Thirteen
Sadie O’Toole perched on a high stool in the larder of his lordship’s hoity-toity kitchen.
It was bad enough she’d been shooed around to the back side of his town house to be offered only grudging admittance by his kitchen help.
Now His Nibs was keeping her waiting beneath the strings of garlic and cured hams. He’d have given more immediate attention to her if she’d been a boil on his backside.
Well, boils could be a nasty surprise for a body what ignored ’em too long. She’d seen ’em turn septic, and if his lordship kept her waiting much longer, she was of a mind to do the same.
The footman’s eyes had bugged out when Sadie presented one of the monogrammed cuff links as her calling card. She hated parting with it, but she had the other one stashed away safe and sound, all ready to be sent to where it would do the most damage should something unfortunate happen to her.
She’d make sure His Nibs knew it before she left him this night, too.
Sadie shook her head. She’d always been too softhearted where gentlemen were concerned. She held the winning hand. It was time she made her position perfectly clear. No point in leaving that sort of thing to chance.
Finally, the footman reappeared in the kitchen and crooked a finger at her. “Come with me.”
She hopped down off the high stool, expecting to be led up the stairs into the private parts of the grand house. She snickered at that thought.
Private parts, indeed. The story of my life…
But instead, the footman headed for the back door.
“Wait a half a mo’, guv,” Sadie said. “I’m not leaving till I see his lordship. An’ ye doubt me, I’ll start caterwauling fit to bring down the house.”
“There’d be no point. My lord isn’t here,” the fellow in deep burgundy livery said. “So if you are earnest in your desire to see him, you’d best come along. And quietly.”
There was nothing else for it. She followed the footman out and climbed into the waiting hansom. Sadie was only mildly surprised when the footman came with her.
If this isn’t on the up-and-up, ’spect he means to see me out of this high-in-the-instep neighborhood for certain, Sadie thought grimly.
The cab rattled over the same cobbled streets she’d slogged along on foot to reach St. James’s Square.
Sadie sighed. At least she was traveling back to Covent Garden in style, and if the footman wasn’t the most talkative of companions, he was at least one of the finest-looking fellows she’d seen in a very long time.
But His Nibs was going to regret trying to shuffle her to the side. It wasn’t in her nature to give up without a fight. She only needed someone with more money and power in her corner if she had any hope of getting her place back. Or something like her place.
The cab finally stopped before a dingy-looking pub called The Hare and Hound. Its shuttered windows sent tiny spokes of light through the cracks, mere hints of the warmth and candlelight within.
“His lordship is inside. Ask to be taken into the back room,” the footman said. “I’d advise you not to keep him waiting.”
“Hmph!” She climbed out of the cab without a speck of help, either from the footman or the cabby.
As if his lordship wasn’t the one who’d kept her waiting. Lord or lackey, all men were the same.
Especially once you shuck ’em out of their clothes.
Sadie should know. She’d been a whore for twenty years before his lordship finally came up with the chinks to help her open a house of pleasure. She’d been able to stop lifting her own tired skirts and live by skimming the income of those who still did.
Not that His Nibs did it out of the kindness of his exceedingly tiny heart. She had the goods on him and no mistake. He couldn’t avoid giving her a leg up.
And not the way he used to, either, she thought with a wry curl of her lip.
Why did men with the smallest winkies always insist on the most awkward positions? At least, thank God, that part of her life was over. She didn’t spread her legs for anyone now unless it was her idea.
But His Nibs had come through when she needed him to. Now he was going to help her again, if he knew what was good for him.
No one would put her out of her own place. Not even if the young gentleman did have what looked like official papers in hand.
His Nibs had better right the situation and damn quick, too. Or Sadie would see him swing. Hell, she’d dance on his coffin.
And she had the means to do it, too.
***
For the next two days, Nathaniel saw little of Georgette aside from the time he spent sitting across from her in the grand dining room each evening.
As far as she knows.
Nathaniel was aware of every place she went and had been able to shadow her effectively. To stay apprised of Georgette’s schedule, Nate had enlisted the help of Reuben Darling. Once he explained that his sole interest was in keeping Georgette safe, Nate found a willing partner in the footman.
Mercy had been more difficult. She wasn’t about to spy on her mistress, she claimed. But it only took the promise of sixpence a week and she was suddenly eager to provide him with eyes and ears inside the secret world of Georgette’s chambers.
