Her Husband's Harlot (14 page)

Northgate
paled.

"I
do not wish to repeat this conversation, so let me make myself very clear,"
Nicholas continued. His eyes bored into his father-in-law's rapidly blinking
orbs. "You will not receive so much as another farthing from me if you
continue to game. I will cut you off. Completely."

"Y-you
would not dare," Northgate whispered. "Helena would never allow—"

"Helena
will know nothing of it," Nicholas said, "unless you wish to inform
your daughter that you have gambled away the earldom's assets. That the only
thing standing between you and ruin is the coin of a merchant."

Northgate
swallowed. "You heartless bastard."

Nicholas
smiled without humor. "That I am."

A
bell could be heard ringing once, twice, three times.

"The
programme is about to begin," Nicholas said, with a mocking lift of the
brow. "Now that the matter is settled, we would not want to be late, would
we?"

Rage
blazed in Northgate's eyes. "God as my witness, I will see you pay for
this! May you rot in hell, you bastard." Turning on his heel, he stormed
away.

Nicholas
consulted his watch fob and followed at a more leisurely pace. Sixteen
minutes.  It had taken six minutes more than he had promised Helena, but not
bad, considering the task he had accomplished. He might have felt pleased with
himself, too, had it not been for the throbbing at his left temple. He was
reminded of the reason he avoided Society's playground in the first place: the
ton
gave him a pounding headache.

Nonetheless,
he took his place in the line of guests waiting to enter the music room.
Several ladies studied him discreetly above their waving fans—gathering fuel,
no doubt, for drawing room gossip. He was certain they could content themselves
for days doling out the details of the Makeshift Marquess and how his lowly
origins betrayed him.

He did
not bother to avert his gaze when a particularly bold lady ogled him as she
might an exotic artifact at the British Museum. Like he was some of sort of
grotesque Sphinx, offensive to the sensibilities yet all the more titillating
because of it. When her eyes met his, he returned her look for look, his mouth
curling derisively. She gasped and turned her head. Moments later, she was
squawking in the ear of her companion, whose feathers quivered with excitement.

They
could go to hell, every bloody last one of them.

By
the time he reached the door, the music had begun. He noted with growing irritation
that the Dewitts had not planned for the size of the crowd for there were more
guests than chairs. He found a space at the back of the room and tried to
ignore the giant pulsing vein that had taken residence in his head. Scanning
the seated audience, he located Helena sitting between her parents in one of
the middle rows. She was turned to her right, her profile exposed to him.
Northgate was whispering in her ear. From the emphatic gestures and contorted
expression, Northgate was clearly furious.

Nicholas
felt a rush of blood to the head, bringing the pounding to a near unbearable
intensity.
Goddamn
Northgate. Likely he was spinning some Cheltenham tragedy about mistreatment at the hands of his son-in-law. The innocent, noble lord
being lambasted by the ill-bred, penny-pinching merchant. It was material rich
enough for Drury Lane. Watching the movement of Northgate's lips, Nicholas
could almost hear the words.

Bastard
... good-for-nothing ... laughingstock ...

The
muscle twitched along Nicholas' jaw. He cared not about Northgate's lies, but
about Helena's reaction. How would she take to the slandering of her husband? Suddenly,
the question seemed of great importance to him, as if his future was somehow
hinging upon her response.

He
studied his wife's face, willing her to ... what?

Yell
at her father?

Slap
the old man in the face?

Surely,
he did not expect her to do any of those things.

Yet
neither did he expect her eyes to well with tears, nor her hands to clasp the
earl's in a comforting gesture. Or perhaps, he thought with blinding fury, he
did
expect it. Had expected all along that she would soothe her father's injuries
and leave her husband to bleed in the gutter. After all, had she not tried to
protect her father earlier on in the evening? She had attempted to hide Northgate's
activities from him—
her own husband
—until he had convinced her he could
help her father.

He
rubbed a hand over his eyes.

"Lord
Harteford?"

He
turned his head at the low whisper. A footman was holding the door open, his head
cocked in question. Nicholas went over. Once outside the room, he said, "Yes.
What is it?"

"This
came for you, my lord." The footman bowed and handed him a note.

Brow
furrowing, Nicholas broke the seal and unfolded the heavy stationary. At that
moment, the orchestra reached a crescendo, a fusillade of sound exploding in
his head. His vision wavered.

"My
lord? Is everything alright?"

Fighting
down a surge of nausea, Nicholas re-folded the note and managed, "Who gave
you this?"

"I'm
not sure, my lord." The servant looked uneasy. "It just appeared on
the missive salver, and the butler instructed me to deliver it. If there is a
problem—"

"There
is not. That will be all."

Nicholas
tossed a coin to the footman. He managed to hold onto his composure until the servant
disappeared down the empty hall. Then his knees gave out. He caught himself,
bracing his forearm against the wall. Some distant part of his brain registered
that the orchestra was still playing, that the air was scented with camellias,
champagne, and candle-wax. A musicale in Mayfair, he thought numbly. The last
place he'd thought to be ambushed, hunted down at last by the past. He didn't
have to look at the note again; the lines glowed red-hot in his head.

You
didn't think you could bury Ben Grimes forever, did you? The price for keeping
your crime secret is upon you. Await my instruction.

Darkness
closed over him. His lungs burned, suffocating with soot and terror as he felt
himself being pinned by a wall of hairy muscle and fat, the stench of onions
and sweat scalding his nostrils. His pleas were drowned by a fist and the
bright, rusty welling in his mouth. He flailed out, mindless as an animal. A
trickle of sweat cleaved his palm as it bumped against something smooth, something
jutting from Grimes' back pocket. A knife—

"Harteford?"

