Notorious Pleasures (8 page)

She watched him warily as his laughter died. He wiped at his eyes with a sleeve, inhaling deeply.

When he looked up again, the rage that lurked in his eyes made her tense further. “Listening to gossip, Lady Perfect?”

She met his savage look with a steady gaze. “Do you deny the accusation?”

“Why bother?” His mouth made an ugly twist. “You and all the other stupid, quacking, tittle-tattling gossipmongers have decided the truth. Protestations of wronged innocence would merely make me look foolish.”

Hero bit her lip at his hurtful words, staring blindly down at her hands. They were laid one on top of the other, and she was vaguely pleased to see that they didn’t mirror her inner turmoil. What did it matter to her if this man thought her “stupid” or “quacking”?

The carriage bumped to a halt. They were at the entrance to Maiden Lane. She looked across the carriage to find Reading watching her broodingly, his pale green eyes hooded.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” he said.

“What doesn’t?”

“That I have the reputation as a rake and a seducer of innocents—my
brother’s
innocent.” He waved one hand wearily, as if the matter was negligible. “I still won’t let you risk your pretty neck in St. Giles. Either you let me accompany you and protect you or I’ll go to Wakefield and Thomas. Your choice.”

He tilted his tricorne over his eyes and folded his arms across his chest, as if settling in for a nap.

She watched him incredulously for a moment, but he didn’t move. Obviously, he’d said all he was going to say.

The carriage door opened, and George, one of the two brawny footmen she’d chosen to accompany her, looked curiously in. “My lady?”

“Yes,” she said distractedly. She turned back to Reading and cleared her throat. “I’m going to inspect the building site now.”

Reading didn’t move.

Well! If he was determined to be rude, she wasn’t about to stay and try to get the man to respond. Hero got up and descended the carriage with George’s help.

Lifting her skirts, she picked her way down Maiden Lane to the spot where the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children was being rebuilt. But as she neared, her worst fears were confirmed. The building site looked deserted.

Hero dropped her skirts and frowned.

George shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Shall I see if anyone’s about, my lady?”

“Yes, do,” Hero said gratefully, and watched as George disappeared into the facade of the construction.

She sighed. It was going to be a wonderful building—if it was ever finished. They’d bought the houses around the burned wreckage of the previous home and had them pulled down. Now the foundation and facade of what would be a lovely brick building took up most of this side of the street. Hero pivoted and glanced at the other side of the narrow lane. The buildings there were built so close it looked as if they propped each other up. Wooden structures against crumbling brick, tilting upper floors precariously hanging over the lane. It was a wonder the whole mess didn’t fall down.

“My lady.”

George hailed her as he came back, trailed by a disreputable-looking character.

“This’s the only one I could find about,” George said, indicating the fellow. “Says he’s the guard.”

Hero looked in astonishment at the man. He held a half-eaten heel of bread and wore a bedraggled blue coat several sizes too big for his frame.

At her glance, he swept a tattered flat hat from his head and bowed precariously low, his graying shoulder-length hair nearly touching the ground. “M’lady.”

“What is your name?”

“Pratt.” He clutched his hat and piece of bread to his chest, his expression angelic. “If’n it please you, m’lady.”

Hero sighed. “Where are the workmen, Mr. Pratt?”

The guard screwed up his eyes as if in deep thought and looked upward. “Don’t rightly know, m’lady. I’m sure they’ll return in a bit.”

“And Mr. Thompson?”

“ ’Aven’t seen ’im in a while.” Pratt shrugged and took a bite of his bread.

Hero compressed her lips, glancing away from the man. Mr. Thompson was the architect of the new home and was in charge of building it. He’d been perfect in the planning stages, producing a lovely drawing of a new home with exact specifications. Both she and Lady Caire had been quite pleased with him. But when the actual construction began, Mr. Thompson became less reliable. Materials that were supposedly already ordered had been absent, and then their delivery delayed, causing the crew of workers that had been hired to find other work.

Lady Caire had pushed back her tour of the continent until the foundation had been laid. At that point it had seemed that the worst of the construction problems were over. They had their material, a new crew was hired, and Mr. Thompson’s apologies and assurances were profuse. But a mere month after Lady Caire’s departure, things began to go wrong again. Construction was slow; the expense reports Mr. Thompson submitted didn’t make sense to Hero; and when she made polite inquiries, he either gave vague answers or ignored her questions entirely.

And now in the middle of the day no one was at the building site!

“Thank you, Mr. Pratt,” Hero said, and turned to walk back to the carriage. “Is he sufficient to guard such a large site?” she asked George quietly.

George looked a little startled at having his opinion asked. He scratched his chin. “No, my lady, I don’t think so.”

