Three Little Secrets (7 page)

Bess Bromley slowly drew down the other sleeve of her tawdry black gown, revealing her shoulder, and then her breast, pushed high and held fast by the harsh restraints of the corset. The thing was laced up the back with leather cording, he realized when she turned to toss the gown onto a chair. And beneath it, she wore nothing but black stockings, rolled high and tight on slender, milk white thighs. The contrast was startling. Erotic.

She turned back around, and smiled seductively. “I have been very cruel,” she said again. She set one knee to the mattress, then slowly crawled onto the bed on all fours, her arse as bare as the day she was born. “I have made you angry,” she went on, lying down on her stomach.

“I begin to think you might be mad,” he remarked.

“Perhaps I am.” Her eyes drifted to the whip, which lay curled upon the carpet like a serpent. The tongue darted out again, moistening her lips. “But come, MacLachlan, and play Bess’s little game. Come give me just what I deserve,” she suggested. “You will enjoy it.”

“Will I?”

One of her hands slipped under her belly, and slid lower. “Oh, yes,” she said, her eyelids dropping shut. “I know you. Come, now. Make me…
oh, make me
…”

He was already half-persuaded. Perhaps it was what he needed. Perhaps he was as full of demons as he sometimes felt. But the whip, no. Never that.

The woman was writhing on his bed now. Against his will, his hands went to the buttons of his trousers, tearing them free. Damn his wife to hell, the faithless bitch. In an instant, he was crawling onto the bed, crawling over Bess, and forcing her legs wide with his knee. He entered her on one hard stroke, holding her buttocks firmly between his hands, stilling her to the invasion.

Bess’s eyes opened wide, and she cried out from the shock.

He did not stop. Instead, he let the demons drive him, drive him toward the only expiation the black devils had ever yielded to. For long moments, he let the anger take him, until Bess’s fingernails were clutching at his woolen counterpane, digging deep as she began to pant and grunt beneath him. Dimly, he heard her cry out, heard her pleading for more.

Merrick obliged her. Beneath him, her whole body seemed to seize. She shuddered once, twice, and collapsed onto the bed. He felt it coming on him then. The utter numbness. The physical collapse and the black, mindless void. The few insensate moments his sated body could buy him. He thrust once more, and felt himself fall.

Do na’ suppose ye know a man ’til
ye come tae divide a spoil wi’ him.

T
he carriage ride through greater London and into the city was almost a two-hour trek through hellish traffic. Madeleine crossed her gloved hands neatly in her lap and tried to be patient. But the truth was, she might well have walked it more quickly, or taken one of the smaller, more nimble conveyances which one saw for hire throughout the capital. Her late father, however, had always impressed upon her the importance of looking the part of a wealthy, well-bred lady when paying a call of any sort.

She had been surprised when Mr. Rosenberg’s summons arrived this morning. She had spent the last three days trying to decide whether to revisit his office, and if so, just how far she might press without arousing his suspicions. There was a nagging suspicion in the back of her mind. But Rosenberg had taken the matter out of her hands. His missive had come by a uniformed messenger during breakfast. The request had been exceedingly polite, almost fawning—and it had left her burning with curiosity.

From time to time, Madeleine craned her head, as if doing so might part the carts and coaches which choked the street they traveled. Her eyes went to a corner signpost.
Fleet Street,
it was called. Madeleine had never heard of it, for she had traveled into east London but once in her life, to contract for the purchase of her new house. Indeed, save for the three months she’d spent in Mayfair as a girl, she knew almost nothing of this great, teeming city.

During her first visit to London, she had scarcely been permitted to venture beyond the exclusive shops of Bond Street. While the crooked, narrow, less elegant lanes had held an odd fascination for her, Madeleine’s father, and Aunt Emma, who was to bring her out, had warned her early and often about the unseemliness of a young debutante’s being seen in any place less refined than Astley’s, or any place farther east than Hatchard’s.

At the solicitor’s office in Threadneedle Street, Madeleine was greeted by an obsequious young clerk, who bade her be seated, and went scurrying up the stairs in search of his master. Mr. Rosenberg greeted her warmly, and sent at once for coffee.

Madeleine made a pretense of asking a number of questions about the house, which he answered almost too cheerfully. “My clerks have prepared this for you,” he said, when she paused for breath. He passed a sheaf of thick, cream-colored paper across the desk. “I wished you to have it at once. As you can see, the seller has countersigned here. We need only your signature just there, to the right of his.”

He pointed to the bottom of the last page, but the name was not one which Madeleine recognized. “And who is this Mr…. Mr. Evans, is it?”

Mr. Rosenberg waved one hand. “Oh, that is just a formality,” he said. “Evans oversees the day-to-day operations of the business. He has signing authority on all deeds and contracts.”

Madeleine’s brows drew into a knot. “Rather like a clerk, do you mean?”

