Dearest Beast (Once Upon the East End #3)

Prologue

Mayfair, England

Rebecca Adler gulped yet another mouthful of the gin she was not supposed to be drinking.

Maudlin. That was the only accurate word to describe her mood.

Inappropriate, considering the event surrounding her: a betrothal celebration for her best friend—or the closest someone like her had to a friend—to the only man remotely worthy of the woman.

It didn’t hurt that he was completely besotted.

Which was why Rebecca, herself, had—as gently and subtly as possible—pushed the relationship.

But now that her efforts had succeeded, why could she not seem to muster the appropriate amount of joy? Rebecca smoothed her chronically wrinkled sleeves as if the action could force her into emotional compliance. Or at least erase her melancholy.

This was good. Isabelle was always going to marry. But instead of being saddled with some fop or fortune hunter or worse, someone who would stifle her essence, her friend was acquiring someone who not only loved her but also supported her exactly as she was.

A rarity. But something Isabelle certainly deserved.

Even if it was something she, herself, would never see.

Rising, Rebecca ambled to the high arched windows along the eastern wall, absorbing the night breeze. A waste of space that could be used for books, though a pleasant addition that night.

Cold, off-putting, sharp, not to mention plain, with no desire to change or yield.

The matchmaker’s words from so long ago echoed in her head.

As did their veracity. One of the unfortunate ramifications of her intelligence was an ability to read people’s reactions.

Rebecca knew where she stood with potential husbands.

The same place she stood with most people, save Isabelle and her own mother: unwanted company unless her services were needed.

Not that she minded. Being free from social entanglements permitted her more time for learning.

From the knowledge she gleaned, she’d devised tools and treatments to improve her and her mother’s midwifery practice, along with honing capabilities great enough that she was called upon to handle certain sensitive, emergency medicinal matters.

Ones in which both discretion and skill were prized.

Yes, while she lacked a pleasing disposition and appearance, her contributions were valuable, even critical. She saved lives. The most important of mitzvot.

Only shallow, silly, selfish people sought accolades or adoration or attention for performing obligations. She was above such frivolous, vapid, insipid desires. Had always been.

And while the time she’d spent with Isabelle these past three and twenty years had been pleasant—more than pleasant—she was clever enough to understand that time could not stand still.

People changed. As did their needs. Even if her friend no longer had time for her, she would cherish the time they’d spent but find a more useful occupation for her own future and thus—

The door let out a creak before hastily slamming shut. Whirling around, Rebecca stared at the man who’d entered, and groaned. Just her luck. Or lack thereof.

Apparently, her mental tirade had summoned a man whose family epitomized every quality she found distasteful.

Roger Berab. The youngest of Isabelle’s business partners—one who’d aggressively sought her friend’s hand—and lost. He lorded over the threshold, like the room was his, eyes lingering on her garments with clear, disapproving judgment.

As if there were something wrong with wearing a simple, modest, well-made gown instead of flashy fare designed to catch eyes.

“Truly?” the man said, irritation and disappointment etched on his odiously handsome face, despite the fact he had no more right to the room than she.

Infuriating to say the least. But, as Rebecca had been told for as long as she could remember, she was a virtuoso at vexation. And she’d been there first.

“What are you looking at?” she asked, matching his stance.

Berab, however, did not immediately retreat, nor even respond. No, instead, he stared at a spot above her head, as if meeting her gaze was too unpleasant to bear.

Not that his opinion mattered to her, as he possessed a series of platitudes and behaviors gleaned from a gentile comportment book instead of a personality.

“Well?” Rebecca folded her arms across her chest. “Don’t tell me you’ve lost your knack for vacuous diplomacy?” she continued, her voice rising. “Or am I not worth the trouble?”

“Neither.” He paced inside the room, his eyes finally falling upon her. “I’m looking at you, Miss Adler.”

Rebecca squinted in the low light, working to decipher the insult in his tone. None was obviously detectable. But who would ever desire to look at her? Was the man a complete dunce?

Possible. There was logic to the idea that he was a touch slow, especially given his lack of interest in anything beyond mere surfaces.

Not that she ever closely observed him, but she understood the type.

He raised a single brow at her silence. “You appear surprised. Not the reply you were expecting?”

