The Undoing of a Libertine

  She doesn’t want you.

  In the dark, cold gloom of an otherwise comfortable guest chamber, Jeremy embraced sanity and faced the brutal truth. He couldn’t take advantage of Georgina like that. He remembered the broken look on her face when she’d told him. He could never do such a beastly thing to her. It would put him right on par with Pellton now, wouldn’t it? And she’d said she was incapable of doing the one thing—the only thing really—that any woman he called wife must be able to do. Accept him into her bed.

  There was something that needed doing before he left this place though. So just before dawn, Jeremy pounded on the door with vigor, his fist ready.

  When Tom Russell opened that same door, groggy with sleep and standing in his nightshirt, a punishing right hook shot out and connected squarely against Tom’s jaw. Jeremy’s hand stung from the strength of the blow he delivered.

  “What in the bloody hell was that for?” Tom sputtered, rubbing his maw.

  “Fuck you, Russell! You knew about Georgina and led me here! Damn you to hell, you bastard! What kind of a pathetic friend are you anyway?”

  “What has happened? Greymont? Tell me!”

  “I offered for her last night, and she has refused me. Said she was no virgin and could not fulfill the duties of marriage. Now why in the hell is that? Can you tell me true, Russell? No lies or fabrications this time. The truth will do nicely, you conniving, bloody prick!”

  Defeated, Tom dropped his head. “I’m sorry. ’Tis only because I hold you in esteem, and know you’ve always liked her, that I thought you might be able to overlook her—her state of shame. She is blameless in it, Greymont. Blameless I tell you, but rather the victim.”

  Jeremy froze, coldness seeping into him, like ice water poured down his back. “What? Did someone do her wrong?”

  Tom nodded. “Nearly five months ago. She had been out riding and stopped to water her horse. She doesn’t remember everything, which is probably a blessing. A man she didn’t recognize passed her, greeting politely, but then doubled back, taking her unawares. He covered her eyes with something, but she remembers a red coat, she is definite about that. When her horse wandered home alone, I went out and found her.”

  Tom looked frayed, recalling the details. “It was very bad what he did to her. Vile, cruel…very bad…” Tom sat down wearily. “She must have fought with all of her strength because he beat her brutally before doing his worst. I hardly recognized it was her when I saw what he—”

  “Stop! I don’t—I don’t want to hear any more!” Jeremy dropped his face into his hands and scrubbed back and forth. It hurts to know! I cannot bear to hear it!

  His mind reeled wildly at the images which came to him anyway. Georgina fighting and losing, her hurt and terrified— “Wait! Who did it to her? Tell me you caught the piece of shit that hurt her.”

  Tom shook his head. “We tried but turned up nothing. We thought the red coat might indicate a possible regimental on leave or deserting, but we never got even a hint of a trail on the bastard. All investigating had to be done furtively for Pater is determined to keep her attack a secret. He is petrified of bringing a stain to our family name. ’Tis why he wants her married and gone from here. Pater thinks he is protecting her—that a respectable husband and her own children will cover up what’s happened to her. No one knows but you, Greymont.”

  “I think Pellton knows.”

  “No.” Tom was adamant. “He can’t possibly. He is only here because he needs a young bride for want of an heir, like you. Father’s known Pellton for ages and thinks my sister is out of her mind to turn him down—and the title of baroness as well. Georgie won’t have him though, which is good for I don’t think he’d treat her well.” Tom looked reflective. “I thought for sure she’d accept you though. She likes you. I know she does! She’s always spoken of you admiringly over the years, Greymont, you know?”

  “I did not know, and I am very sorry for all she has borne. She deserves much better.” A better man than I.

  Tom spoke hopefully. “May I see if I can change her mind about accepting you? I can go to her right now and make her understand how marrying you would be—”

  Jeremy stopped him, holding up a palm. “I cannot marry her now, Russell. Surely you can see that.”

  “I understand,” Tom said, sadly. “You want a virtuous bride.”

  Jeremy looked to his friend unbelievingly. “That’s not why, you idiot.”

  “Well, what then?”

  “Are you that stupid and insensitive, Russell? Your father certainly is! Trying to give her to a man that will mistreat her, especially since she has been brutalized and cannot bear the touch of a man, by her own word!”

  Tom still looked confused, and Jeremy wanted to hit him again.

  “My purpose in marrying is to get an heir, remember? Your sister refused me, saying she cannot fulfill the duties of the marriage bed. She was very clear. She told me she cannot do a wife’s duty. Now, if she cannot do that, then there will be no child! Is that clear enough, you witless dolt?”

