All Afternoon with a Scandalous Marquess (11 page)

Madame Venna gave him an exasperated look. “You do what all men do when it comes to acknowledging their visitations to the Golden Pearl. You simply lie.”

Chapter Thirteen

It was not his concern.

Miss Catherine Deverall was not family, nor was she acquainted with any of his friends. He had only heard part of a conversation, one he would have never overheard if he had not sought out Madame Venna to appease the woman who had given birth to him.

He would have never discovered the paper with the lady’s name.

Perhaps it was the fool’s errand Lady Cockrell sent him on, but his conscience would not rest until he learned more about the woman who had ties to Madame Venna and the Golden Pearl.

Once his curiosity was satisfied that the young woman was in no danger of being harmed, he would let the matter drop. His instincts prickled his spine, warning him that there was something peculiar afoot. Particularly if it involved Madame Venna’s companion. Saint did not trust the man. Nor had he contemplated the sort of people the proprietress dealt with beyond the elegant gallery and drawing rooms of the Golden Pearl. While the woman would be furious if she learned of his meddling, he was attempting to protect her as well.

After making a few discreet inquiries on Bow Street, Saint had secured Miss Catherine Deverall’s general whereabouts. A casual stroll about the square and some friendly conversation in a local tavern proved quite helpful.

Unmarried, the young woman lived with her housekeeper in a modest terrace house. He had yet to discern her means of income, though the fact that she lived alone hinted she might have a wealthy protector. She would not be the first woman to use her body to fill her belly and put a roof over her head. Nevertheless, a friendly neighbor dissuaded him of the notion when she told him that Miss Deverall lived a quiet, respectable life. Perhaps, then, her independence was the result of an inheritance?

Her neighbors could only speculate. According to the gossip, Miss Deverall was a shy, sweet-natured creature who was charitable to the downtrodden. She visited hospitals, donated foodstuffs, and was generous to those who sought her assistance. She was a veritable paragon, Saint mused. He could not fathom why she would have gained Madame Venna’s notice.

That was, until he caught a glimpse of her.

Seated in his coach, Saint had been about to order his coachman to drive on when a hackney coach slowed in front of Miss Deverall’s residence. A few minutes later, a young blond woman disembarked. Even from a distance, it was evident that she was lovely. Taller than most women, she strolled away from the coach with enviable confidence and grace. The mulberry pelisse she wore was made of silk with a narrow skirt and a high ruff collar. Saint was no expert when it came to ladies’ fashions, but the dress seemed akin to the popular styles this season. Lemon kid gloves and half boots complemented her attire, as did the fancy straw bonnet with several ostrich feather plumes tucked in the right side and dyed the rich color of her dress.

Unaware that she was being observed, she continued up the short walk and up the stairs. The front door opened and she was greeted by the housekeeper. Eager to catch up to his quarry, Saint was tempted to chase after the lady and boldly knock on her front door. Unfortunately, he had no reason to approach her. In fact, if she was truly the shy, gentle creature her neighbors described, his boldness might frighten her.

No, it was best to retreat and make plans. A public setting was required for their first meeting, he decided. It had worked in the past. A year earlier Vane’s mother, Lady Netherley, had conspired with Miss Isabel Thorne to ambush his marriage-wary friend. Warned in advance that Vane would be patronizing a particular dressmaker’s shop with his mistress, Isabel had brilliantly executed a stratagem that had fooled Vane into believing their meeting was accidental. The couple had gone on to marry.

Saint did not require an intricate scheme to capture Miss Deverall’s interest. He needed only a brief introduction to satisfy his curiosity that the lady was not in any danger of being ensnared by Madame Venna or the Golden Pearl. Then he would bid farewell, and leave the good woman alone.

Virtuous ladies, even beautiful ones, held little appeal.

Saint preferred a woman whose nature was as wicked as his.

*   *   *

Later that same evening, Madame Venna sat in a nondescript black coach outside the Black Keys tavern on the outskirts of town. It was near midnight, and the flintlock pocket pistol hidden beneath her shawl on her lap provided a little comfort for her meeting with Mr. Royles. Her coachman was also armed with a brace of pistols.

