Her Husband's Harlot (37 page)

"I
cannot
see that, don't you understand? I cannot see
anything
when
you keep me in the dark. I cannot read your mind, which is blasted mercurial by
the by, and I am tired of trying!"

He
stared at her. That was his first mistake. Her cheeks had blossomed with roses,
and her plump bottom lip was all a-quiver. With her decadent breasts straining
with each agitated breath, she embodied temptation itself. She also looked hurt
and angry, and if he hadn't thought it possible to hate himself more, he now
realized his error. He cursed himself a hundred times over for causing her
distress. He'd thought to spare her the truths that no lady should know—but had
he just been rationalizing his own fear? Who was he truly protecting—her or
himself?

Seeing
her bewildered pain, he knew he could not run any longer.

"Of
course you cannot read my mind—I lost it from the moment we met," he said
in a weak attempt at humor. When she only continued to look at him, he sighed. "I
have not been the husband you deserve, Helena. For that, I do apologize."

Her
next words tore at him. "Is it because of me? Have I done something or not
done—"

"
No.
This is not, and never has been, about you. I told you before—the problem lies
with me. With who I am." His throat felt scratchy, abrading his words. "And
what I have done."

"Tell
me, Nicholas. For God's sake, just talk to me." Her eyes glimmered. "
Please
."

He
felt himself weakening. His second mistake. "You are asking me to speak of
things I never have before. Not with anyone—not the Fineses, not even Jeremiah."
He struggled to make her understand. "My past, Helena ... it is not fit
for a lady's ears."

"I
am not just a lady." Her chin lifted. As he was learning, an ominous sign.
"I am your
wife
. And I love you, and nothing you say could possibly
change that."

He
swallowed. "I ... I want to believe you."

"Then
take the chance. Let me know you, my husband," she whispered. "About
your childhood, how you grew up to be a man ... everything."

The sincerity
he saw in her beautiful eyes twisted a knife deep in his gut. The shame of the
evening's earlier events did not compare with the torture of the present. He
would have to witness Helena's love turn to disgust, once she knew him for what
he was. Rising, he returned to the beverage tray to buy himself time. And courage.
When he splashed more whiskey into his glass; he was surprised to find his
hands trembling. Liquid sloshed onto the silver.

"You
have no idea, do you, what you are asking me to share," he said. "The
ugliness of it, Helena—you will wish you had not asked."

"Let
me be the judge of that."

"As
you wish." Gulping down another shot, he let the burn ease the way into
the past. "I was not born a bastard, but I lived as one for all the years
up until the last. There is little about my sire's sordid affair with my
mother, a beautiful opera singer half his age, which has not been bandied
about. How he competed fiercely for her affections with two of his cronies, how
daily wagers were placed in the betting ledger at White's on who would triumph
in claiming Sylvie—that was my mother's name—under his protection. In the end,
it was the marquess who won."

"That
he set her up in a cozy cottage was known to all. What the
ton
did not
know was that in a reckless fit of passion, he married Sylvie. In secret, by
special license. For the first few months, he visited her regularly. It was no
surprise, then, that Sylvie found herself increasing within a short time. She
thought this would cement her position in the marquess' life, but she was
mistaken. When she lost her shape, she also lost his interest. Weeks before she
was to give birth, she found out that the marquess had a new mistress, younger
and more beautiful than she. In a rage, she confronted him. He responded by
throwing her out."

"He
abandoned his pregnant wife?" Helena said in disbelief.

Nicholas
shrugged. "My mother had no proof of the marriage, and my father was a
powerful man. He threatened to have her thrown into Newgate if she so much as
breathed a word of their relationship. She had no choice but to leave with the
clothes on her back."

"What
did she do then?" Helena asked faintly.

"She
bore the child, a boy, and left him in her sister's charge. So great was her
fear of her husband that she never spoke a word of the boy's true parentage.
For a while, she found employment as a singer again." Nicholas let his
shoulders rise and fall again. "I believe she may have sought the protection
of other wealthy patrons—she did send money now and again, mostly in the form
of jewelry."

