Her Quicksilver Lover: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 6 (5 page)

Was that all? He wanted to think so. Of course that meant she couldn’t work at the club any longer, but he could think of several roles she could perform instead. If she was willing, of course.

The warmth was slowly replaced by several revelations. One, that his desire was so strong it had temporarily wiped out his anger. He wanted her. Of course he did, and the sooner he acknowledged that fact, the better he could cope with it.

But the anger remained. That anyone would think to use his precious club that way infuriated him, brought out the anger to simmer low in his belly. More than that, anger that he should want a woman who behaved so badly. He had considered her innocent, when she’d been spying on him.

She was not the first professional gossip to enter the doors of the Pantheon Club. He doubted she would be the last, but once he’d held her and touched her, he’d forgotten all that. His fellow gods would howl with laughter.

“So she and her father run this journal?” He leaned back, careful not to overbalance, since the benches before this central table had no backs. “Nobody else?”

“They’re on their uppers,” another man said succinctly. “A good thing too. I can’t abide gossip-mongers. They just make trouble.” He harrumphed. “However pretty they are. Is that all your business here, sir?”

Amidei shook his head. “The paper only. Thank you for putting me in the way of it. I shall approach them immediately.”

Still simmering with rage, he got to his feet and strode away, tossing a half guinea at the woman at the door. “Put it on my account,” he said when she would have stopped him and given him change. He wouldn’t return.

He caught a hackney back to the club. All the way back he stared sightlessly out of the window. How could he allow her to continue to work at his club? How could he not?

Her natural defences were set against him, a barrier that he would have to force. If he did that, he would hurt her, and what was more, make her aware that she was dealing with an immortal. He had to discover more about her before he allowed her any closer to him. That meant letting her continue at the club. If she was what he’d discovered, a gossip-monger, then he could ask her to accept another position with him. But if she was a spy for his enemies, he would have to take a different course of action. The thought gave him a bitter taste in his mouth. But if she collected information, he had to consider the possibility.

Bracing himself as the carriage jolted over the ruts cut in the narrow roads of the city, he grasped the leather strap by the door and grimaced, but not at the physical jarring, only the mental ones.

He would
use
his feelings for her. He would teach her a lesson. Busybodies like her would one day stumble upon something they did not know how to cope with.

She’d seen Lightfoot. Curse the man, would he never learn to be more circumspect? Now she’d seen hooves and furry legs. He would have to persuade her she had seen a deformity. That would work. And her damnable curiosity? He would have to deal with that too.

Prevent her from ever being so inquisitive again. She could hurt herself doing that.

He would have to take care of her, since she seemed so heedless of her own health and safety. Walking through the streets of London on her own was to invite trouble. London was a dangerous place, especially for an unaccompanied woman.

And there was one way he could melt her barriers enough for him to get inside and read her, without causing her pain. During lovemaking. That would do the trick. He did not have to seduce her completely, but if he could persuade her that he wanted her, and get her to respond to him, that would give him a chance.

Or was that an excuse, because that was what he wanted to do in any case?

The carriage turned a corner, none too carefully, and the driver cursed and lashed the air above his horse’s ears. Amidei could distinguish between a whip in the air and one that landed on flesh. He shuddered. The sounds were completely different. Otherwise he’d have been forced to punish the cab driver. Cruelty to dumb animals turned his stomach. Perhaps because he knew so many—or rather, creatures who could display the characteristics of animals.

He would protect them all with his life, both animals and the people he sheltered. Even if impertinent satyrs made his task difficult to the point of impossibility.

Chapter Five

“Papa, I should work somewhere else,” Joanna protested. Although reluctant to return to the club, anticipation simmered in her belly when she thought of the handsome proprietor. The one she must do her best to avoid. “Perhaps White’s needs a kitchen maid.”

“You are made for more than that,” he said angrily. “Your mother would have wept to see you now.”

