Ashlyn Macnamara (32 page)

Still, having his past lovers flung in her face cut surprisingly deep, and the cut was not a clean one. Like a dull knife, it tore into her chest, through flesh and bone and muscle to leave a ragged scar, alongside the scar Padgett had left.

She shouldn’t let it affect her, shouldn’t let it show. Beyond his vow to bring Jack home, George had made
her no promises. He hadn’t attempted to win her affections through false declarations. Good Lord, he had asked
her
to become his mistress not even a week ago. True, he’d also asked her to marry him, but that was only because he’d forgotten himself. He’d dissembled nothing.

Her own mind had betrayed her once again. It had allowed itself to construct yet another fantasy, one that permitted her to justify giving herself to another man.

No more.

She was going to get her son back, and from then on, she was through with men using her for their pleasure.
But you also took pleasure
. More than pleasure, it was paradise.

She cast the thought aside, thrust it from her mind the way God had cast Adam and Eve from Eden. She deserved it no more than they.

“I see,” she repeated, firming her voice along with her chin. She could do this. She could hold herself apart. Eventually, the feelings he stirred in her heart would fade. Eventually, she’d forget she nearly let herself fall in love. “I do not care about your former mistresses or even your current one.”

“There is no current one.” His gaze bored into her.

Heat rushed up the back of her neck. “I want my son back,” she said, ignoring the prickle of embarrassment. “If you know how to find him, I’d appreciate you telling me.”

There. That sounded sufficiently cold. If nothing else, her family had taught her how to retreat behind a façade of manners.

“I suspect we’ll find Jack in London,” he replied stiffly. “I can take our family’s carriage and have him back to you by tomorrow.”

“You’ll take the carriage? Oh, no. You’re bringing me with you.”

He didn’t reply straightaway. Instead, he opened his
mouth a few times, as if he’d decided on the proper response, only to close his lips just as quickly.

She glared at him. “You cannot expect me to remain here alone like some simpering milksop.”

His shoulders lifted as he pulled in a long breath. “No, I suppose not. But I must warn you. I’m taking you to my former mistress’s house.”

Dear Lord, could it get any worse? If he still had his mistress’s direction, not much time could have passed since he’d ended the liaison. In fact, she still must be inhabiting the quarters he’d provided for her. She’d still be occupying the bed where he’d visited her.

Isabelle closed her eyes against a vision of some voluptuous beauty writhing beneath his expert touch. Her stomach plummeted to somewhere in the vicinity of her feet. Did this former mistress know George referred to her as such or did the woman anticipate his return to Town?

And now such a woman had Jack.

Trust me
. Yes, George had begged for her trust until she’d given in. She’d trusted Padgett as well, only to watch him abandon her the moment she’d given him what he wanted. Well, George had secured her surrender, along with her trust.

Her heart lurched in her chest, on the verge of shattering into a thousand shards. No. No, no, and no. She would get her son back, she would retain her heart, and she would move on from this episode.

Alone.

B
Y
late afternoon, the carriage clattered through the streets of Mayfair. The rumble of the wheels echoed in George’s ears, the noise unnaturally loud as if it were trying to compensate for the stony silence in the cab. If Isabelle was angry with him now, how much colder
would her fury become once she confronted the reality of Lucy?

Above all, he’d wanted to avoid introducing the two, but he couldn’t in good conscience keep Isabelle from her boy.

Damn scruples, always getting him into difficulties. Why couldn’t he lay aside the inconvenient things and do as he pleased? Why must he involve himself?

Across from him, Isabelle stared out the window at the parade of fashionable dwellings. With every passing jostle of the carriage, with every start and stop as they penetrated the heart of what had once been her world, she erected another layer of chill about herself. A pearl constructed of ice, perhaps, but ice made a brittle buffer. One solid blow would shatter the shield.

At last they shuddered to a halt at Lucy’s Bedford Street townhouse, an address outside Mayfair proper, but close enough for the other residents to be wealthy tradesmen. Walls of pale sandstone fronted the street from behind wrought-iron grillwork. It looked respectable if not completely fashionable. A prosperous merchant might choose such a dwelling. The rent on the place was certainly dear enough to line the landlord’s pockets thickly.