Rosenberg laughed. “Well, a very high-level clerk, in this case,” he answered. “We are talking about an exceedingly large, remarkably successful enterprise which has diverse business interests all over London.”

“But this company which built my new house—it is wholly owned by a Mr. MacLachlan, is it not?” Madeleine batted her eyes innocently. “I believe someone once said as much to me.”

Rosenberg looked vaguely confused. “Well, yes. Of course.”

Madeleine did not see any “of course” about it, but she smiled her most pleasant polite-society smile. “I wonder, Mr. Rosenberg, if you might answer one last question for me?”

“I shall try.”

Madeleine decided to be blunt and ask the one thing she burned to know. “I admit to a rather prying curiosity,” she said. “Just how did Mr. MacLachlan begin this exceedingly large business of his?”

Rosenberg frowned. “I am not sure I perfectly understand your question, Lady Bessett.”

“Well, some men inherit a family business,” she went on. “And some build their businesses over two or three decades. Mr. MacLachlan’s rise, I gather, has been meteoric. I cannot but wonder how one so young became so successful so quickly.”

Mr. Rosenberg nodded affably. “Yes, he is a very young man, is he not?” he answered. “And his—shall we say,
ambition
—is without question. But I think I see what you are asking, Lady Bessett. Mr. MacLachlan’s business was begun in the same humble manner as are most. He had a loan from a family member.”

“A—a loan?” she echoed disbelievingly. “Is that what he called it?”

Again, the cheerful nod. “And he would not mind my saying so, either,” the solicitor went on. “His maternal grandmother financed his first few ventures. Hence the name.”

“The name?”

“MacGregor,” said the solicitor. “MacGregor & Company.”

“He named it for his
grandmother
?”

But Mr. Rosenberg was studying her oddly. “You look skeptical, Lady Bessett,” he remarked. “Had you some reason to believe otherwise?”

Swiftly, Madeleine shook her head. “No.” She snatched her papers from the edge of the desk. “No, I was merely curious.”

Mr. Rosenberg slid back his chair and laid his hands across his rather ample belly. “Well, it has been a pleasure meeting you again, Lady Bessett,” he said. “If our paths do not cross again, I trust you will enjoy your new home.”

Madeleine did not understand. “I’m sure I shall,” she agreed, coming gracefully to her feet. “Kindly send word as soon as it is completed, and I shall bring a bank draft at once.”

“A bank draft?” He seemed surprised.

Madeleine looked down at the papers she held. “This is my copy of the purchase contract, is it not? And now I am to bring a bank draft a fortnight hence, and take title to the property?”

Rosenberg slowly shook his head. “No,” he said quietly. “No, Lady Bessett. What you hold there
is
the title to the property.”

“But—but I have not paid you anything beyond the initial ten percent,” she protested.

“A sum which has been remitted to your bank,” said Rosenberg. “Mr. MacLachlan has deeded you the property, freehold.”

Madeleine sat back down. Her head was swimming now. “He…he has
what
?”

Rosenberg looked more confused than she, if such a thing were possible. “Mr. MacLachlan said he was not comfortable being paid for the property under the circumstances,” the solicitor tried to explain. “He said…he said that you would understand—that you were some sort of relation, or something to that effect.”

A slow burn was coming over Madeleine. “He said
what
?” she asked. “Why, he must be mad!”

Rosenberg drew back an inch. “Are you not related, then?”

Madeleine felt her temper burst into full flame. “We are nothing of the sort!” she exclaimed, returning the title to his desk with a firm
thwack!
“I—why, I scarcely know the man! He cannot imagine that—why, he cannot possibly believe—oh, God! What can he be thinking?”

Rosenberg’s hands went up in surrender. “I could not possibly say, ma’am,” he assured her. “I know nothing of this business. I work for him, no more. You must take up your quarrel—if indeed you have one—with the gentleman himself.”

“Yes, indeed!” said Madeleine with asperity. On second thought, she snatched back the deed. “Yes, I certainly shall!”

The dark-haired boy was back. This time, he sat perched on the stone lip of an old, abandoned well in a patch of weeds some fifty paces distant. Merrick had demolished an old cottage and cow byre on the site some months past, in order to make way for his next row of houses. But the well they had kept intact, so that the masons might draw water for mixing mortar.

Merrick had first noticed the lad perhaps a sen’night past. He had been shuffling down the lane which led through the village to the river, kicking stones as he came, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. Something in the excavation work at the foot of the hill had attracted his attention, and he had come perilously close to the edge.

Merrick had sent one of the carpenters, a grizzled old goat named Horton, to sternly warn him off. A building site was a dangerous thing. And children, especially bored young lads, were ever a hazard to themselves.

But the boy had not stayed away. Not completely. A little aggravated, Merrick stood in the warm sun now, his coat tossed aside, his shirtsleeves rolled up, and considered what ought to be done. Since the warning, the boy had kept his distance. And in truth, there was little risk to him where he sat. But he was here, quietly watching, almost as often as Merrick himself.