But Joanna was alive, and well fed. The food in the kitchens at the Pantheon was better than she’d had for a long time. She didn’t like thinking how long it had been since she’d had roast mutton and potatoes, but she would have it today. She was warm, and she had the companionship of other maids. If it were not for one thing—one person—she would have been happy to continue for some time.

The thought of meeting him again made her heart beat madly in her chest. Resisting the urge to press her hand there, she reached for the door latch instead. As she opened it, she caroomed into someone coming the other way.

A green silk waistcoat obscured her view, and a pair of arms caught her. But the scent was wrong. It wasn’t him.

She tilted her chin and met a pair of amused grey eyes. Not silver, like his lordship’s, but dark and storm-shaded. At present they were alight with laughter. As she met his gaze, he smiled. That smile could be termed attractive, she supposed, her mind full of thoughts of another man, one who smiled too rarely.

The one currently holding her carefully set her aside. “Miss Spencer?” Without waiting for a reply, he looked over her head. “Mr. Spencer, I believe we have an appointment.”

A pause followed, until her father said, “Indeed, sir. Joanna, may I introduce Mr. Patrick Gough?”

As her father seemed to expect it, Joanna dropped a curtsey. “Sir.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Spencer.” He regarded her carefully as she rose, their eyes meeting when she raised her head. “Charming.”

His scrutiny made her uncomfortable. He watched her so closely, as if he could read all her secrets. But she would not let him see them, and she refused utterly to squirm. She had too much pride to do that. “I am but a simple businessman. I believe I will enjoy working with you.” He tilted his head slightly on one side and regarded her closely. After a last, lingering look, he turned his attention to her father, who stood by the printing press, beaming.

Gough raised a brow. “That is what I paid for?”

“Yes indeed, sir.” Her father motioned to the press. “It’s old, but it serves us well. I leased it before, so I obtained an excellent price for it.”

Joanna repressed her shudder at the recollection of night after night spent feeding paper under the huge screw-fed press. She would never get the stink of printer’s ink off her hands, and she had to use bleach to get off the ink stains. But the press had provided a living for herself and her father. She should not complain. Except that she did, if only to herself at nights, when nobody was by.

Perhaps she was just tired. While the work at the club was hard, it was the walk there and back that was sapping her strength. At least she didn’t have to travel to the great houses and squares in the West End. She prayed her father would never take it into his head to send her there.

Soonest attacked, soonest over. She paused by the door to pluck her shabby hat off the hook and tie the faded and frayed ribbons under her chin. “I must go,” she said.

Gough eyed her hat with clear distaste, his gaze cold, lines grooving either side of his mouth. “Are you so poor that you cannot afford decent headgear?”

She forced a laugh. “I have better ones upstairs, sir. But I wish for people not to notice me this morning. And if I don’t set out, I’ll be late.”

His face cleared. “Ah, I see. A disguise?”

“Yes, sir.”

She should not be too fussy, but she couldn’t help her instinctive reaction to him. There was absolutely no reason for it. Patrick Gough was handsome, affable, and well dressed without the extravagances displayed by—by Lord d’Argento.

The pause was when her body clenched, realising she was going in that direction without her conscious volition. She should not think of him, must not, if she wished to remain intact. But her mind went there anyway, conjuring an image of an impossibly handsome man with startlingly perceptive eyes.

Her imagination, that was all. She would do as she did yesterday and pretend he didn’t exist, even though her senses pricked up when he was by, in some strange sense. She would avoid him and concentrate on collecting gossip in the ladies’ rooms. Perhaps then she could face him again.

After bowing to the gentlemen, she left them talking. A new patron would prove extremely useful. Joanna prayed he did not want too much. One gentleman had offered to sponsor the newspaper if they wrote a series of articles condemning a public figure as an evil abuser of women. The trouble was, the public figure in question was a popular family man, and try though they might, neither Joanna nor her father discovered anything of a reprehensible nature in regard to him. Reluctantly, her father refused the man’s offer of financial support because he would not lie.

