Promise of Pleasure (37 page)

“I will give you one chance to explain yourself,” he said.

“Explain myself? What are you talking about?” She spun away, showing him her back, and she picked up her brush and began stroking her hair again. “How was the wedding? I trust it went well?”

He plucked the brush from her hand and flung it at the mirror, which shattered into a dozen pieces. “Stand up and face me,” he hissed.

“What is wrong with you?” She jumped up and whirled around. “Are you mad?”

“Where is Mary Barnes?”

Lauretta carefully shielded any reaction. “Mary . . . Barnes? Victoria’s stepdaughter? How would I know?”

“How many years have you known me, Lauretta?”

“Five? Six?”

“Yet you would hurt me this way? I realize there was never any affection between us, but I thought—on some level—we were friends.”

“I have no idea what you’re saying. You could be speaking in a foreign language.”

“Who owns the carriage in which you traveled to London?”

“You do.”

“Who employs the driver?”

“You do,” she repeated, slowing, starting to fret.

“You didn’t think I’d ask him where you took her? You didn’t think he’d tell me? Could you actually suppose he is more loyal to you than to me?”

She blanched.

How had he learned that Lauretta offered a ride to the stupid wench? What were the odds that someone would have tattled?

A myriad of replies flitted by as she tried to figure out how to play it. Denial seemed best.

“Are we still discussing Miss Barnes? Because if we are, I don’t—”

“Be silent!” he roared, and she lurched away, terribly afraid he would strike her. He never had before, but she’d never seen him so agitated.

“I know what you did,” he seethed. “I know what you arranged for her.”

“I arranged nothing.”

“Be silent!” he roared again. “Your cruelty sickens me. I am aware of your penchant for malice and treachery, but to have it directed at me—after all I’ve done for you.”

“Why are you droning on about—”

“I love her. You knew, didn’t you? It’s why you’re so determined to harm her.”

It was the admission she’d been dreading. If he loved Mary Barnes, where did that leave Lauretta?

“You love Miss Barnes?” Lauretta scoffed. “You’re being absurd.”

“Was it you who told Victoria?”

Lauretta shook her head. “Again—I haven’t a clue what you’re babbling on about.”

He pondered, then nodded as if reaching an important conclusion. “You never were a very good liar. How did you find out? Did you see us? What?”

Her protests had fallen on deaf ears, so a different track seemed wise. She decided to brazen it out.

“Yes, I saw you. At the village dance, and I mentioned it to Victoria.” She squared her shoulders, refusing to be cowed. “You were courting disaster chasing after her.”

He loomed up, crazed with rage, and he bellowed, “My private life is none of your business!”

“Not my business?
I am your mistress. I am the only woman in the world who truly understands you. So stop shouting at me. Miss Barnes was a flirtation, and now, she is gone from our lives. You’ve married Felicity, and we’ll carry on as planned.”

“I didn’t marry Felicity.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you did.”

“No, I didn’t. So you see, Mrs. Bainbridge, there is no money. There will never be any money.”

She scrutinized his hard features, and she murmured, “What have you done?”

“I cried off.”

Her heart pounded with alarm.

They were at the end of their financial rope. Jordan had long since abandoned his bachelor’s lodgings and slept in a free room over a gambling club.

She still had the cozy house he’d purchased for her, but only because he’d staved off his most vehement creditors with promises of Felicity’s dowry.

If he didn’t wed Felicity, what would become of them?

She had no family and no real friends. If she lost her home, where would she go? What would she do?

“You cried off?” she scolded.

“Yes.”

“Then, you’ll just have to cry
on
again, won’t you? We’ll travel to Barnes Manor tomorrow. We’ll talk to Victoria and set everything to rights.”

“There is no we, Mrs. Bainbridge, and I never intend to speak with Victoria Barnes again.”

“You can’t be serious.” She was growing angry and frightened. “Not after all the effort I expended in choosing Felicity!”

“You played your cards, but it was the wrong hand. If you had left Mary alone, I’d have sent you on your way with a stipend and a fond farewell, but you didn’t. You had to hurt her, and thus, you hurt me, too. Your callous behavior has guaranteed the result you are about to suffer.”

“What result? What do you mean?”

“I am surrendering the house to the bank. First thing in the morning.”

The announcement was so unexpected, so dire, it made her dizzy with dismay.

“But . . . but it’s mine! You bought it for me! You don’t have my permission to relinquish it.”

“It’s not up to you. I decline to continue supporting you, so I am authorizing the foreclosure. I’m sick of the fight. The house, the furniture, the carriage—it’s all going. The bank’s clerks will be here at ten o’clock.”

“No! You will not get away with this.”

A violent rage swept over her, as she thought of all the years she’d groomed him to be the man she wanted.

To have him simply change his mind! To have him fritter away property that she considered her own! And all because of a mousy, worthless spinster!

“You bastard!”

Fists flying, she charged him, managing to land a few punches before he clasped her wrists behind her back.

She was kicking at his shins, trying to butt him with her head.

“Stop it!” he ordered, but she kept on and on.

“You bastard! You bastard!”

She was weeping, her chest heaving, as she caught him with a glancing blow to the chin. He pushed her away, and she fell to her knees.

There was a terrible silence as she huddled on the floor with him towering over her. His disgust was palpable; it rolled off him in waves.

“I will return tomorrow at noon—to see how the foreclosure is proceeding. I have never hit a woman before, but I swear to God that if you are still here, I will beat you within an inch of your life. Vacate the premises by then so I don’t have to prove how eager I am to follow through.”

“What will happen to me?”

