Sex and the Single Earl (18 page)

Annabel scrambled up from the floor and hurried over to join them.

“Sophie, dearest, please give Simon another chance. I’m sure he never meant to hurt you—he’s just a silly man. They don’t really know how to behave properly. After all, look at Robert.”

Her sister-in-law’s winsome smile pierced the angry shield Sophie had erected around her heart.

“I know Simon cares for you above all others,” Annabel said, laying her small hand on Sophie’s arm. “Let him prove it to you.”

Sophie looked miserably at her godmother. Lady Jane hesitated, then delivered the final thrust of the blade.

“Think of your mother, my dear. And the general.”

Sophie’s resistance collapsed. Her mother and grandfather would be devastated by her rejection of Simon, and by the resultant scandal. As much as she wanted to, she knew it was pointless to resist the combined efforts and the anxious concern of the Stanton and the St. James families. No matter what her relatives might think, she had as keen an appreciation for the families’ reputations as they did. She didn’t fear scandal—like Simon did—but she wouldn’t court it, either.

Sophie bowed her head in silent submission, though she knew her heart would never recover from the blow. Despite what Annabel said, Simon would never be the man she needed. He would never be the man she had fallen in love with all those years ago. She’d been a fool, a blind, sentimental fool, to believe he was.

As Sophie followed her godmother and Annabel from the room, she vowed she would never be a fool again.

Simon paid off the hackney driver, hunching his shoulders against the rain that hissed down in ash-colored streamers to the broken cobblestones. Ice water dripped from his hat and seeped under the collar of his greatcoat.

Avon Street was a hellhole at the best of times, but on a wet October day it had to be one of the grimmest corners of the kingdom.

Almost as grim as his mood.

The chill that leached through his coat failed to cool the heat of his anger—anger with his blasted relations, but mostly with himself for mishandling such a delicate situation. Posting the betrothal notice in the
Chronicle
had been a colossal mistake, but what else could he have done to bring Sophie under control?

That question had plagued him from the moment she stormed out of Aunt Eleanor’s drawing room until now, when he found himself standing outside The Silver Oak. Given how devastated she had been—he still winced when he recalled the look of anguish in her eyes that even her spectacles couldn’t hide—he counted himself lucky she was still his fiancée.

He’d spent the longest hour of his life waiting in the drawing room after Aunt Jane and Annabel followed Sophie upstairs to her bedroom. Aunt Eleanor had delivered a scathing lecture on the idiocy of men in general and of Simon and Robert in particular. After a short-lived attempt to defend himself, Robert had subsided into a miserable silence, relieving his wounded pride by casting resentful glares across the room at his coconspirator.

Simon hadn’t bothered to respond to his aunt’s accusations. After all, she was correct.

After an eon, Aunt Jane had finally returned with the news that Sophie had agreed to honor their engagement. His relief had been short-lived. Aunt Jane had tartly added that Sophie’s acquiescence had everything to do with her wish to avoid a scandal, and not with a desire to marry Simon.

Shrugging off his lingering guilt over the morning’s events, Simon stepped under the sheltering porch of the tavern. He pulled off his sodden beaver hat, flicked the water from the brim, and absently put it back on his head.

The problem, of course, was that Sophie no longer trusted him. Her irrational female brain had convinced her he was still involved with Bathsheba. How Sophie could ever imagine he would treat her so dishonorably was beyond his comprehension.

He reached for the door of the tavern, guilt bleeding through him once more as he thought of the pain she had made no effort to conceal. Yes, dammit, he wanted her dowry. But he wanted her, too—every soft, sweet inch of her. His need to claim her in the most elemental way possible was fast becoming a compulsion that threatened to consume every logical thought in his brain. How Puck had managed to blow all his careful formulations to smithereens was something he still couldn’t fathom. Well, if she needed proof that he cared for her then prove it he would, and in a way she couldn’t possibly deny.

He pushed through the battered oak door into the foul-smelling tavern. Even though the street had been dark and dreary, the light was so poor he had to strain to make out the shapes before him. A small fire emitted greasy smoke from a dirty hearth. Cheap tallow candles and a few battered lanterns provided a fitful glow that struggled to reach into the dank corners.

In the late afternoon, the tavern was half full of dockworkers seeking shelter from the rain and warmth from a dram of blue ruin. The sound of rough voices and harsh laughter faded as the men turned, one by one, to study him.

Simon ignored the wary inspection as he threaded his way between the tables and benches to the rough-hewn bar at the opposite side of the room. He deliberately dropped his wet hat on the scarred wood of the bar, brushing the rain from his shoulders before meeting the eyes of the barkeep. He knew Taylor by sight, and he looked every inch as ugly as his reputation.

