The Love List (7 page)

She laughed.  “That does seem to be the question of the Season, does it not?”  Pursing her lips, she stared at him for a moment.  “Do you know, I’ve seen that question in print often enough in the past three months, but you are the first person to ask me outright.”

He recoiled slightly.  “Surely not.”

“I’m afraid so.”  She shrugged.

“You expect me to believe that your father—”

“Raged, threatened and wept after he found me, but he never asked.  He had no need to, truly—and in the end he threw his hands in the air and declared them washed clean of me.”

Aldmere frowned.  “No need to ask why?”  But comprehension dawned.  “You told him, and he didn’t stand with you against Marstoke?”

Her gaze dropped for the first time as she bent her head.

He recalled the shaky fear that had lurked beneath her bravado that fateful evening, the quaver that had broken through her bold words, and the tear in her gown.   “But did you explain . . . everything about that evening?”

“In detail.  All of it except for your part.”

The bastard.  Aldmere’s fists clenched.  But then he realized.  “Marstoke had a hold over him too,” he said flatly.  For a moment he contemplated what it might be that would lead a man to forsake his own daughter, then he turned his focus back onto the girl.  “I still don’t understand, though—why Hestia Wright?”

The boy at her side made a small noise and Aldmere watched her curb him with narrowed eyes before she turned back to glare at him.  “I came here today to
ask
a question or two, your Grace, but I will answer this one—because I want you to understand the ramifications of what has happened.”

She squared her shoulders.  “I confess, I ran to Hestia because of her reputation.  Who else would stand against my father?  Not his family, such as is left.  My mother’s family is in Wales and lost contact long ago.  My friend Jane might have helped me, but her mama would have marched me right back home.  There was Hestia Wright, however, glamorous, beautiful, and well known for having powerful friends at every level of society.  Even more notorious for offering refuge and standing firm at the side of any woman in trouble.”  She sighed.  “I didn’t understand the sort of difficulties I would bring to her door with my own notoriety.  Nor did I know then of her long standing feud with Lord Marstoke.”

Aldmere opened his mouth to ask a question, but then closed it abruptly.  She was starting down tangents he had no business following.  He held up a hand.  “Why are you here, Miss Wilmott?”

Her lips pinched shut.  She glanced around, took in the richness of the study and waved a hand.  “Perhaps you will not be able to understand.  Clearly you have never lost everything, been left bereft and empty and alone.  Been forced to start anew.”

“Wrong,” he said flatly—then immediately regretted revealing even such a small thing.

Her gaze shifted to assessing.  It wandered over him, taking his measure in the most innocent fashion, yet he felt himself oddly exposed, and inexplicably hot.

“Then you might understand my feelings,” she hurried on.  “Hestia Wright is a treasure.  The women who come to her most often have no choice, no options.  Like me.  She
saved
me, your Grace.”

“At what cost?” he snorted.  “You gave up more than an unwanted betrothal when you set foot in her house.  You lost your status, your reputation and your position in Society.”

She leaned in.  “Better than trading it all for a lifetime of abuse and misery.  The men in my life were duty-bound to protect my interests, and instead they betrayed me in favor of their own.”  Her gaze narrowed.  “I would have lived in the streets rather than marry the marquess, but I didn’t have to.  Because a stranger took me in, gave me a home, and sheltered me from the frenzy that my actions created.”  She waved a dismissive hand.  “Do you think I miss my reputation?  I lost my
identity
.  If I’m no longer my father’s daughter, then who am I?”

Lord, what a spitfire she was, coming in here and laying bare her soul.  She stirred his sympathies as well as his senses.  But he wasn’t going to make the mistake of letting her know it.  Deliberately, he shifted, let his impatience show.

She saw it, and raised a brow.  “A dilemma you are likely unfamiliar with, your Grace.  You are fortunate.  It’s a harrowing question to have to face.  But Hestia Wright has given me a chance to explore the answers.  I’ve had the freedom to discover who I want to be.  And now I have the chance to make it happen.”

Anger bloomed again in her face.  “Or I did, until this morning.  It’s been such a relief, these past weeks, to wake up full of plans and
hope
.  But your carelessness has put all of that in danger.  Worse yet, your loose lips could be the ruin of everything that Hestia has labored to build—and that is a far greater crime.”