Hero nodded. George was only confirming her own fears. She’d have to hire more guards immediately if nothing else.

She had half expected Reading to have deserted her, but as she entered her carriage, she saw that he slouched against the squabs in the same pose as when she’d left him almost an hour before. She sat and watched him as the carriage lurched forward.

He wore a rather shabby brown coat with a bottle-green waistcoat and dark brown breeches and boots. His long legs took up most of the space between the seats, his scuffed boots nearly under her seat. His black hat was still tipped over his eyes, and she noticed for the first time that his jaw bore a heavy stubble. Had he been out all night since the ball? He hadn’t moved when she entered or when the carriage started, and she could hear a faint snore coming from his parted lips. Her gaze dropped to those lips. The bottom was fuller in sleep, lax and sensuous, contrasting with the deeply masculine shadow of the stubble about his mouth.

Hero looked quickly away.

“Have you decided?” he asked, making her start.

She inhaled. Had he been feigning sleep all this time?

He sat up and stretched lazily, then glanced out the window. “Headed home, are we?”

“Yes.”

“How was it?”

“Worse than I thought.” She pursed her lips. “The architect appears to have decamped.”

He nodded, unsurprised. “And my bargain?”

“You mean your blackmail.”

He shrugged. “Call it what you like, but I’m not changing my mind. You go with me or not at all.”

She stared at her hands in her lap. Her fingers had curled into fists. She had no doubt that he would indeed tell both her brother and her fiancé if she did not take his “bargain.” Mandeville would disapprove, but it was Maximus who would put a halt to her seeing the home—and possibly to her being the patroness. She listened and obeyed her brother in all other matters, but not this one. She saw again the sweet faces of the children as they struggled with the hymn they’d practiced for her.

Hero glanced up. Reading was watching her as if he knew the thoughts going through her head. She lifted her chin. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why this sudden worry for my person? Why do you wish this bargain?”

She expected more anger, but instead a corner of his mouth kicked up, and if possible, he slouched more in his seat. “You’re a suspicious woman, Lady Perfect. Perhaps my soft heart compels me to come to the rescue of reckless maidens.”

“Humph.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t trust you.”

“That’s quite wise,” he said, widening his eyes mockingly.

She looked out the window. What choice did she really have if she wanted to continue to visit the home?

“Very well,” she said, facing him again. “You may accompany me next time I visit St. Giles.”

“Good.” He yawned and then stood to rap on the ceiling of the carriage. “You can send a note to my house whenever you wish to go. Thirty-four Golden Square.”

For a moment she was diverted by this news. “You’re not staying at Mandeville House?”

His lips twisted. “No.”

The carriage jolted to a stop and he was out the door, pausing to turn and say, “I’ll be by your house at nine tomorrow morning.”

She leaned forward. “But I hadn’t planned on going to the home again so soon!”

“Yes, but I think I can help you with your problems with the architect,” he said slowly and patiently. “Nine sharp. Agreed?”

His green eyes pinned her, and she could only nod her head mutely.

“Good,” he said again.

He leaped from the carriage and slammed the door shut. In a minute the carriage jerked forward.

Hero released a breath as she let her body relax, and for the first time she wondered,
What had Reading been doing in St. Giles?

For a moment her shoulders slumped in something perilously close to disappointment. She’d have to send back the carriage, already waiting in front. Well, he was a rake, after all. What did she expect? Morning jaunts with respectable ladies were probably not his thing at all. In fact—

“Miss me?”

The masculine murmur came so close to her back that she jumped and gave a little shriek. Hero turned to glare at Reading, who looked thoroughly disreputable and rumpled.

“Have you been out all night again?” she asked without thinking, and then had time to realize her mistake as heat crept up her neck.

He laughed as he handed her into her waiting carriage. “Of course. We rakes never sleep at night. We have far more, ah,
interesting
things to do in the dark hours.”

“Humph.” She lowered herself onto the cushions.

The strange thing was, even though his words irritated her immensely, she felt a flutter of excitement that he had indeed showed up for their appointment.

“You, on the other hand,” Reading continued as he sat across from her, “look fresh and well rested. A lovely morning lily, in fact.”

She eyed him suspiciously. What should’ve been a compliment sounded oddly like an insult coming from his mouth.

He smiled innocently, the curve of his wide mouth cutting deep lines into his cheeks. His jaw was stubbled darkly in contrast to the white of his wig.

“You look like you could pose for a cautionary engraving entitled ‘Dissolute,’ ” she said sweetly.

He barked with surprised laughter. “My lily has thorns, it seems.”

“Lilies don’t have thorns, and, anyway, I’m not your lily.”

“No, merely my dear future sister.”

She debated telling him—again—not to call her his sister, realized any protest on her part would probably only urge him on to more irritating behavior, and sighed, giving up the matter. “Where are we going?”