Perhaps he ought to run the boy off himself this time and do the job properly. Suddenly, the boy lifted something to his eyes and tilted back his head just an inch. The sun glinted brightly off whatever he held.

Intrigued, Merrick stepped from the dust and dirt of the construction, and into the road. Curiosity tugged at him, pulling him across the lane and into the patch of weeds. By the time he had reached the abandoned well, Merrick realized the boy had a pair of ladies’ opera glasses in his hands and had an almost rapt expression upon his face. So engrossed was the lad in watching the roofing operations, he seemed not to hear Merrick’s approach.

“That tall contraption is called a crane,” said Merrick quietly.

At once, the lad jerked the glasses from his eyes. “Hullo,” he said, scrambling down from the well’s ledge. “I was just watching. Honest. I’m not getting in the way.”

“I can see that,” said Merrick.

He had quite forgotten that he had intended to send the boy away. Instead, he held his hands clasped behind his back and studied the child. He was tall and slender, but a certain sweetness in his face belied his height. He could not have been more than twelve, possibly less. Merrick knew next to nothing of children. Esmée, of course, had a two-year-old sister, but he avoided that little hellion at all costs.

This boy, however—well, he did not look quite so fearsome as a two-year-old in a full-blown fit of temper. He looked…almost interesting. There was a premature wisdom in the lad’s dark green eyes, and an air of solemnity about him which reminded Merrick of himself at just such an age.

“A crane is a system of pulleys,” Merrick explained, pointing at the contraption. “And there is the swiveling mechanism—see, just there?—which enables us to lift the slate up to the roof more efficiently. Have you ever seen one up close?”

The boy shook his head. “Just sketches,” he said. “But the Greek temples were built with cranes. My father said that they were used to lift the columns onto the porticoes. He said that the columns were very heavy, and that there was no other way it could have been done.”

“Your father is quite right,” said Merrick.

It was then that he noticed the small sketchbook perched on the stone rim of the old well. “What have you there? Some sketches, eh? I hope you are not stealing my trade secrets.”

The boy’s eyes flared with alarm. “N-No, sir,” he said. “I did draw some things, but I didn’t mean to steal.”

“I was merely teasing,” said Merrick. “But I suspect, my boy, that you pinched that pair of opera glasses from someone.”

The lad’s color deepened, and he dropped his head.

“To whom do they belong?” asked Merrick quietly.

“To…to my mother.” The boy was mumbling in the direction of his dusty shoes. “But I didn’t pinch them. I—I just borrowed them.”

Ah, well. His mother’s wrath was none of Merrick’s concern. To change the subject, he picked up the lad’s sketchbook. “Do you mind if I have a look?”

The boy’s head jerked up. “N-No, sir,” he said. “I suppose not. But it’s nothing, really. Just scribbles.”

Merrick smiled, and opened the book. Slowly, and with mild amazement, he turned the pages. The drawings were by no means the child’s play which he had expected to see. Instead, they were quite detailed—and relatively accurate, too. Some were elevation drawings; he’d seen worse from a couple of the more junior architects he’d taken on. But others were true art. There was a close sketch of Ridley, his chief bricklayer, deftly mortaring a brick to be set. One could see the turn of Ridley’s knobby fingers, the rough edge of the brick where the frame had been pried away, and even the dollop of mortar which was about to drip from his trowel.

Another sketch was of himself, balancing high on a truss, his legs spread for stability. He well remembered the day, perhaps three or four past, when he had climbed up onto the roughly framed roof, simply because he wished the framers to know he was capable of doing so—capable, at least, when the weather was dry and his hip was rested. But the men knew nothing of his impairment. He wanted them to feel that not even the smallest error would evade his detection—not even seventy feet off the ground.

In the boy’s sketch, Merrick was gesturing at one of the carpenters, having taken exception to a sloppy mortise joint. His face was in profile, and his gaze was cold and hard. He had not realized a child was watching. He hoped to God the boy had not overheard the thorough and rather colorful tongue-lashing he’d given his men.

The last page in the boy’s sketchbook was a small elevation drawing of the entire terrace as it rose up the hill. But the terrace had become separate houses, and the roofs were not quite the same. The boy had varied them a bit; a hipp roof on one, odd fanciful gables on another, and a French mansard on yet third.

“You do not care for my rooflines, I collect,” he said, smiling inwardly.

The boy lifted one shoulder. “That’s just how I would do it if they were my houses,” he replied. “I shouldn’t wish them to look so very much alike.”

“But in that very likeness is a cost savings,” Merrick explained. “It enables us to terrace the houses to save precious land, and to purchase materials in bulk. Price matters greatly, even to the wealthy people who will buy these houses.”

“Does it?” The lad seemed surprised.

“Yes, and if you mean to be an architect, I beg you to remember it,” he said. “There are enough impractical people coming out of university as it is.”

The boy laughed, and for an instant, the veil of solemnity was lifted.