Isabelle peered at the wrought-iron fencing that separated the building from the pavement. The house was a great deal larger, more comfortable and more richly decorated than her house in the village. Christ, what thoughts might be running through her head?

She deserved far better than even this. She certainly grew up with better, and yet she endured worse without complaint.

The carriage rocked as the coachman leapt from the box to let the steps down. George alit first and offered his hand. She pressed her lips into a line and barely touched him as she stepped onto the pavement.

“Six years since I’ve been to Town,” she murmured. “Six years, and when I come back, it’s to pay a call on a courtesan.” She shook out her faded gray skirts. “And I’m dressed no better than a servant.”

She might have made such a comment sound rancorous. Lord only knew Lucy would have in Isabelle’s place. But Isabelle sounded merely embarrassed and a touch sad. A wash of pink colored her cheeks.

“Would you rather wait in the carriage?” George ventured. God, let her say yes. Lucy would take one look at Isabelle and leap straight for the jugular.

“If I meant to wait, I’d have stayed behind in Kent.” Her reply was cold, yes, but she’d once again retreated behind her shield of ice. Let her remain there for now. She was going to need all the protection she could get.

He mounted the stairs and let the knocker fall once, firmly. Presently, the door creaked open.

“Miss Padgett ain’t receiving callers, unless—” Lucy’s maid broke off midsentence, and her eyes went round. “Oh, dear.”

George arched a brow in a practiced affectation of boredom. “Indeed.”

“She told me ye wouldn’t be back, sir. Called ye all manner of names, she did.”

“I imagine she did.” He inspected his nails. “However—”

“Does this mean ye’ve changed yer mind?” Impertinent as her mistress, this one. Small wonder she couldn’t find a more respectable employer.

“I mean to call on Miss Padgett, and before you claim she’s not at home, shall I remind you who hired you for this position?” Not only hired her, but overlooked a suspect character reference.

“That ye did, sir.” Any other maid would have smiled and blushed. Bessie looked him straight in the eye, her cheeks retaining their habitual sallow tinge.

“Glad you remembered.” He made to step past her.

“Ye can’t go in there, sir,” Bessie said in a rush.

“Why?” He drummed his fingers against a marble statue of a cherub just beyond the threshold. The devil? When had Lucy acquired this monstrosity? More importantly, who had received the bill? “Is she entertaining another gentleman?”

Lucy finding another protector would be an absolute godsend. Only how long would she keep him once her belly started growing round?

“Ye might say that, sir, yes.”

He might say that? “Yes, well, I suppose I’m a gentleman only in a manner of speaking. Now let me pass.”

“Mr. Upperton.” Damn it, Isabelle sounded as outraged as any number of society’s sticklers who might have caught their only daughter alone with a notorious rake. Or him, for that matter, although he made a point of avoiding fresh-faced chits. “If my son has been exposed to … to improper carryings on, I shall never—” She broke off and looked away.

No doubt she’d been about to say she’d never forgive him, only she’d remembered Jack’s disappearance was not George’s fault. No matter, she had plenty of other reasons not to forgive him.

He turned to her. “I’m sure Jack’s safe and sound.”

Lucy possessed a catty streak, but surely she wouldn’t harm an innocent, if rambunctious, boy.

“I shall see that for myself.” Isabelle pushed past him, past a shocked Bessie, and on into the foyer.

“What is the meaning—” Damn. All the commotion must have drawn Lucy from wherever she’d been hiding. “Who are you, and what do you mean, simply walking in off the street?” Lucy’s voice dripped with hauteur.

George stepped into the foyer to find the two women sizing each other up.

Lucy’s upper lip curled as she eyed Isabelle’s garments.
“The servants’ entrance is below, but you may as well move on. I’m not looking for staff at present.”

Isabelle peered down her nose at the other woman. “Where have you hidden my son?”

If the two were in competition for disdain, George wouldn’t be sure where to place his wager.

“What makes you think I want anything to do with a common brat?”

“That’s enough, Lucy.” George advanced across the parquet.

“You.” Lucy went white beneath the generous layer of rouge on her cheeks. “My goodness, haven’t you come down in the world.”