It was just good sense that she traveled with an armed guard, although she had no personal qualms about emptying her pistol into Mr. Royles’s black heart. If it came to it, she would help the coachman dig the old man’s grave and dance upon it. However, she was not quite ready to leave London. The Golden Pearl was a profitable venture, and she was too young to retire.

Her head came up at the sharp whistle, a warning from her coachman that someone was approaching. She listened as Mr. Royles called out a greeting and her man replied. Such courtly manners for the dirty business that was about to take place.

There was a knock on the door of the coach.

“Are you in there, poppet?” Mr. Royles inquired, the slight slur in his voice revealing his whereabouts this evening.

“Enter.”

She remained seated, preferring that he come to her. Instead of wearing a half-mask this evening, she had donned a black veil to conceal her face. She was striving for anonymity, and Madame Venna’s attire was too memorable for midnight adventures.

“Good evening, my girl,” Royles said cheerfully as he removed his hat. “Dressed for a funeral, are you?”

She slowly raised the veil and adjusted it so she could see him without the hindrance. “I thought you would appreciate a peek at what I shall be wearing to yours in what I pray is the near future.”

Royles chuckled and shook his head. He grabbed the leather strap and used it to pull himself into the interior of the coach. “And will you mourn me when I pass?”

Madame Venna’s eyes hardened as she stared at the man who had terrified her as a child. “You’ll have to look to your wife if you want someone to shed a tear or two at your grave.”

“And here I thought you might give me lodgings while I’m in town. After all, we are family.”

Old rage rose up in her breast, and she had to fight the urge to curl her lip in contempt. “You are no kin of mine. A fact I get down on my knees nightly and thank my maker for.”

Martin Royles huffed. “If you’re on your knees at all, it is to spread your thighs so men can rut and spill themselves into your wicked body.”

“When you return to Mrs. Royles, you can tell her all about the depravity I’ve been up to since I left her watchful eye. She always did pride herself on being in the right,” she said drily.

It mattered little that she had been judged by the Royles long before she had lost her virginity. Besides, she suspected Mr. Royles lusted after her wealth rather than her sullied body. Her nose wrinkled as the stench of unwashed clothes and stale urine filled the small compartment. “Shall we get down to business?”

“In a hurry to return to your flesh palace?”

“Naturally. This business of blackmail tends to turn my stomach, and I have yet to enjoy my supper,” she said smoothly.

Madame Venna picked up the leather drawstring purse and heaved it at Mr. Royles’s chest. The impact caused him to grunt, but he managed to secure the purse with both hands.

“I trust this will suffice for your silence.”

Mr. Royles tugged on the opening and pulled out a coin. He held it up to the lantern and grinned, exposing a missing eyetooth. “Aye, this will do, poppet. For a time, that is.”

“For your sake, make it a long while, Mr. Royles. If you ruin my business, there will be no point in paying you to keep my secrets.”

“Have you forgotten who is in charge?”

“Not in the slightest.” The corners of her mouth curled into an unpleasant smile as she revealed the pocket pistol she had been concealing. Ignoring his curse, she aimed it directly at his black heart. “I am willing to be generous because I have unfinished business in London and I am not prepared to leave as of yet. However, mark my words, Mr. Royles. There will come a day when your silence will no longer be necessary.”

“You wouldn’t pull that trigger on an unarmed man.”

“You would be amazed what I would be willing to do to protect myself,” she said, her finger tightening on the trigger. “Don’t try my patience. Such a miscalculation regarding my daring or affection for you would be quite fatal.”

Chapter Fourteen

After her encounter with Martin Royles, Catherine was eager to shed her Madame Venna guise and spend the day running errands and doing mundane tasks. She found herself relaxing as she mixed with the masses and conducted business with merchants. Catherine lived simply, albeit comfortably. There was no reason why she could not enjoy her wealth without calling attention to it.

