4. Summer’s Heat Building
SUMMER’S HEAT BUILDING
It was nearly noon on the last day of July, and the summer heat had settled over London without mercy. Relief would come in time. Until then, there was nothing to do but endure it.
Mercifully, The Domus remained cooler than the street outside.
Nell had ordered the shutters closed against the sun that morning, while the windows overlooking the shaded courtyard stood open to catch whatever breeze might find its way between the buildings.
The thick walls and high ceilings held back the worst of the heat.
Even so, the house was warmer than usual, and heat prickled beneath Rose’s ebony wig as she fastened the final pin into place.
In the mirror, the woman looking back at her appeared composed enough. The dark hair made her pale skin almost translucent. A touch of paint deepened her eyes and made them seem more mysterious.
With small pearl drops at her ears and a plain dove-gray gown buttoned neatly to her throat, Rose might have been anyone. A lady calling upon a friend. A widow of modest means. A woman with nowhere particular to be.
In daylight, most of the ladies at The Domus could pass for anyone at all.
The brighter gowns, the perfume, the careful display of shoulder and bosom—that belonged to the evening.
Rose pressed another pin into place, though the wig already felt far too heavy for such a day.
And despite doing her best to bury the memory, her thoughts drifted, yet again, to that masquerade.
That morning after, she’d had no choice but to admit to her failure. Lord Reginald had left before she could find him.
That was all she’d told Nell.
She had said nothing about the masked stranger in the garden. Nothing about the way she had clutched his coat or the rough sound he had made against her throat. Nothing about how, for one reckless stretch of time, she had wanted rather than performed.
Rose had expected the memory to fade.
It had not.
Weeks had passed, but the encounter remained strangely clear. The moonlight. His trembling hands. The fierce, almost startled way he had responded to her.
Her monthly course had arrived when expected, there had been no danger of that sort.
And yet the memory lingered—the reckless intimacy of it, and the unsettling knowledge of how badly she’d wanted him.
She had known dozens of men, yet she had never experienced anything quite like that night. She suspected she would remember the masked stranger for the rest of her life.
Rose pushed the final pin into her wig with more force than necessary.
The stranger was gone.
Until this morning, Lord Reginald Preston had been beyond her reach as well.
The Duke of Malum’s brother, it seemed, had taken to sea almost immediately after the masquerade, leaving The Domus and everyone inside it waiting.
Rose had told herself his absence was a good thing.
Life went on as usual.
Many of their regular gentlemen had gone to their country estates, and the house had grown quieter.
They still received clients, of course, but the long evenings were less crowded.
Tempers had eased. The ladies lingered over breakfast. Even Nell had stopped prowling the corridors as though expecting disaster to come through the front door.
It had almost been peaceful.
Almost.
The question of Lord Reginald’s plans had still hung over them all.
Would he keep The Domus? Sell it? Close it outright?
No one knew.
And this morning, according to the Brazen Belle, his ship had returned to London.
Rose wished it had not.
She wished Lord Reginald had remained at sea and left them alone.
But if there was one good thing about his return, it was that the waiting might finally end. With any luck, they’d learn that their fears had been for nothing, and The Domus would continue much as it always had.
And if luck failed them—
Well.
They would simply have to make some of their own.
Rose stood from her vanity and smoothed her skirts.
Right.
Tea first.
Then they would decide how best to handle their wandering lord.
The large morning room off the kitchen was bright with sunlight when Rose entered. Light streamed through the tall windows and caught upon the gilt frames, polished furniture, and pale cream walls.
Marianne and Violet had gathered around the tea tray at one end of the table, a copy of the Brazen Belle spread open between them.
Lord Reginald’s name appeared in bold near the top.
The moment Rose entered, both women looked up.
“I see you’ve heard,” she said.
“The whole of London has heard,” Violet replied. “Or will have by dinner.”
Marianne leaned across the table, eyes bright with curiosity. “Do you suppose he truly came back for a woman?”
“He’s rumored to have been courting Malum’s sister-in-law,” Violet said.
“So why leave at all?” Marianne added.
Rose poured herself a cup of tea. “Perhaps he returned because his ship requires repairs. As the article says.”
Violet watched her. “That is a very dull answer.”
“It is also the most likely.”
At that moment, Nell, the courtesans’ matronly manager walked in the room, closing the door behind her with a sharp snap. “Ah, so you’ve seen it too. Mr. Huxley received word this morning. Lord Reginald intends to inspect the books today.”