No, I’m surprised you knew my name, as your late wife referred to me as “that one who minds Isabelle,” despite being introduced dozens of times. The retort sat on the tip of her tongue.

Not that he’d understand. Nor would he comprehend how, after Isabelle grew into an adult, Rebecca transformed into her, if not friend, companion, or perhaps confidante, not minder, despite their differences in upbringing and stations in life.

“No,” she said instead, rubbing her arms again. “I’m surprised you didn’t require smelling salts because I didn’t swoon at your mere presence.”

The man had the nerve to appear confused. “People have done that?” he asked. “God willing they weren’t injured.” His tone was almost thoughtful.

“It was a figure of speech,” she told him. Though likely he knew the same. Unless, again, he was truly foolish.

To be fair, most people, especially those of his ilk, were. Or if they weren’t originally, their brain had atrophied enough that the result was the same.

“Ah,” he said with a quick nod. “You were merely suggesting that people have reactions to my person that are overly favorable in your opinion, then?” he asked, his tone almost curious now.

Rebecca squinted up at him, attempting to glean more information from his blandly handsome face.

“Yes,” she returned, pressing her lips together.

“Right.” Another nod. “And is your objection to the substance of their opinions or to the form?” A gleam of cunning shimmered in his light brown eyes. Rebecca’s stomach dropped.

Apparently, he was not quite so dim. Nor was he above toying with her, despite their clear differences in status.

Momzer.

Blasted momzer who thought he was so superior. Who everyone treated as superior due to a few bits of luck at birth and nothing more.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t.

Especially not on that night of all nights.

“Both,” she snapped, unable to control herself.

“Even if there are a great deal more of them than you?” He had the nerve to ask in that same, now suddenly quite obnoxious, almost certainly mocking calm tone. His lip twitched. Probably because he believed he’d won.

Like always.

Rebecca glared at him.

“Only because they’re fucking schmucks,” she grumbled before she could devise a more perspicacious phrase.

“Such shocking language.” Berab had the nerve to chide, literally clucking his tongue as he sauntered deeper into the room. “Though not surprising given your background,” he added, his lips settling in a self-satisfied smirk.

If she were a lesser person, she’d have slapped him in the face. However, violence was for the feebleminded, and she was anything but—no. She was as good as him. Probably better, even if no one saw it.

Impotent frustration surged in Rebecca. She was a worthy opponent in every way. She glared at the man. He was going to acknowledge it, damn it. Somehow, someway. That night.

“I’m surprised you can define either. Or that you’re able to speak at all, given how much shit you must have swallowed kissing the ton’s tuchases,” she countered, with a smirk of her own at the wide-eyed expression the vulgarity elicited.

Good. She knew all the words and had no problem using each well.

Drawing closer, as she’d not be cowed, she raised her chin.

“As for my background, not so long ago, the community valued scholarship and learning, instead of venerating luck with capital and calling it intelligence, or worse, being guided by the gentiles’ current definition of virtuousness.

If those were still the standards, I doubt you’d have been the one to come out on top. ”

Berab had the nerve to roll his regrettably fine, light brown eyes at her. “But we live in the now, and I’ll take my chances with what and who I am.”

Oy, the arrogance. How could anyone in their community stand to be in a room with him? Money and prominence must truly be aphrodisiacs for the unenlightened. Luckily, they had the opposite effect on her. Especially in this particular package.

“Lamentable as what you are is not enough for Isabelle,” she jabbed in return.

“It must really scald your innards that your own business partner was won by one of us.” She smiled, thinking what this man must think of the now future groom.

An orphaned synagogue custodian with not a halfpenny to his name.

Like her, an Ashkenazi—the Jews who the gentiles considered inferior to their Sephardi counterparts—something most Sephardis, themselves believed. Something Berab certainly believed.

“Not even one of our rich or scholarly.” She couldn’t help but needle. “Someone who, however, has several qualities that you could not dream of possessing.”

“Like what?” he asked, his arms notably tighter across his chest.

“Like modesty, humility, caring, kindness,” she recounted as his glare hardened. “What?” she asked, when the smirk was gone, though it’d not been replaced by any sign of defeat.

There was a pause.

“You’re right.” He nodded.