Her Husband's Harlot (7 page)

"Forgive
me," he whispered.

"For
what?"

Nicholas
jerked around. It took his frozen brain a moment to recognize Paul Fines. The
younger man removed his fashionable tall hat as he entered the room, his golden
hair gleaming like a new guinea. As usual, Paul wore impeccably tailored
clothes, with not a wrinkle to be found on his dove-grey coat and trousers. A
complicated cravat grazed his chin. His waistcoat was yellow, and a bloom of that
same shade bobbed cheerfully in his buttonhole.

"I
thought I would find you here, Morgan," Paul said. "Working too hard
as usual. Can't be a good sign that you're conversing with yourself."

Nicholas
gathered his wits behind a mocking expression. "I'm surprised to see you,
Fines. It is not yet noon. I thought you fashionable fellows refused to rise
during the light of day."

"Oh,
I haven't risen yet," Paul responded, "for I haven't yet to bed."

Nicholas
grunted. He loved Paul like a brother (albeit a younger, spoiled sibling), but
he would never understand how the man could live the way he did, sleeping all
day, carousing all night. He and Paul could not be more different. As Jeremiah's
only son, Paul had been doted upon since birth. He lived the life of rich,
middle class leisure—that is to say, he lived idly and with considerable
indulgence.

Paul flicked
a glance over the utilitarian room. "I see not much has changed since my
last visit. More's the pity." Picking a stack of ledgers up off a chair, he
deposited the papers unceremoniously upon the threadbare carpet. He shuddered
when a puff of dust rose in reply. "Good God, man, now that you're the Marquess
of such and such, shouldn't your office befit your title? Where are the velvet
pillows with the embroidered crests? The gilded cherubs? The droves of footmen
bearing champagne?"

"It
is the footmen's year off." Nicholas went to the washstand. The icy splash
of water felt good, purifying, and returned him fully to the present. Feeling
the rough growth of his morning beard, he reached for shaving implements. "Unlike
you, I have obligations in life and greater concerns than the decoration of my office."

Paul's
expression turned knowing. "Ah, the obligations of a newlywed."

The
iniquities he'd performed with the harlot assailed Nicholas, spilled acid over
his insides.
All you've done is prove that you're not good enough for Helena
—
that
you never were.
Looking into the cracked mirror above the washstand, he
forced himself to continue shaving.

"That
is not what I meant." He cut through the soap in quick, economic strokes. "I
have simply been busy. We had a large shipment in yesterday."

Paul
withdrew a large handkerchief and placed it carefully upon the chair before
seating himself. "Shouldn't you have your valet doing that for you? You
might cut a vein, and you know how I abhor the sight of blood."

"If
you're afraid of bloodshed, I take it you wouldn't care to join me in the ring?"
Nicholas raised a brow in challenge. To his mind, there was no better way to blow
off steam than with his fists. He'd had a boxing ring custom built in the
adjoining antechamber—the one luxury he'd allowed himself since taking the reins
of Fines and Co. "How about going a round or two, eh?"

"Good
God, Morgan, at this uncivilized hour?" Paul rolled his eyes. "I have
a better idea. I am headed to Long Meg's, and you shall join me."

Sighing,
Nicholas wiped off his jaw. He finished dressing with the efficiency of a man
who'd seen to his own needs for most his life. As he was already behind
schedule, it was on his tongue to refuse Paul's invitation, but his stomach
growled. "A cup of coffee wouldn't hurt, I suppose."

"Excellent.
No one brews the stuff like Long Meg." Paul eyed Nicholas' completed
ensemble with something akin to horror. "Do tell me you are not prepared
to leave the room dressed like that."

"We
do not all aspire to be dandies," Nicholas said, scowling. "Some of
us have more pressing matters to attend to than the style of our cravat. Like
the running of a business, for example."

Since
this was a running source of banter between them, Paul merely shrugged at
Nicholas' pointed words. "My father, bless his soul, understood that his
only son and heir never had a head for business. Which is why, after his death,
he entrusted the daily operations of Fines and Company to you, his ever
industrious partner."