He
jumped. It took him an instant to recognize Helena. She was standing there,
looking at him with wide eyes. "Harteford, what is the matter? I saw you
leave during the performance. Are you unwell—"

She
raised a hand toward him.

"
Do
not touch me.
" The words left him in a hiss. He stumbled back.

For a
second, her hand remained arrested mid-air. Then it dropped slowly to her side.
"I b-beg your pardon. I only came to apologize."

"For
what?" he bit out.

"Please,
you must forgive Papa," she said. "He cannot help himself. He was
born to a gentleman's life, you see, and I think ... it is sometimes difficult
for him to imagine there could be consequences to his actions." She
flushed, her lashes sweeping downward. "All his friends play at the cards,
after all."

God's
blood, he could hardly think. He needed to get away, to get
air
. Like a
caged beast, he swiped out blindly. "Damn your father to hell. Because he
is a
gentleman
his every behavior is to be excused. That is how the
ton
treats liars and cheats—by overlooking, nay, exalting such behavior."

"Papa
isn't a liar—"

"Your
father is a liar of the
worst
kind. Masquerading as a noble, virtuous
lord," Nicholas snarled, "when, in truth, he's nothing more than a bloody,
degenerate gambler. He is digging his own grave, and I forbid you to assist him
in that endeavor."

Helena
lifted a hand to her mouth. Her eyes shimmered as she said in a suffocated
voice, "He is my father. I have always h-helped where I could. 'Tis my
duty."

"Choosing
your duty as a daughter over a wife," he sneered. "Hardly surprising."

"Harteford,"
she whispered, "what are you saying?"

End
it. End it now, and get the hell out.

"Nothing
but the truth," he said. "This marriage was a mistake, and we both
know it."

She
looked as if he'd struck her. "You can't mean that—"

He
felt himself coming apart inside. Her beauty and innocence heightened the sense
of filth crawling over his skin, the self-disgust roiling in his stomach. He'd
never been good enough for her and never would; that he'd thought otherwise
made him the dumbest bugger who'd ever lived.

"I
do mean it, Helena." Each word burned like acid on his tongue. "Marrying
you was the worst thing I have done in my life."

Before
she could reply, he turned and walked away.

From
his wife. From the life that would never be his.

"You
are quiet this evening," Marianne remarked from the other side of the
carriage. "Are you certain you wish to do this?"

Helena
gave a determined nod. Through the window, she saw they had turned onto a
secluded, one-ended street close to Piccadilly. She had never visited this
neighborhood at night. Under the street lamps, the row of unadorned,
Palladian-style buildings possessed a ghostly aura. Shades were drawn over the
windows, concealing any sign of the activities within. A tremor crossed over
her nape, but she stiffened her shoulders.

"My
marriage is at stake," she said. "I have to win Harteford back."

"And
you are certain, dearest, that you cannot just tell him you were the harlot he
tupped?"

Three
days had passed since the musicale, yet the memory of her last interaction with
Nicholas retained a frozen sort of clarity.
This marriage was a mistake.
She blinked back tears. Surely he hadn't meant that. Surely it had been his
frustration talking, and she couldn't blame him for that, not when Papa had
treated him so badly. But the loathing in Nicholas' eyes as he'd spoken of
liars—those who
masqueraded
as virtuous ... she swallowed painfully. "That
is not an option, Marianne. He cannot know that I deceived him."

"If
you say so." The other smoothed the fingers of her sapphire satin gloves. "Well,
then, here we are."

The
footman let down the steps and helped them to descend. With increasing curiosity
Helena trailed her friend to a plain-fronted shop. The weathered sign above
contained an advertisement for ladies' conveniences. Helena frowned. 'Twas not
a wardrobe she was in need of, but more direct reinforcements. Perhaps Marianne
had misunderstood her request.

"I
have already purchased the necessaries from Madame Rousseau and do not need
more clothing. Rather, I had hoped that you might show me ..." Helena
began.

But
Marianne had already disappeared into the shadowed entrance. With a sigh,
Helena followed.

This
store was much different from Madame Rousseau's. The interior was dark, for
one, and the merchandise exhibited in haphazard fashion. A handful of glass-topped
cases crowded the small front room, showing gloves of dubious quality alongside
bits of hosiery and other frippery. Growing ever more intrigued, Helena was
examining a rather risqué pair of black stockings trimmed in fuchsia ribbon when
a robust, middle-aged woman appeared from behind a blue curtain. She wore a
low-cut gown and a spangle of glittering jewels upon her generous bosom. Her
fleshy fingers sparkled with rings.

"Lady
Draven, how nice to see you," she said, her simpering tone at odds with
her imposing person.

Marianne
inclined her head. "Good day, Mrs. Bell. I have brought a friend with me.
I hope that will not be a problem."

"Of
course not, dearie," Mrs. Bell replied. "Guests are included in your
subscription. And lucky for her, we have a nice selection today. Fresh from
market." She laughed. "Follow me, then."

Before
Helena could ask, "A selection of what?", she was ushered through the
curtain. She found herself in a dim passageway lit by wall sconces.

"Right
this way," Mrs. Bell said, taking the lead. Helena looked at Marianne, who
merely smiled and gestured for her to follow. Helena found herself taking quick
steps to keep up.

"What
is it exactly that you sell, Mrs. Bell?" Helena asked, a trifle
breathlessly.

"Why,
didn't Lady Draven tell you?" Mrs. Bell asked in astonishment. "My
merchandise is the finest in all of London, in all of England I daresay."

"Yes,
but what is
it
?"

They
stopped at a heavy oak door guarded by a cloaked footman.

"Give
the lady a look then, Jim," Mrs. Bell said.