"Did
you ever see her again?"

"No.
She died when I was nine, from consumption I was told." Nicholas
remembered well his aunt's red face as she had imparted the news.

Sylvie's
dead, with nary a shilling to her name. We've got six mouths to feed as it is,
so don't go thinking you can live on our charity. The workhouse is where you're
headed, my boy. The place where all the bastard brats go.

"What
happened ... after?"

Nicholas'
hand curled reflexively around his glass. "My aunt could no longer bear
the responsibility for my upbringing. I was sent to a workhouse." As he
had learned, even orphans possessed a social hierarchy. Those who occupied the
top rung had respectable parents—shop owners and tradesmen, even the occasional
penniless squire—who had expired in some unfortunate circumstance. Bastards, in
particular those born to whores, clung to the very bottom tier, a lesson he had
learned through bloodied noses and torn fists. "Eventually, I ran away and
found my way back to my aunt's house."

"She
took you back in," Helena said, clearly relieved.

"No."
Nicholas wondered how he could have been so naive, so stupid as to think that
his aunt would welcome him back once she knew of the workhouse conditions. He'd
thought if he could just explain that he was willing to work his share, to
contribute to the household—what a fool he had been. "No, she did not take
me back."

"Then
... what happened?" His wife looked at him wide-eyed.

He
expelled a breath. "She sold me."

The
words popped like a cork into the silence. Finally, Helena appeared shocked,
bereft of words. But he had gone too far already; as the ignominious tale poured
forth, he found he could not stem the flow of words. His lips seemed to move of
their own accord.

"It
happened that a sweep named Ben Grimes was looking for apprentices. He wanted
young boys, no older than the age of seven. Do you know why, Helena?"

She
shook her head, a barely perceptible movement.

"Because
the stacks are narrow. Tight so that only a small child can pass. At places no
wider than three hands across."

He
advanced toward her, using his hands to illustrate the girth of the airless
tunnel. Panic gripped his throat, reflexive, ineffaceable. Even if he lived to
be a hundred, he'd never forget the times he'd gotten stuck in the soot-choked
darkness, certain he'd be left to die. For the chummy was a disposable commodity—children
being so cheap and easy to come by that a master sweep would sooner find a new
child than try to save a useless one.

"You
... you worked as a chimney boy, then?"

He
blinked. Dropped his hands. Helena was looking steadily at him, and he had to
swallow down the tide of revulsion before he could speak again.

"I
was ten at the time, but puny enough to pass for younger. Grimes took me on. The
three years I worked as a climbing boy were a hell you cannot imagine. I lived
in soot so thick that it fills your lungs, every crevice of your skin." As
he spoke, the scorched stench filled his nostrils, the filth permeating his
every cell of his being. "And somehow you get used to it. From dawn to
dusk, I climbed the stacks, up passages so narrow that a mistaken breath could
jam you into a grave within the brick walls."

"How
did you manage not to get trapped?" she asked in a trembling voice.

His
fingers gripped the back of a chair. "I didn't always. When it happened,
Grimes had powerful incentives to get a boy loose. Lit straw, for one."

"He
burned
you?" Helena gasped.

"It
got me loose."

Before
he realized her intent, Helena came to him. He shuddered when her arms wrapped
around his waist, her cheek pressing against the rigid muscles of his back. Her
voice sounded muffled, choked. "No boy, no
human
, should ever
experience such horror. How strong you are to survive it, my darling."

He
gave a mirthless laugh. He moved out of her embrace and turned to face her. "The
days in the stacks, that was the respite. Most days I took extra care,
polishing the flue until it was spotless, to avoid being hauled up again."

"But
... why?"

"Because
of the nightly entertainments. Because after a hard day's work, Master Grimes
expected 'is boys to help 'im unwind."