He stretched his legs between them, his boots brushing the silk of her primrose morning gown. “I have an old friend I’d like to introduce to you.”

“Why?”

“He’s an architect.”

“Really?” Hero looked at him curiously. “Where did you meet him?”

He gave her a sardonic look. “I do spend some time among respectable people now and again.”

“I didn’t—”

He waved aside her flustered apology. “I met Jonathan Templeton at Cambridge.”

“I heard you left after only a year,” she said slowly.

“You did call me feckless,” he reminded her. “But not everyone I met at university was as irresponsible as I. Jonathan’s father was a vicar with very little income. The only reason he was at Cambridge was because a friend of his family had kindly taken it upon himself to pay for Jonathan’s tuition. He repaid his friend’s kindness by studying day and night.”

She cocked her head, watching him. “And what did you study at Cambridge?”

He snorted. “Besides wenching and drink, you mean?”

This time she didn’t rise to the bait.

After a moment, he looked down at his hands, a half smile on his face. “Classical history, if you can believe it.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

He shrugged restlessly. “Not enough to stay, obviously.”

“I read Herodotus in the Greek,” she blurted.

He looked up at her. “Did you indeed? I wasn’t aware Greek was on the curriculum for fashionable debutantes these days.”

“It isn’t, of course.” Why had she told him that? “Never mind.”

She stared at her hands in her lap, wishing she could better control her words around him.

“What did you think of his description of Egypt?” he asked.

She peeked up at him to see if he was mocking her, but he seemed serious. She hesitated, then leaned forward. “I thought their burial practices perfectly hideous.”

His face relaxed and fine lines appeared at the corners of his eyes as he smiled. “But fascinating, yes? All that mucking about with myrrh and frankincense.”

She shuddered delightfully. “Do you think his report true? So many of the other things he writes about seem quite fanciful.”

“Such as Arion the harper who rode about on a dolphin’s back?”

“Or the winged serpents that guard the frankincense trees in Arabia.”

“Or the giant camel-chasing ants?”

“Camel-chasing ants?” She wrinkled her brow. “I don’t remember that part.”

“Hard to see how you could miss it.” He grinned at her. “In India?”

“Oh, of course—the ants that dig up gold!” she cried.

“Those are the ones.” He shook his head. “Old Herodotus certainly liked a good story, but you know there are some very odd things in the world. Who’s to say that the Egyptians didn’t really stuff myrrh into their dead grandfathers? Or that there aren’t really giant furry ants in India terrifying the camels?”

“But you must admit it seems a little unlikely.”

“I admit no such thing, my lady.” The smile still played about his lips. “Have you read Thucydides?”

“No, I’m afraid not.” She looked down at her hands again. “The tutor who had taught me Greek had to leave due to his poor health. The ones who replaced him didn’t altogether approve of my studying Greek. French is much more important for a lady. Besides, I soon was busy with dancing lessons, and singing lessons, and painting lessons. There’s so much one must learn before one makes a debut into society.”

“Ah,” he murmured. “Do you like painting?”

She inhaled and looked up frankly. “I loathe it.”

He nodded. “I have a copy of Thucydides somewhere about. Would you like to borrow it?”

“I don’t…” She paused and looked at him. She should decline his offer. Becoming any more involved with Reading than she already was was a sure way to disaster. And he’d sensed her thoughts—his face was already closing in preparation for her dismissal.

“Yes. Please,” she said before she could think any more.

A wide smile lit his face. “Very well.”

The carriage halted and Reading glanced out the window. “Here we are.”

He helped her out, and Hero saw they were in front of a neat, but by no means wealthy, town house. Reading knocked on the door.

“It’s awfully early to be calling,” Hero hissed.

“Don’t worry. He’s expecting us.”

And indeed the door opened to reveal a young man in a somber brown wig and round spectacles.

“My lord!” he cried with an infectious grin. “It’s so good to see you.”

“And you, Jonathan.” Lord Griffin squeezed the other man’s hand. “Lady Hero, this is my friend Mr. Templeton. Jonathan, Lady Hero.”

“Good God!” Mr. Templeton exclaimed, losing his smile. “I had no idea Lord Griffin meant to bring a lady of your rank, my lady. I mean, that is, it’s a pleasure to meet you, my lady.”

Hero nodded to Mr. Templeton, conscious that her position in society had once again put a damper on things. She sighed silently.

Mr. Templeton glanced about dazedly and then gestured inside. “Won’t you come in?”

She smiled at him, trying to put him at ease. “Thank you.”

They were shown into a small sitting room, sparsely furnished but meticulously clean.

“I’ve called for some tea,” Mr. Templeton said. “I hope that meets with your approval, my lady.”