If given a choice, she would spend her days and nights as Catherine Deverall. Her neighbors and the merchants treated her with respect. She had no past. Her present was filled with good deeds and charity, a small penance she had placed upon herself for the decadently wicked life Madame Venna lived. There were no men in Catherine’s life to tempt her. Her modest terrace house might as well be a nunnery. No carnal acts or depraved vices had ever sullied her bed. As for the future, only one fact was certain. Her life in London would eventually come to an end.

And with her departure, the Golden Pearl would close or be sold to another. Catherine’s heart clenched painfully just contemplating it. She and Madame Venna were united in sorrow at the notion of shutting the Golden Pearl’s doors. Nevertheless, Catherine knew Martin Royles was a foreshadowing of troubling times. As much as she loved being Madame Venna, the woman knew too many secrets, and that made her dangerous to others.

Then there were Lord Greenshield and Lady Eyre.

Her parents. As far as she knew, Lady Eyre was unaware that her long-forgotten daughter was alive and living in London. Lord Greenshield, on the other hand, was becoming a problem. Catherine had turned away his solicitor several times, but the man was determined to have an audience.

Well, the man had a long wait ahead of him.

Catherine refused to speak to him or any other person who represented Lord Greenshield’s interests. She had nothing to say to the man who had cast his child away, allowing her to be raised by people like the Royleses. She suspected that her sire was prepared to bribe her, hoping she would leave London for greener pastures.

However, her loyalties or her silence could not be bought. If Lord Greenshield persisted, she would do something reckless—like reveal to the
ton
that the earl’s lost daughter was none other than the proprietress of the Golden Pearl. The news would be scandalous. Lady Eyre had a husband and children. Both she and Lord Greenshield would be ridiculed, and she would be ruined as well, but not in the same manner.

The odds were still in her favor—just the way she preferred them. In the end, her parents had more to lose than she did. Satisfied with her opinion, she smiled graciously at the gentleman who tipped his hat respectfully as she passed. Although there was no recognition in his gaze, she recognized the man as one of the Golden Pearl’s patrons.

As Catherine discreetly glanced over her shoulder to see if he was watching her, she collided into a solid wall that turned out to be the rather nicely muscled chest of a male pedestrian. The books tucked under her arms scattered like startled birds.

She gasped as familiar hands reached out to steady her. Otherwise she would have fallen quite inelegantly on her backside. It was Lord Sainthill grinning down at her rosy countenance. In all the years she had walked these streets as she ran her numerous errands, she had never encountered him.

Recovering quickly, she stepped back and curtsied. “I beg your pardon, my lord,” she said, lowering her gaze. “I pray you are not injured.”

The demure inclination of her head was just a precaution. Her clear gray eyes were memorable, but she was confident the marquess would not connect a stranger on the street with Madame Venna. Her gray eyes tended to reflect the colors of the masks that she wore. Even if Sainthill had noted the color of the proprietress of the Golden Pearl’s eyes, the hue varied, depending on the light.

“I’m unharmed, dear lady,” he said politely as she felt his gaze on her face. “However, your books…”

Ah, yes, the books she had been carrying. Catherine had been returning them to the subscription library just ahead. “I hope they have not been damaged, since they are on loan,” she said with dismay.

At the same time, she and Sainthill bent down to retrieve the three books. Her forehead connected with his chin. Laughing at her clumsiness, she straightened and met his gaze. She recognized the male appreciation in his warm blue eyes as well as the humor over their awkward encounter.

“Allow me.”

Catherine stood, observing Sainthill while he gathered her books.

“A little dusty, but no damage done,” he said cheerfully. He shuffled through the books. “
Ambrosio; or, The Monk: A Romance
by M. G. Lewis, the first tome of Laurent Pierre Bérenger’s
Poésies,
and
The Works of Lucian
 … the Greek satirist?”

“Yes,” she replied, annoyed that he was surprised by her choice of books. She swallowed her sharp retort as she recalled that Sainthill did not recognize her. He was merely being condescending to all women. “Give me the books. I was returning them to the subscription library.”

He did not offer her the books. “I have insulted you.”

“Not at all.”

“I have, and I wish to make amends by escorting you to your destination.”

“That is unnecessary.” She nodded in the direction of the library. “I do not wish to inconvenience you, when you were clearly heading in the opposite direction.”