Taylor was a big man, broad-featured with an openly hostile gaze. Simon frowned, taking in his fine wool coat, expertly tied cravat, and large, pearl-headed stickpin nestling in folds of crisp linen. Toby and Becky had been dressed in near-rags, but from his clothes it was clear the owner of The Silver Oak had another source of income besides the meager wages of the local dockhands.

He returned Taylor’s hostile regard with a steady silence, allowing a brief smile to lift the corners of his mouth. A charged minute ticked by as the two men stared at each other. Finally, Taylor snorted in disdain and reached for a glass under the bar.

“What’ll it be, guv? Fancy a bit of daffy to chase away the cold?”

“I’ll take a pint of heavy wet.” Simon extracted a coin from inside his coat and tossed it onto the bar.

Taylor pocketed the coin with a massive fist before turning away to pour a tankard of cloudy-looking stout. He slammed the pint down on the counter, allowing the liquid to slosh onto the bar.

“Quality don’t usually do their drinking at The Silver Oak, guv. At least not so early in the day. Lost your way?”

Simon tossed back a large swallow of the bitter liquid before answering. “I have business with you, Taylor.”

“Do tell,” he sneered, lips curling back from a surprisingly good set of teeth. “And who might you be that you have business with Jem Taylor?”

“I’m the Earl of Trask.”

Taylor’s brows shot up as his sneer slid into a crafty grin. “Ah! Pleased to meet you, my lord. Everyone in Bath knows of the Earl of Trask. Never thought to see you in my humble little tavern, though. How can I be of service?”

Before Simon could answer, a door next to the bar swung open, and Becky emerged, carefully balancing steaming bowls of food on a heavy-looking tray. He watched as she served the men, her slender form moving between tables with an unconscious yet seductive grace. She was only a child, but her beauty drew forth lewd comments and foul leers in her wake. Becky tried to ignore them, but her stiff shoulders and tight face gave away her distress as she hurried to complete her tasks.

He bit back a curse. No wonder Sophie wanted to rescue her. Right now Simon would have enjoyed nothing more than to beat every man in the room into a bloody pulp. Something about Becky—her innocence, perhaps—reminded him of Sophie at that age, and the thought of Puck subjected to such degradation made him want to punch something.

As Becky walked past, her tray now loaded with empty glasses, she looked up and met his eyes. She gasped and jerked to a halt, the tray wobbling in her hands, the glasses beginning a precipitous slide toward the floor. Simon grabbed the tray and steadied it.

“Careful, child.” He smiled at her, plucking the tray from her trembling hands and placing it on the bar.

Becky stared at him with huge eyes, seemingly struck dumb with terror. Simon turned back to the bar, hoping his apparent indifference would calm the girl and prevent suspicion on her father’s part.

But as he caught the calculating look on Taylor’s face, he knew he’d failed. He practically growled, lamenting his lack of discipline. He had planned only to make a general inquiry about Toby’s well-being, in the guise of a charitable man who had been dismayed by the boy’s wretched condition. The last thing he intended was to signal a particular interest in either child, for that could very well bring the father’s wrath down upon their heads.

Simon slid his half-empty tankard across the bar and raised a bored eyebrow at Taylor. Becky reached a stealthy hand for her tray and began to creep past him toward the kitchen door.

“Stop.” The father growled the command at his daughter. She froze, then slowly turned around.

“M’lord. I’d like you to meet my daughter,” Taylor said.

Simon moved languidly to face the girl, resting his elbow on the bar, schooling his face to indifference.

Becky gripped the tray with shaking hands, and even in the dim light of the tavern Simon could see the smoothness of her face turn ashen.

“Becky, this here is the Earl of Trask. Make a proper curtsy to his lordship, now. Just like your ma taught you.”

Becky placed the tray on the bar, took her grimy skirt in her hands, and made a graceful curtsy. Thick black hair curled around her face, trailing down to gently curving breasts as she bowed forward. Her loose-fitting shirt gaped open, revealing creamy, perfect skin. Every man in the tavern was riveted by the sight, and Simon damn well couldn’t blame them. He had never seen a girl as beautiful or as terrifyingly vulnerable as Becky.

“Say hello to his lordship.” Evil intent breathed through Taylor’s quiet order.

Becky rose from her curtsy and fastened wide pleading eyes on Simon. “Good day, your lordship.”

“Child.” He kept his voice bored and remote, but he knew he had already lost the battle.

Her father gave a jerk of the hand. “All right, girl. Back to the kitchen with you.”

Becky snatched her tray and fled to safety.