“That sounds lovely.” She chose a straight-backed chair while Reading wandered over to a single bookcase to peruse the shelves.

Mr. Templeton glanced uneasily at his friend. “Lord Griffin said that you wished to consult with me about a project?”

“Yes.” Hero folded her hands on her lap and explained about the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children, the plans to build a new orphanage, and the problems they were having. By the time she’d finished her recitation, the tea had arrived and Reading had wandered back from the bookcase.

“What do you think, Jonathan?” he asked as he accepted a cup of tea from Hero. “This architect they’ve hired sounds like a bad ’un.”

Mr. Templeton shoved his spectacles up his forehead and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Much as I hate to malign a fellow architect, the fact is I’ve heard of this person.” He looked apologetically at Hero. “It’s rumored he’s fled the country because of his debts.”

Hero drew in her breath. If their architect truly had absconded, then they’d lost the monies that she and Lady Caire had already paid for the new home. She had more of her inheritance, but it came in the form of an annual income, of which she’d already withdrawn this year’s amount. Where was she to find more money?

“Can you do anything for Lady Hero, Jonathan?” Reading asked.

“Yes, yes, of course I can.” Mr. Templeton put down his teacup. “I can look over the plans your architect had drawn up and see what work needs to be done on the building. I can, in fact, with your approval, take over the project.”

“That would be wonderful, Mr. Templeton,” Hero said. “But I must be frank. With my copatroness out of the country, my funds are limited. I can pay you an amount right now, but the rest of your wages will have to wait until I can find more funds.”

Mr. Templeton nodded. “Thank you for your frankness, my lady. I do appreciate it. Shall we say that I’ll begin the work and when I need further funds, I shall inform you?”

“Yes, that sounds like a good plan.” It would certainly give her some time in which to come up with the “further funds.” Hero stood. “I shall have the plans we have sent around to your house here, along with the directions to the home. Thank you, Mr. Templeton.”

He rose hastily to his feet, bowing. “It’s my pleasure, my lady.”

He showed them both to the door, where Lord Griffin bid farewell to Mr. Templeton before helping Hero into the carriage.

“Where will you find more money for your home?” Reading asked.

“I don’t know at the moment.”

“Would you consider a small loan?”

She looked at him, startled. “You know I can’t accept money from you.”

“Why not?” he asked softly. “I wouldn’t tell anyone. It would be a small transaction just between you and me. You could pay me back when you are able.”

Her mouth opened silently. He would have her in his power if he made a loan to her… but that wasn’t what made her curious. “Why are you making this offer to me?”

He blinked. “Do you have an objection to my money?”

“You don’t know me well. I don’t even think you like me.” She opened her hands in her lap. “For what purpose are you making this offer? I don’t understand.”

He tilted his head back, staring at her. “I think it perfectly obvious. I have the money and you need it.”

“Do you make such offers to every lady who needs money?” She began to blush the moment the words left her mouth as she realized the possible double meaning, but she held his gaze defiantly. Would he take the easy way? Turn this into a joke?

But he didn’t. He looked irritated now, but he answered her nonetheless. “No, of course not.”

She simply looked at him.

He leaned forward suddenly, his elbows on his knees. “Money is the one thing I’m good at. You can trust me completely in this matter. I don’t cheat. I don’t steal. When it comes to financial dealings, you can rely on me.”

He said it almost like a confession, and she was strangely touched, as if he’d shared something deeply personal with her.

Yet she’d only known this man for less than forty-eight hours. Years of practicality held her back. “I do appreciate your kind offer,” she said carefully, “but I think I must decline it for now.”

He nodded as if he’d expected her answer and sat back. “My offer is still open should you change your mind.”

She suddenly felt lighter, even though she’d refused his money. He was on her side. She wasn’t working alone anymore. “I haven’t thanked you, have I?”

He shook his head, a smile playing about his mouth.

She inhaled, fighting down her own silly smile. “Well, I do thank you. Mr. Templeton seems like a competent architect and, perhaps more importantly, an honest one. I would never have found him without your introduction.”

He shrugged. “I’m glad to be of service.”

“There is one question I have for you, though.”

“Only one?”

“Why were you in St. Giles yesterday morning?”

If she expected confusion or denials of wrongdoing, that wasn’t what she got. Reading grinned and knocked on the ceiling of the carriage to signal the driver to stop.

“I was in St. Giles on business,” he said as the carriage halted. He opened the door and looked back at her over his shoulder. “Wicked, wicked business.”

He jumped down and tipped his hat to her. “Good morning to you, my Lady Perfect.”

He slammed the door and the carriage started forward.

Hero sat back against the squabs, whispering, “And good day to you, my Lord Shameless.”