He’d watched covertly from the little balcony as Mr. Gooch drilled Georgette on her dance steps.
Nate could barely restrain a cheer when she sailed through the lesson without mishap.
Mr. Gooch, on the other hand, was so flummoxed, his usually pasty complexion turned an unhealthy puce.
The dance master had been forced to admit to Lady Yorkingham that there was no need for further instruction.
“Lady Georgette is now fully prepared to charm the royals,” Mr. Gooch had announced grandly, as if his time with her was responsible for the improvement in Georgette’s grace and carriage.
If he thought she did well with the line dances, the man should see her waltz, Nate thought with a wry grin.
Thanks to Reuben and Mercy, Nathaniel had tailed Georgette on her visits to the modiste for fittings. He’d followed at a discreet distance as Georgette and her mother paid social calls on prominent matrons.
In those cases, Nathaniel was thankful to be in semi-exile. Nothing was more tedious than balancing teacups and finger sandwiches on one’s knees while trying to remain awake through exhaustive conversations about the weather.
All in all, it was a satisfactory arrangement, except for the fact that he couldn’t really spend any time with Georgette. He was beginning to feel a bit like those courtly lovers she was so keen on. Like the lovesick medieval swain, he could only worship his lady from afar.
He’d much rather worship her up close. And not just to satisfy Mr. Alcock’s Machiavellian schemes, either.
Still, this hidden game of cat-and-mouse was the best he could manage at present. His minions in Yorkingham House had been scrupulously efficient in their reports to him.
So when he pushed aside the threadbare curtains on the upper story of his disreputable new acquisition in Covent Garden, he wasn’t surprised to see Georgette and Mercy making their way down Lackaday Lane.
He checked his pocket watch, then returned the gold timepiece to its place. “Right on time, Georgie.”
If he hadn’t spoken to Mercy after breaking his fast that morning, he’d have been furious with Georgette for daring this “rescue mission” without Mr. Darling at her side.
But the maid had assured him that Tuesday mornings were the bully’s half day off at Madam Bouchard’s, so the physical danger to Georgette was minimal.
Just in case, he’d decided to drop in unannounced in a few moments, both to make sure Georgette was all right and to surprise her with how industrious he’d been in the last couple days. Somehow, he had to get back into her good graces and this was the only thing he could think of.
The only thing she might accept from him now.
***
Vesta was the virginal Roman goddess of fire, the embodiment of the hearth, purity, and all wifely virtues. The whore who went by the same unlikely name pulled her wrapper up over her shoulder, but not before Georgette caught sight of a purpling bruise.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, duchess,” Vesta said, “but if I was you, I’d make myself scarce before Madam wakes and catches you at it.”
“I’m no duchess.” At least not yet. Georgette moved further into the slightly shabby room.
She imagined the velvet coverlet didn’t appear nearly so threadbare by candle glow.
In the right light, the gilt paint on the headboard of the bed that occupied the central place in the chamber probably glinted like the real thing. “I’m a woman, just like you.”
Vesta’s lip curled as she plopped down at the foot of the bed. “You’re nothing like me.”
Georgette looked down at her lace-gloved hands. Before she renewed her acquaintance with Nathaniel Colton, she’d have agreed. Now she knew she had far more in common with Vesta than she’d suspected.
“Listen to her, Vesta,” Mercy said. “Changed my life, she did.”
The girl rolled her eyes.
Mercy went over and sat next to her friend. “I have my own room now. And no one comes into it, unless I gives ’em leave. I eat regular too, and even if I’ve spilled bootblack on the rug or ripped a bit of lace on milady’s unmentionables, no one docks my pay or makes me do without.”
So that’s what happened to the Brussels lace. Not surprised about the bootblack though, Georgette thought, but she was careful to keep her expression cautiously neutral.
Vesta narrowed her eyes at Georgette, still trying to decide whether or not to trust her.
“You don’t know me any more than I know you,” Vesta said. “Why do you care what happens to me?”
There was a time when a whole string of pious platitudes would have spilled from Georgette’s mouth. Now she weighed her words.
“How old are you, Vesta?”
“Nineteen.”
Georgette struggled to keep the surprise from her face. With the dark smudges under Vesta’s eyes and the lines that were beginning to gather around her mouth, Georgette would have put her nearer to thirty.