Joanna turned out of their smaller street and marched toward Covent Garden. At least thinking of such matters shortened her journey, so she thought less of where she was going. Traversing this route was becoming habit, but adding an extra seven miles or so to her day, particularly at the end, was trying her stamina.

At least her ankle had stopped hurting. She’d worn a bandage wrapped tightly around it for a day or two, just in case she had weakened something, but she was fine now. Not a twinge. They had made a great fuss about it at the club, but what could his lordship do but pick her up when she nearly tumbled on her backside in front of him?

It could have been much worse. Joanna recalled the sight of the staircase looming before her and the sickening realization that she could do nothing to prevent herself from tumbling down it. Lord d’Argento had caught her just as she resigned herself to trying to make her landing as soft as possible and to shield her head.

Even now she shuddered at the memory. That flash, the sight of the staircase had remained with her, as vivid as ever after two days, and it reappeared when she least expected it, startling her, as if it was there all over again. The sight would vanish, she knew that. As a little girl, she’d slipped on the street and landed in the most disgusting pile of—well, dung. Human, horse, or whatever it was, the stink had remained with her for days, even though everyone assured her she smelled as fresh as a rose. So she should after scrubbing her skin nearly raw.

As if by instinct, Joanna dodged a pile of wet cabbage leaves, probably drenched by the downpour earlier. She’d woken to the sound of the rain pattering against her windowpane, and lay there for a few minutes thinking about the day ahead and listening to the soft sound. That was the most peaceful she’d been all day, or was likely to get. Once she entered the servants’ door at the club, she’d be plunged into the organised chaos that lay there for everyone to deal with. For a change, she had no idea what tasks Mrs. Holdsworth would give her today. She usually put the housemaids on a rotary list, tasks that they performed depending on what day it was, but Joanna’s accident had disrupted that, and now the housekeeper was fitting Joanna in where she was most needed.

Joanna didn’t have to go into the Garden, which she was glad of, because even here, a street away, the sound of the market traders echoed off the walls. How the whores who plied their trade by night got any sleep at all she didn’t know, but the two trades had shared the area for a long time now, and looked fair to continue forever and ever. Until men did not require the women’s services any more, which seemed an unlikely prospect.

When Lord d’Argento had first opened the Pantheon Club, people called it a brothel for the more discerning customer. That rumour was soon dispelled when some of the highest in the land had chosen to visit the place. While their morals might be no better than others, nobody dared to accuse them of it. Except people like Joanna and her father, of course, and they published the more outrageous stories under false names, claiming they had but bought the story from a Grub Street hack.

The tramp to work this morning was worse than usual, owing to that shower of rain. Now October was fading and November looming before them like a wall of fog, the weather would only get worse. Unfortunately the option of taking a hackney or a chair wasn’t open to servant girls who chose to come in every day. She had to face facts. She couldn’t do this indefinitely. Perhaps she should accept Mrs. Holdsworth’s offer and become a live-in servant. Except that would mean abandoning her father, and she would never do that, whatever the provocation. While he saw her employment as a temporary measure, Joanna had discovered a modicum of contentment doing real, honest work.

The streets grew wider and more gracious as she crossed through a fashionable shopping area. Shops with bow windows and as much glass as they could take stretched into the street, displaying their wares as blatantly as any Covent Garden resident. Pausing, Joanna stared into the window of a draper’s shop. Mouth-watering fabrics were draped carelessly over a form inside, the rest of the stock folded neatly into bolts and stacked on ceiling high shelves. Gorgeous colours—rich jewel shades and impossibly delicate pastels—were racked up, ready for the custom to begin at eight. Two hours from now. A clock chimed mellifluously, followed by the more strident tones of the churches in the city. She was late.

Joanna ran the rest of the way, and arrived tousled and ruffled, her hair sticking out of her cap like a hedgehog’s and her hat askew. She’d lifted her skirts to run, so where her hands had bunched the drab fabric was creased and scrunched. Not the picture she wanted to present, but nobody looked up as she rushed through the door to the kitchens and hung her hat and cloak on one of the pegs provided for that purpose. At the last moment, she remembered to take her glasses out of her pocket and prop them on her nose.