He ignored the gibe. “We know you’ve got Jack. Your brother signed the ransom note.” A lie, but what did that matter when one dealt with kidnappers and charlatans? “We’ve simply decided to change the conditions of the exchange.”
Thump, thump, thump
. His boots struck the floor in an even rhythm, and with every thud, Lucy’s complexion resembled chalk a bit more. “Do you know what they do with kidnappers? I wonder what a year or two in Newgate would do for your looks.”

“This was not my scheme,” Lucy protested. “It was all Roger’s.”

“Then you know where the boy is.”

Instead of replying, Lucy touched the back of her hand to her forehead, heaved a great sigh and crumpled to the floor, as smoothly as any Covent Garden actress.

Isabelle looked pointedly from the silk-swathed heap on the floor to George. “How convenient.”

“She always did have an impeccable sense of timing.” He tried to smile but feared he’d managed no better than a grimace.

Bessie tiptoed to her mistress, as if afraid of waking her. “P’rhaps the herb woman knows what to do.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” George said. “She’s feigning. A good slap—”

“Herb woman?” Isabelle sounded impossibly hopeful. What were the chances?

Bessie nodded. “Ma’am heard about her in the village and had her brought in. Funny name. Not Bingham or Bingley or anything ye’d expect.”

“Biggles?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

Isabelle stretched out a trembling hand. “And Jack’s here? Where? I beg you, take me to him.”

Bessie caught her lower lip between her teeth. “I’m afraid he’s a bit poorly.”

Just as Lucy had done earlier, Isabelle went white, only the effect was entirely different. That expression of terror set George’s heart pounding. It ignited an urge in him to go to her, take her in his arms and protect her from all the world’s ills. If only she’d allow the gesture.

“What’s the matter with him?” Her voice shook along with her limbs. “He’s never ill. Oh, take me to him.”

“He’s above stairs.” Bessie pointed with her chin. “He’ll be fine in a day or two. Ma’am thought to keep him quiet with sweets. He’s just had a few too many.”

Isabelle strode toward the staircase. “Thank heavens she thought to search out Biggles then.”

Bessie followed in her wake. “Oh, ma’am didn’t bring in Biggles for your boy. She wanted someone knowledgeable about …” The maid cast a quick glance at George and whispered something in Isabelle’s ear. He caught something about restoring female regularity. “Wanted to make sure she didn’t drop a brat.”

Between school and his boxing club, George had received more than his fair share of punches to the gut. Bessie’s declaration felt strikingly similar—a heavy blow that tore the air from his lungs, followed by the
burning of trying to get his breath back. He ought to be relieved that she wasn’t going to saddle him with the responsibility of a child, and part of him was quite happy to learn he wouldn’t be supporting Lucy’s babe for the next twenty or so years.

Another part of him wanted to smash something, preferably something fussy and fragile like the godawful statue of a cherub that now adorned the foyer.

Instead, he knelt on the floor, reined in his temper and tapped Lucy’s cheek. She opened her eyes immediately. Naturally. She’d been feigning her swoon.

“Were you planning on notifying me of your change in circumstance any time soon?” he asked through gritted teeth. “Or were you going to see how long you could get away with duping me?”

She pushed herself upright but at the same time shrunk away. Good. He’d never stoop to hitting a female, but let her worry. “This wasn’t my scheme. It was all Roger’s. All of it.”

“But you stood to profit from going along with it, didn’t you?” He leaned forward. His angry side had seized him in an unbreakable grip. “Didn’t you?”

“Naturally,” she said as calmly as if she were choosing a new gown at the modiste’s.
Naturally, I’ll have the silk. Mr. Upperton is footing the bill
.

“Naturally,” he spat back. “You don’t do anything unless there’s a profit to be had.”

She shrugged. “Business is business.”

“My business with you is through. I expect you to have vacated the premises by the end of the week.”

“End of the week? How am I to find a new protector so quickly?”

He raked his gaze down her body. To think, at one time he’d found her attractive. Now he only saw vulgarity. “I’m sure you’ll manage. You were a good enough fuck.”

“And I suppose you’ll have installed my replacement by Friday.” She nodded at the ceiling. “I do hope you plan on dressing her better.”

“Or perhaps you’ll be fortunate to find a dupe wealthy enough to take over the lease on this place. You won’t even have to move.”