Nicholas
shook his head. "I told Jeremiah it should be you running the company, not
me."

"What
difference does it make when I receive half the profits? You know I've never
held a grudge against you for all your canny mercantile ways," Paul said. "If
it hadn't been for your timely appearance in our lives, Father might have forced
me to put in a hard day's work. Then where would I be?"

Nicholas
shot Paul a look of exasperated affection. "Doing something useful, one
would hope."

"Please."
Paul shuddered visibly as he rose. "Do not mix the word
useful
and
I in the same sentence. We have a constitutional aversion to one another.
Rather like water and oil."

They
descended two flights to the main floor. Nicholas did a quick survey of the cavernous
warehouse. Stacks of wooden crates and barrels stood neat as hedgerows, while a
mountain of sugar sacks leaned against one wall. All appeared as usual, save
for the group of men huddled by the spice containers. When they saw him, the
men stopped talking, their expressions mulish. He was about to issue a sharp
reprimand to return to work when Jibotts, his trusted office steward, hurried
over.

"Good
morning, Mr. Fines. Lord Harteford, I did not see you come in this morning."
Behind his spectacles, Jibotts' faded blue eyes had a pinched, tense look. "I
was here by six o' clock. When did you arrive?"

Aware
of Paul's interested gaze, Nicholas cleared his throat. "Slightly before
that. I heard the commotion. Apprise me of the situation."

"It
was one of the rum barrels, my lord," Jibotts said. "Jim Buckley, he
slipped on account of his bad back, and the weight became too much for the
other two. I've had the spillage cleared."

"How
is Jim?"

"I
sent him home to bed rest. He wished to convey his apologies to you personally."
Jibotts paused. "He was quite concerned that his wages would be garnished."

"For
having a bad back?" Nicholas asked.

It
was a rhetorical question as he knew intimately what the life of the laboring
class was like. He had begun his career on the docks just as Jim Buckley had.
If Jeremiah hadn't taken a chance on him, he might be there still, hefting the
immeasurable weight of poverty upon his shoulders. At least this explained the
mutiny before him. Nicholas could feel the daggered looks of the workers as
they listened to every word.

A
stocky, bearded man, clearly the leader of the group, spoke up. "Jim 'as 'im
a wife and eight young 'uns countin' on 'im. A man breaks 'is back but 'tisn't
enough fer your
lordship
—now you want to rips the bread outta the mouths
o' women an' chil'ren. Pox on this place, I says!" He spat, the action
inciting angry murmurs from the others.

Nicholas
turned to face him. "Your name?"

"Isaac
Bragg," the man said. His barrel chest puffed like a peacock's, and his
small dark eyes gleamed with insolence.

"Mr.
Bragg, what position do you occupy in this company?" Nicholas asked
sharply.

"I'm
a porter," Bragg said, with a swagger true to his name. "An' you can
fire me. Always work fer the likes of me—Milligan's 'iring a block away wif
wages that a man can live on. Isn't that right, boys?"

Muttered
assent rose from behind him.

Nicholas
silenced the group with a look. "As an owner of Fines and Company, let me
make myself very clear. We have not in the past, nor shall we in the future,
punish workers for sustaining injuries in the line of work. Any man who says
differently will answer to me."

"'Tis
exactly as his lordship says," Jibotts said in brisk tones. The steward
scanned the small group of workers, his eyes settling on a thin, red-haired man
in the back. "You there, James Gordon. What happened when you broke your
arm several months back?"

Gordon
shifted on his feet, leaning heavily on a wooden crutch. His words could barely
be heard as they were aimed at the ground. "The Master gave me my wages
while I recovered."

"What
else?" Jibotts asked.

"Dr.
Farraday came to see me," Gordon admitted, with a cautious look at Bragg. "He
weren't no quack either. He helped me, tied my arm up real good. Gave me a new
crutch, too, on account o' the old one not fittin' me proper no more."

There
were shrugs, uncomfortable looks among the men.