The residents would be sleeping, but the kitchen was already humming with activity, redolent with delicious scents as the cooks prepared breakfast for the people staying here and any member who happened by. Joanna had arrived barely in time, for she would be needed upstairs to lay the tables in the main dining rooms.

She smoothed back her hair hastily before the pastry cook saw her. “Get me some cold water from the pump, girl.”

Being a housemaid, this was not Joanna’s job, but she was not about to remind the formidable man of that small fact. Besides, she could take the opportunity and snatch a drink of the water herself. She could hardly stop for tea, although the thought of the fragrant brew sent a jolt of longing through her.

As she returned, bearing a full bucket of water, the cook nodded to the door. “Mrs. Holdsworth wants you.”

To inform her of her duties for the day, no doubt. Her step brisk, she stepped toward the small office from whence Mrs. Holdsworth ran her kingdom.

The room was furnished with a table, which doubled as an office and dining table, two easy chairs on either side of a small fire and a bed tucked in the corner. Mrs. Holdsworth had her own bedroom, just off her sitting room, but the smaller bed had proved useful for sick maids or overnight stays by a female, such as herself. She had not needed to use it yet, though with the early starts, she might beg a lodging for a night or two.

How was she thinking of this position as long term? She would no doubt be leaving soon, or be asked to leave, once she fed enough stories to her father to keep the paper going.

The lady looked up from her desk as Joanna knocked and went in.

“Good morning, Joanna. Could you help set the places in the dining room today? After that, the master wants to see you.”

She gaped, then closed her mouth with a snap. “Lord d’Argento?”

“Yes, who else did you think I meant?” For a small woman, Mrs. Holdsworth had a lot of dignity. She was one of those women of indeterminate age, appearing older than thirty but younger than fifty, her face only lightly lined and her hair still a rich shade of brown. Her cap had a pretty lace frill, framing her face, unlike Joanna’s enveloping and unbecoming one.

Joanna bobbed a curtsey to hide her dismay. “Yes, Mrs. Holdsworth. After that, what should I do?”

The housekeeper waved her hand in a vague gesture. “Whatever you wish. The master will tell you.”

That sounded ominous. Did he mean to dismiss her personally, then? Her heart sinking, Joanna left Mrs. Holdsworth to her account books and made her way slowly along the stone corridor to the stairs at the end. The servants’ stairs threaded around the whole building, a network of narrow staircases and passages, so the staff could get around the club without going through the public areas. Only the last part of their journey was usually taken in the grander parts of the club. Hence her reason for using the landing in the main hall that fateful day. If only she had reached the servants’ door safely!

She stopped so suddenly that a maid walking just behind her cannoned into her. After apologising, Joanna continued on her way, but the startling thought that had halted her remained. Why would he ask for her by name? Had he found her out? She shuddered.

Arranging the silverware in the dining room was not a task Joanna disliked, but she could not keep her mind on it. In the mirrors reflecting the light from the busy London thoroughfare outside, the shiny spoon bowls, even the heavy silver sugar-shakers and the salt cellars, she saw herself slipping and what the consequences could have been. However, she kept enough of her wits about her to ensure the room appeared at its best before she left, softly closing the door behind her.

The dining room lay at one end of the building, near the door that was once part of the servants’ network but was now permanently locked. The staircase had been declared unsafe, but it had been so since she had arrived, and still was no nearer repair. She would have to use the door leading off one of the bedrooms, or follow the passage around to the landing.

She would face it. Mr. Lightfoot had assured her the landing was safe. Cautiously she stepped out, and when she reached it, slid her shod foot along the place where she’d slipped a few days before, where a small part of the marble showed past the edge of the new carpet. It felt like the rest of the hallway used to, polished, but not too slippery.