“Your future, Mrs. Bainbridge, matters not to me in the slightest. Just be sure that I am never forced to lay eyes on you again.”

He started toward the door. She wanted to shout at him, to rail and scream, but she remained on the floor, stunned to submission.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“I’m off to Barbara’s brothel to fetch Mary, and you had best pray that she is all right.”

He stomped out, and she staggered to her feet and stumbled over to the window, casting open the shutters. He was down in the street, and she watched as he leapt onto his horse, kicked it into a canter, and raced away.

“Jordan!” she wailed, reaching out as if she could make him stay simply by wishing it fervently enough. “Jordan! Jordan!”

He rounded the corner without looking back.

“SHE’S waking.”

“Quick! Let’s run and tell Miss Barbara.”

The unfamiliar voices roused Mary, and she rolled onto her back. Her head pounded so hard that she winced, and she stared at the ceiling, feeling very dizzy, very confused. She gazed around the room, not recognizing her surroundings.

The entire space was decorated in shades of blue. Blue drapes, blue wallpaper, blue rugs. She was stretched out on a blue divan.

She glanced down at her torso, perplexed to find herself attired in a white negligee and robe, and she lay very still, trying to piece together what had happened.

Mrs. Bainbridge had brought her to visit Barbara Monroe. They’d chatted. Mrs. Monroe had ordered tea, and in the middle of the interview, Mary had grown very sleepy.

She didn’t recollect anything after that.

How much time had passed? Who had undressed her—and why?

Obviously, treachery was planned, and she had to escape her predicament. She stood, groaning at how the sudden movement made her head throb, but she ignored her discomfort.

There was a dressing room behind her. Hoping to locate her clothes, she took several steps toward it before being halted by the bizarre realization that her ankle was shackled to the sofa.

She peered at the chain, and the sight was so strange that she wondered if she wasn’t dreaming.

But no. From the aches and pains shooting through her body, she was very much awake.

She sat and studied her manacled foot, and as she fretted over it, the door opened and Mrs. Monroe entered. A burly footman followed her in.

“Hello, Miss Barnes. I’m delighted to see you’ve come back to us. From how long you were out, I’d begun to think you would never stir.”

Mrs. Monroe pulled up a chair, and she was as calm and composed as she’d been when Mary had first met her. Yet Mary was nearly nude and chained to her sofa.

Was Mrs. Monroe insane?

“What have you done to me?” Mary asked. “I wish to leave. Where are my clothes?”

“There is a bit of a problem with them.”

“What is it?”

“You can’t have them—unless you pay the storage fee you’ve generated. Nothing here is free. I’ve had them laundered and pressed and hung, so you will have to reimburse me before they can be returned.”

“Fine. Give me my reticule.”

“Did you have a reticule when you arrived?”

“You stole it from me! You stole my money!”

“It’s not stealing... exactly. I prefer to call it a case of finders keepers. I found it; I kept it.”

“Give it back!”

Mary rose, as if she might attack Mrs. Monroe, but Mrs. Monroe wasn’t intimidated, and apparently, the footman was a guard.

He stepped closer, threatening Mary with his size and demeanor, and his warning was clear: If Mary tried anything, he would deal with her. Physically.

She eased down.

“What do you want from me?” she inquired.

“It’s really quite simple, Miss Barnes. You’re in London, with no family or friends to help you. The city is a dangerous place for a naive female such as yourself, so I am offering you safety and shelter.”

“Why am I certain that any support would come with strings attached?”

“Of course it would. As I previously mentioned,
nothing
here is free.”

“Whatever price you’re demanding, I’m sure it would be much too steep.”

“Not necessarily. I’ve assisted many others in your same position, and most of them are content with the arrangement.”

“Most of them?”

Mrs. Monroe sighed. “It’s not possible to make everyone happy.”

“Where is Mrs. Bainbridge?”

“Lauretta went home after she delivered you to me. She’s preparing a magnificent party to celebrate Redvers’s wedding.”

As Mrs. Monroe blithely referred to Lord Redvers, Mary flinched as if she’d been struck. She shouldn’t have indicated an acquaintance, but hearing his name was so hurtful.

Did he know what Bainbridge had done to Mary? If Mary disappeared for good, would he ever know? Would anyone?

The pitiful fact was that she was completely alone. She could vanish, and no one would care enough to wonder what had happened to her.

Mrs. Monroe was very shrewd, and she noticed Mary’s reaction.

“Lauretta told me that you were extremely fond of Redvers. How sad for you. After all that’s transpired, you must realize that he wasn’t worth it.”

“Yes, I realize it.”

“So, this is what I propose.” Suddenly, Mrs. Monroe was all business. “You will work for me for two years. During that time, I will feed, clothe, and house you. You will receive a percentage of each guest’s fee, and I will keep it in an account for you at my bank. After the two years, you may renew our agreement, or you may retrieve your money and move on to other ventures.”

Mrs. Monroe smiled and continued. “As you might imagine, this will be very lucrative for you. Some of my girls have ended up married to a customer. Others have gone on to be mistresses of some very grand noblemen. It is a win-win situation.”

Mrs. Monroe had spewed so many details that Mary couldn’t absorb the information.

“Your
customers,”
Mary broached, “visit you for what sort of enterprise?”

“Why, this is a brothel, Miss Barnes. Surely you’ve figured that out by now.”

“You’re asking me to be a prostitute?”

“Not a
prostitute,
precisely. You’d be a gentleman’s companion.”

Mary looked around at the oddly decorated room, at her scanty attire, and she began to laugh. She kept on till her disturbed merriment brought tears to her eyes.