“She’s a right beauty, that one. Takes after her ma.” There was a strange, fierce pride in Taylor’s voice as he gazed after his daughter’s retreating figure. “She’ll do well by me, I’ll see to that.”

The nape of Simon’s neck prickled at the tone of ruthless greed in the man’s voice. When Sophie had told him that Taylor wanted to sell his daughter to the highest bidder, he had dismissed it as a tale cut from whole cloth—a story invented by a frightened boy to extract money from a soft-hearted lady. He no longer doubted a single word.

“About that business of yours, m’lord,” said Taylor. “Maybe I can guess what you be lookin’ for in The Silver Oak.”

“I doubt it.”

The other man grinned, clearly undeterred by Simon’s deliberately arrogant manner. Taylor leaned across the bar and spoke in a confiding voice.

“Everyone knows your reputation with the ladies, m’lord.”

“Careful, Taylor.”

The man shrugged. “Bath is a small town. There be no secrets here. And it’s no secret that you keep only the best. My Becky is the greatest beauty this town has seen in years, and she ain’t no trollop, neither. Her ma saw to that. She’ll be worth every penny to the lucky man who spreads her thighs.”

Simon dropped his hand off the bar and clenched it into a fist. There was little about the world that surprised him anymore, but Taylor’s callous dissection of his daughter’s future would shock the most hardened jade.

Mistaking his silence for acquiescence, Taylor forged ahead.

“And, she’s a virgin. I’ve seen to that, m’lord. Aye, he’ll be a lucky man who takes his pleasure with her the first time. And I’m suspecting you might be that man, your lordship. For the right price.”

Simon expelled a hard breath. A slaughtering fury swept through him, every muscle in his body hardening in preparation for a fight. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to kill the man, if only the law wouldn’t hang him for it. But it wouldn’t help Becky and Toby. Without a father, their fate would likely be even worse.

That murderous intention must have been writ large on Simon’s face, for Taylor jerked back, knocking over the tankard of stout. He stepped away from the bar.

“What do you want from me?” he snarled.

Simon rested a leather-gloved fist on the bar.

“I want you to listen to me. And do not dare to question or doubt what I say.”

Taylor began to grope for something under the bar, but paused when Simon narrowed his eyes at him.

“Try it and you’re a dead man.” He gave Taylor his most lethal smile. “In fact, try anything and you’re a dead man. That includes your plans for your daughter. She has my interest now, and if word ever reaches me that you’ve harmed her, I won’t bother to go to the magistrate. And if you try to prostitute her, I’ll close the Oak down in a heartbeat. As you say, the girl deserves better.”

Taylor’s face had turned a bruised-looking shade of purple. He was snorting like a wounded boar, but he didn’t reply to Simon’s threat. He didn’t have to—Simon knew exactly what he was thinking.

“Yes, I know,” he continued. “You would like to kill me. That would be unwise, however, since my servants know exactly where I am. Heed my words, Taylor. I’ll be watching.”

He retrieved his hat from the bar, turned on his heel, and made his way leisurely to the door. Silence followed in his wake. Silence, and a sullen resentment, more telling and more deadly than any shout of anger.

He stepped outside and turned his face to the rain that sleeted down in icy prickles. After the noxious atmosphere of the tavern, even the soot-filled air of Avon Street seemed clean by comparison.

“My lord.” A breathy whisper reached his ears. He recognized the voice instantly.
Toby.

The boy tugged at his forelock before flitting into the dank alley past The Silver Oak. Casting a quick glance around, Simon strode after him.

Toby crouched behind a pile of filth and old crates, all but hidden by the shadows of the looming walls on either side of the alley. He beckoned Simon closer.

“You didn’t tell, my lord, did you?” The lad’s voice was thin with fear.

He reached out and gently rubbed some dirt from Toby’s cheek. The boy flinched. Simon clenched his teeth against the urge to return to the tavern and give Taylor the beating he deserved. That kind of impulse, however, would serve no purpose. The man had a legal right to his children, and unless Simon could prove some grievous harm there was little he could do to protect them.

He extracted a guinea from his pocket and wrapped the boy’s dirty little paw around it. Toby’s eyes grew almost as round as the coin.

“Toby, I’m staying in lodgings in Milsom Street.” Simon gave him the address. “If ever you need me, if ever your sister needs me, go there. Ask for me, or for my secretary, Mr. Soames. I will tell the porter to be on the lookout for you.”

Toby inhaled a wavering breath and met his gaze. A look of cautious trust crept into his pale blue eyes and he bobbed his head in agreement.

He touched the boy’s cheek once more, then spun on his heel and stalked from the alley. As he turned his face into the cleansing rain, he ruefully acknowledged that Sophie had been right again.