"Get
back to work, then," Nicholas said. He leveled a glance at Bragg, who
glared but said nothing. "I expect any man with a problem to speak
directly to me."

The
workers scattered like marbles. Once they were out of earshot, Nicholas turned
to Jibotts with a frown. "Tell me about Bragg. I don't recognize him."

"He's
a new porter, sir. Joined a few months back. Has a mouth and a temper, but he follows
his time and does his work."

"Keep
an eye on him." Something about Bragg's belligerent stance did not sit right
in Nicholas' gut. "And have Farraday attend to Jim Buckley."

"Yes,
of course, my lord," Jibotts said, mopping his brow with a yellowed
handkerchief.

"In
the meantime, his lordship and I are heading out for breakfast," Paul intervened.
"He shall not be back until after eleven."

"I
will be back by ten, Jibotts," Nicholas corrected, "and I will expect
to review the shipping reports with you at that time."

*****

They
walked the short distance to the coffee house, making their way down a street
crammed with taverns, street vendors, and the swearing, jostling men of the
docks. Eschewing the outdoor tables where the prostitutes tended to ply their
trade, the two entered the indoor premises of Long Meg's. The savory aromas of
browning butter and grilled meat greeted them as they claimed the remaining
table. The small room was packed with customers—merchants and docksmen, mostly—conversing
in earnest tones over generous platters of food. The interior was drab, but
clean, like the apron-clad woman approaching the table.

"Nicholas
Morgan, I han't seen you in a dog's age," Meg said. True to her name, her
frizzled grey hair nearly touched the low ceiling. Her face resembled an apple
left too long in the sun. "Thought maybe you forgot ol' Meg now that you's
'is 'ighness."

"Morgan's
not royalty, yet." Paul gave her a wink. Nicholas scowled and turned his
attention to the menu on the wall. "Just a mere marquess."

"Ooo,
a marquess is it?" Meg cackled. "When are you going to sweep me off my
feet then an' carry me out o' this 'ere dump?"

"Eh,
you can leave 'ere anytime you want!" Bumpy Tim, Meg's husband, poked his pock-marked
face out from the kitchen. His comment elicited boisterous laughter from the
customers.

"'Oo
asked you, ya gotch-gutted bastard?" Meg shouted back. "Mind the eggs
afore I come an' mind you!"

When
Bumpy Tim's head retreated like a turtle's, Meg leveled a gap-toothed grin at Paul
and Nicholas. "What will it be then, boys?"

"Two
ploughman's," Nicholas said. "And coffee, please."

As
Meg strode away, Paul aimed an amused look at Nicholas. "I believe your title
discomforts you, my lord."

"Bloody
right it does." Nicholas ran a hand through his rumpled hair. "You
try being a lowly merchant in the
ton
and a blasted marquess in the
stews. See how you like it."

"I
don't have to try it. I know I shouldn't like it at all." Paul waited for
Meg to deposit the cups of steaming brew. "How tiresome it must be to
straddle two worlds when one would suffice."

"What
do you mean by that?"

"Tell
me, why do you persist in mercantile labors when there's no longer a need?"

"No
need?" Nicholas felt a surge of irritation as he watched Paul stir liberal
amounts of sugar and cream into his coffee, as if the other man had not a care
in the world. "Easy enough for you to say, when you haven't put in a day's
work—"

"Well,
this is not about me, is it?" Paul replied. "This is about you. When
your father saw fit to declare your legitimacy in his will, you inherited a
fortune along with the title. You hardly need the income from Fines and Co.—which,
by the way, we both know Jibotts would take to running like a pig to mud. There
is no need for you to oversee the daily operations, yet you find every excuse
to bury yourself down at the docks. Why is that?"

"You
have no idea what it takes to run Fines and Co.," Nicholas snapped. "Your
father put his life's blood into that company. He made something out of
nothing. I will not fail him."

"You
may paint my father a saint, but the man spent his life chained to the company,
to the detriment of everything else in his life. You do not have to make the
same choice."