“Loose lips?”  He straightened.  “I've already told you, I kept my word and told no one of or encounter.  I wouldn't.  I don't believe in such interference.  I told you I wouldn’t mention our encounter.  I have not.”

“Truly?”  She blazed with so much skepticism and disbelief that he could have warmed his hands over her.  “Then how, sir, do you explain this?”  She unwrapped the parcel she carried and slapped a sheaf of paper down onto his desk.  Unexpectedly, her eyes darted away.  “You might have warned me, at least.”

“About what?”  He cast a sardonic glance at the stack of handwritten pages before transferring it to her.  “What is it, Miss Wilmott?  Have you put your exploits into the pages of an adventure novel?”

“Don’t be absurd.”  He saw her draw in a quick, sharp breath.  “It’s the List.”

“List?”  He raised a brow.  “Of market items?  Fabric and furbelows for your new gown?”

“You are the only one to find this amusing, your Grace, I assure you.  Would you have me believe that it was someone else who shared the story of that horrid evening with your brother?”  She huffed and crossed her arms.  “And although you—and all of London’s lowest orders, apparently—might be familiar with the List, it was only through happenstance that I discovered it at all.”  She turned slightly and shot a dark look at boy at her side.  “Happenstance and sheer effrontery, I should say.”  She tossed her head.  “It’s clear that neither Hestia nor I was meant to see this before publication was complete.  I only hope that I have found it in time to put a stop to it.”

“Hold a moment.”  He pressed two fingers against his temple.  “You’ve lost me, I’m afraid.  This is a list—of what, exactly?”

“It’s
The
List, sir!”  The young man spoke up at last.  “The one everyone’s been talking of.  The Love List!”

“The
what
?” he asked, incredulous.  He leaned forward, suddenly intent.  “And what has any of this to do with my brother?”

“Surely you are not serious?”  Miss Wilmott’s eyes had narrowed.  “All of this time and you are still not aware that
this
is what your brother has been up to?”

He shook his head.  He wasn’t aware, because for the first time that he could recall, his brother had chosen an issue to stand firm on.  Tru wouldn’t discuss Marstoke, or the reasons why he was spending his nights trolling through the worst stews in the city.  Aldmere, torn between pride, relief and the ever-present desire to shake his brother until his teeth rattled, had instead left him alone. 

“Is this it—what he’s been working on?”  He reached across and pulled the stack close.  The papers were unbound.  He ran his finger along the edge until, about a third of the way down, he cut the stack like a deck of cards and stared down at the exposed page.

Maiden Lane Jane, at No. 16

This plump little pocket Venus may lack a surname, but she makes up for it with her infamously generous bosom and kinder heart.  Comfort is her specialty, and for the regular rate she will welcome a gentleman with all the warmth and care of a beloved spouse.  Quite skilled is Jane, as evidenced by the number of businessmen who make a call on her part of their routine on visits to Town.  She never tires of love’s play and will sigh and squirm and murmur in a fashion that never fails to provide satisfaction.

Good God.  Surely not?  Refusing to meet Miss Wilmott’s gaze, he flipped to a page near the middle.

Mrs. Hillary, No. 9 Wardour Street

Here is a widow lady, very tall, dark of hair and proud in her air.  She is very genteel, having been married to a clergyman, and very strict in admitting visitors.  Her price is high and her propensity is for the birch rod discipline.  For the asking, she will whip a man for his sins, or for an extra two pounds, bring in one of her naughty girls and smart her bum for his gratification.

He could feel the heat rising from his neck.  “Tru wrote this?”  He had to choke the words past the mortification lodged in his throat, but he knew the answer beforehand.  The handwriting was familiar and those descriptions reeked of his brother’s slightly ironic brevity of wit.  “I don’t understand.  What is all of this about?”

“Money, o’ course,” Joe Watts said.  The boy shook his head as if incredulous at Aldmere’s ignorance.  “The Love List is back and set to make a good number of people a better amount o’ money.”  At his still blank look, he expelled an exasperated sigh.  “”Tis a remake of the Harris List of old—and surely you’ve heard o’ that."

Tired of wandering around the same, dark conversational circles, Aldmere looked to Miss Wilmott for enlightenment.