Helena
stared at him. He noticed how tightly she was clasping her hands; he imagined
her fingernails would leave marks on her smooth perfect skin. He looked past
her, thankful for the numbness spreading over his insides. The truth tumbled
from his lips with a force of its own.

"Some
nights, 'e wanted one o' us to ... to service 'im while the res' o' the lot
watched. Other times, 'e made us to play wif each other. I ne' er stopped 'im.
I was one o' the good boys, did whate'er 'e asked ..."

The
small, hollowed faces flashed in his mind. As if from the outside, he saw
himself amongst the tattered bunch. All of them with eyes flat and dead, past
caring. Past most anything save the instinct to stay alive.

"You
did what you needed to survive." Helena's urgent words returned him to the
present. "You must see that."

Self-revulsion
churned in his gut. "I was 'ungry. Like a bloody mongrel on the street,
weren't nothin' I wouldn't do fer a scrap."

"Nicholas
..."

"Ev'ry
time, I tol' myself it would be the las'. I swore I'd kill 'im if 'e touched me
again." Feral satisfaction pulled his lips back. "An' then one day, I
did."

"Did
what?" Helena whispered.

"I
killed him. Stuck 'im in 'is bleedin' black 'eart and left 'im to die."

For a
moment, the sides of Helena's vision wavered, compressed.
Nicholas had
killed a man
. Even though she knew intellectually that death came quick and
ugly for many in the streets of London, it was another thing altogether to
comprehend that her husband had taken a life. As she watched, Nicholas stared
at his hands and flexed his fingers. A look of revulsion crossed his features
as he studied stains that only he could see.

If
there were stains, they contained the blood of a man who deserved to die. How
many children besides Nicholas had been fouled by the villain? The thought of
such cruelty, such predation on the weak and vulnerable, tightened Helena's
throat. She was not so innocent that she did not see the justice in Grimes'
end. She bled for the pain Nicholas had suffered as a boy, and for the
self-hatred and guilt he carried as a man. He still stood there, held captive
by his invisible sins.

"Nicholas!
Stop it. Come back, now!" Helena grabbed her husband's forearms and gave
him a shake. When he did not respond, she shook him again. Firmly.

Nicholas
blinked. She saw the moment he returned to the present, when anguished shame
replaced the blank sheen in his eyes. She never thought to feel relief in his
pain, but she did. Pain meant he was with her, alive, and not drowning blindly
in the quicksand of his past.

After
a pause, he continued woodenly, "There is more. After I stabbed Grimes, I panicked.
There ... there was another boy in the room. I don't even remember his name."
His voice catching, Nicholas knuckled his eyes. "He was a new boy, younger
than me. He witnessed what I'd done. I went over to him, with the knife still in
my hand and blood dripping everywhere, and I ... I ..."

Despite
the fear clutching her heart, Helena said, "What did you do, my love?"

He
raised his tormented gaze. "I threatened him. I told him if he ever
breathed a word about that night, I would slit his bloody throat. And all he
did was look at me, his face whiter than a ghost's and he said ..."

 Breath
held, Helena waited.

"
Take
me with you. Don't leave me here.
" Nicholas' eyes shut against the
memory. "He kept begging me, grabbing my arm. By God, he was no older than
seven or eight; he must have been frightened out of his wits. But I was frantic
to get out, and when he wouldn't let go, I struck him. I still remember the
sound of him crying as I escaped through one of the windows." His voice
throbbed with self-hatred. "Not only am I a murderer, I am a cursed
coward."

She
couldn't stop the tears from falling—for the unknown boy, for Nicholas, for the
suffering that neither of them had deserved. "You are not to blame, do you
hear me, Nicholas? Not for any of it." Reaching up, she took his jaw in
her hands. Forced him to look at her. "You were
thirteen years old
,
Nicholas. A child and a brave one to fight back. But you could hardly protect
yourself, let alone another boy. I cannot imagine how terrified you must have
been after ..." He trembled within her touch. "You must forgive
yourself—Grimes is the one responsible for all this suffering. At least you
freed that boy and the other children from his clutches."