the West India Merchants
Association, he'd headed a task force to address the thievery that ran rampant
on the river. His team's efforts had led to the funding of a private security
force. Since the inception of the Thames River Police, losses had decreased to
a significant degree.

Privately,
Nicholas knew that theft could never fully be eradicated. Along the docks, stealing
was seen as taking what was rightfully owed. No more immoral than netting a
trout from a stream full of fish, or taking a breath from an endless supply of
air. As a lad, he'd lived by a simple philosophy of survival—
finder's
keepers, loser's weepers.
There had been a time when he'd filled his belly
with anything he could lay his hands on: basically, anything not locked up or
nailed down. He'd prowled the market days at Covent Garden, helping himself to
fruit, cheese, a meat pasty or two if it was a good day. And if a silk
handkerchief or piece of silver made its way into his pockets, who was he to
complain?

Never
once had he concerned himself with the merchants he "borrowed" from.
Why should he? They were fat pigs, the lot of them, lolling about in piles of
gold.

The
irony did not escape him that he now occupied the part of the swine.