“I had no knowledge of it, either, before this morning,” she said.  Her tone had grown marginally more sympathetic.  “Fully known as
Harris’s List of Covent Garden Ladies
, Mr. Watts informs me, it was an annual pamphlet.  Each year it was newly published and listed an updated description of many of the . . . accommodating ladies of London.”

“Lightskirts,” Joe Watts clarified helpfully.  “It was printed for nigh on to forty years, and eight thousand copies sold each year.  No small profit, there.  But it’s been a long time since it was put out.  Likely it will have an even bigger run now, what with everyone so riled about it.”

“Now, hold a moment,” he protested.  “Tru would not be involved in something like this for the profit . . .” He paused then, and glanced at the girl again.  “Wait.  You say that this is the project that the marquess pressed him into?”  He frowned in disbelief.  “Marstoke’s richer than Croesus.  It’s not likely he would be interested in the paltry sum something like this would bring in.”

Joe Watts stiffened.  “It’s no paltry sum to my master!”

“Mr. Watts is a printer’s apprentice,” Miss Wilmott said, shaking her head.  The heat and weight of her gaze moved over him again.  “And Marstoke isn’t engineering this for money,” she said darkly.  “He’s doing it for revenge.”

Trying to channel his impatience, Aldmere stood and went to stand by the empty fireplace.  “Explain,” he said shortly.  He gripped the mantle hard with one hand.

She sighed.  "We're talking in circles.  Let me make it simple.  Your brother is writing this new version of the Love List for Marstoke, and Marstoke means to use it to destroy both me and Hestia Wright."

"I understand it might be against Hestia Wright's principles, but how does the List impact her directly—and you?" he asked.

The boy had moved a few paces away.  She beckoned him close again and nodded in his direction.  “Tell the duke how we met this morning.”

Joe Watts bit his lip as his face flushed red.  He ducked his chin and spoke to his loosely fitted vest.  “I thought she were the virgin one.”

Miss Wilmott had gone a delicious shade of pink.  Aldmere marveled that she could look so delicate.  A grand illusion, but one that could never last.  Again, she dragged up something rusty from inside of him.  He rather
liked
her.  He liked her stiff spine and her tightly braided coronet of dark hair.  He liked the utter contradiction of towering spirit hid behind fey-touched fragility.  He even liked that damned tempting kiss that called to him from her unsuspecting lips.

He transferred his gaze back to Joe Watts.  “Do me a favor, and start at the beginning, Mr. Watts.”

The boy took him literally.  “Well, after I had my porridge, I was sweeping the shop, like I always do.  Mr. Rudd left to visit his mistress, like he does of a Friday morn.”

Aldmere kept a straight face and silently reached for patience.  “And Mr. Rudd is a printer, and your master?”

“Aye—and I’m his first ranked apprentice.”  His chest puffed with pride.  “I can set type and pull a trial proof.”

“Very commendable.”

The boy grew shamefaced again.  “You see,” he said in a rush, “I heard Rudd last night, whispering behind his office door, discussin’ the List with the toff what brung it.  And this morning, when he were gone, I sneaked in for a peep at what the fuss was about.”  He shrugged.  “I tell you, yer honor, it got me blood up.  I particularly liked the sound o’ the virgin one,” he repeated.  “Or the one that says she’ can act like it, in any case.”  His eyes burned as he glanced at the girl again.  “And she sounds like her.”

Miss Wilmott had gone crimson now and she bit her words out, each one sharp as a tack.  “So he informed me when I stepped outside this morning with the market basket.”

“And so I still say,” Joe Watts burst out.  “You fit the description right down to the last.  And it spells out how you lost your affianced nobleman and your position in society when you took to consorting about with a duke.”  The boy went abruptly rigid.  “No!” he breathed.  His mouth open in shock, Joe Watts pierced Aldmere with a disapproving gaze.  “Yer honor—never say it was you!”

He barely heard him.  He’d gone more than slightly stiff himself, with a sudden and unexpected surge of anger.  “Do you mean to say that
you
are included on this Love List, Miss Wilmott?” 

She fought a brief, visible battle to compose her expression, then settled for lifting her chin and compressing her lips.  “I am.  And I’m not alone, your Grace.  Every girl in Hestia Wright’s home is included.”

Aldmere crossed back to his desk.  Gingerly now, he lifted the sheaf of papers, rifled through until he found a page titled
Brothel of Distinction and Disguise: H W’s Secret Whorehouse.