“Today?”
“At noon.”
Rose glanced toward the clock.
They had less than ten minutes.
Marianne straightened in her chair. Violet’s teasing expression vanished.
“Well.” Rose gingerly set down the teapot. “It’s possible this is good news,” she said.
Nell gave her a flat look. “You have a peculiar understanding of good news.”
“Once he sees how profitable the house is—”
“I received a visit earlier this morning from a particularly impertinent little man,” Nell interrupted, her mouth tightening. “A Mr. Sedgewick. A solicitor claiming to act on Lord Reginald’s behalf.”
Rose exchanged a glance with Violet.
“He demanded the keys to the cellar and attic by three o’clock. Said surveyors for interested purchasers wished to inspect the foundations.”
“Purchasers?” Marianne echoed.
“I reminded him that Lord Reginald had not yet arrived, let alone made any decisions.” Nell’s mouth tightened.
“Mr. Sedgewick informed me that any decision remaining was merely a formality. According to him, Lord Reginald’s instructions were quite explicit.
The house is to be cleared as soon as the ink is dry, so that his lordship may return to his proper place at sea. ”
Silence settled over the room.
A solicitor.
Rose wrapped both hands around her cup. “Perhaps Lord Reginald is merely exploring all of his options.”
“Getting rid of us seems to be his favorite,” Violet said quietly.
“We only have the word of some solicitor, one who no doubt sees the sale as nothing but a hefty commission.” Rose forced herself to meet their worried gazes. “He can do his convincing, we can do ours.”
“And how do you suggest we do that?” Marianne asked.
“He needs to see The Domus for what it is. A lucrative business. Well-run. Discreet. The accounts are sound, the staff know their duties, and the house requires very little from him beyond allowing it to continue.”
Nell studied her.
“Selling it might bring him money today,” Rose added. “Keeping it would bring him money for years.”
“And if he has already made up his mind?” Violet asked.
“Then we change it.”
Nell’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. “That sounds very simple when you say it.”
Before Rose could argue further, Mr. Huxley appeared in the doorway, his spectacles sitting slightly crooked upon his nose.
“His lordship has arrived.”
The four women went still.
Mr. Huxley glanced toward Nell. “He said he would like to speak with you, Mrs. Smith.”
Nell got to her feet without complaint. “Understood. Thank you Mr. Huxley.”
Rose set down her cup and stood as well. “I’m coming too.”
Mr. Huxley looked uncertain, but Nell only gave Rose a brief nod.
At last, then.
They followed him upstairs through the quiet corridors, stopping outside what had once been the Duke of Malum’s office. Lord Reginald’s office now.
Mr. Huxley knocked once, then opened the door.
Rose lifted her chin and followed Nell inside.
The room was just grand enough to be imposing, and comfortable for its owner, without being welcoming.
Dark walnut paneling lined the walls, broken only by tall windows overlooking the gray courtyard.
A black marble hearth stood cold beneath a narrow mantel, and a thick Aubusson rug cushioned the sound of their footsteps.
There were no fussy decorations. No collection of costly nonsense meant to impress visitors.
Only a broad mahogany desk polished to a deep shine.
Quiet opulence. The sort that did not need to announce itself.
Rose had taken only two steps into the room when the man behind the desk looked up.
She stopped.
Recognition struck with such force that, for a moment, she could only stare.
Without the mask and moonlight, his face seemed sharper, the lines harder than she remembered. But there was no mistaking him.
The stranger from the garden—the man who had been so fierce in his wanting and yet strangely innocent beneath it—now sat behind the desk that Lord Malum had presided over The Domus from for more than a decade.
Which meant that her secret lover was also…
Lord Reginald Preston.
The new owner of The Domus.
He had apparently discarded his coat despite the formality of the meeting.
A dark waistcoat fitted closely across his broad chest, while the cuffs of his white shirt had been unfastened and turned back.
His gray neckcloth sat low and carelessly tied, as though he had submitted to it only because London demanded one.
His silver eyes passed over Mr. Huxley, then Nell.
Then they landed upon Rose.
For half a heartbeat, she thought the wig might save her. That he might see only another woman from The Domus in a sober gray gown.
His gaze narrowed.
And he knew. Of course he knew.
But she could not acknowledge anything yet. Better to wait.
Nell moved forward before the silence became any more uncomfortable.