  “Yes,” Tom replied, chastened. “I recognize your position, and I apologize for leading you here. It was wrong of me. You were my one good hope for her, Greymont, and I thought you might—” He stopped himself, offering his hand. “Sorry for everything, my friend.”

  Chapter Ten

  I do not know how elastic my spirit might be, what

  pleasure I might have in living here…if the remembrance

  of you did not weigh so upon me.

  —John Keats, “Letter to Fanny Brawne” (1819)

  “Sir?”

  Jeremy looked up at the concerned face of his man of business, mind completely blank, realizing he hadn’t been listening to a word, but could hardly feel embarrassed by his breach of manners, for he’d been doing it a lot lately. “Paulson?”

  “Yes, well, I was just reminding you of my absence commencing tomorrow,” the man said haltingly.

  “Absence?”

  “Yes, sir. The appointment for Mrs. Paulson with the specialist doctors. I am to take her to them tomorrow.”

  Remembrance nicked the skin of self-preoccupation, flooding Jeremy with shame. The cast of Paulson’s eyes carried the burden of worry. “Oh, yes, of course, Paulson. I do remember you told me. Please. Off you go.” Jeremy swept his hand in a motion.

  Paulson looked solemnly back, saying nothing, but no doubt assessing everything. Jeremy hadn’t quite been himself lately, and Paulson was no dolt, even if he was far too polite to ask why his employer had become a brooding wretch.

  The man was hardworking and clever—phenomenal with the ledger books. Jeremy couldn’t imagine where his business would be without Paulson running the day-to-day of things at the London office. The man was carrying a heavy load, both with his employment and his personal life. Paulson had a lovely, but sadly, ill wife, an asthmatic, at the mercy of her lungs’ poor condition, and from all indications, worsening.

  “My man, don’t give this here another thought. It’ll all be waiting when you return, you know,” Jeremy told him.

  “Yes. Thank you, sir. I am grateful for the time.” Paulson lowered his eyes, and the silence grew awkward. He shifted on his feet and spoke again. “I’ll be back to the office by the end of the week,” he said finally, lifting his eyes.

  Jeremy could see the worry in them as plain as day. The ache of a man watching his wife slip away and helpless to stop the slide. The pain and fear of losing his mate. Love was such a cock-up, so cruel at times, he thought.

  Jeremy rose from his desk abruptly and walked over to the coat rack. He took Paulson’s coat and hat down and walked them over to him. “Yes, yes, of course you will,” he said dismissively.

  Paulson took his coat and hat, his head bent again.

  “Now here, please take yourself home to Mrs. Paulson at once, and give her my very best wishes for a good outcome this trip,” Jeremy said more gently.

  “I’ll tell her you said so, sir. She hasn’t forgot
ten your kindness from the last time.” Paulson hesitated just before he went out, pausing at the doorway to say something maybe, but then thought better of it. He dipped his head, donned his hat, and took his leave.

  Gloom descended, cloaking the room instantly behind Paulson’s closing of the door. Jeremy sat back down at his desk and took stock of himself. He sat there in his office for a long time. He wasn’t feeling much joy at the moment, but his true troubles were scant compared to Paulson’s, and being sorry for oneself was disgustingly pathetic.

  Making a decision, he got his own coat and made ready to go out. Dinner at his club would be a good place to start. And later? He’d just have to see how he felt then.

  * * * *

  Jeremy’s mood complemented the cold drizzle. London was comforting in its familiarity, and he hoped his activities tonight could help him to stop thinking about her.

  The past month had been utter hell for him. And he couldn’t forget. Her face, her eyes, her scent, even visions of what had happened to her swam through his head constantly. Those visions were the worst of all. Imagining some beast violating her and then abandoning her injured on the heath, like a scrap of unwanted cloth, stained and ravaged. Ruining her for me.

  What was she doing right now? Does she ever think of me? He certainly thought about her. Thoughts of Georgina Russell occupied all of Jeremy’s idle time. And much of the time he was supposed to devote to work or business. Tom told him that Georgina had always spoken fondly of him and that she liked him. I’d bet she doesn’t like me now.

  The look of Georgina when she told him was something he would never forget as long as he lived. So beautiful and yet so ashamed. You left her behind, and she doesn’t want you.

  In his suffering, Jeremy felt dreadful, but as a man, still had the baser needs to satisfy. Needs that he intended to meet this night with a real flesh-and-blood woman. It was time to move on without her, and this was the first step in making that happen.

  His imagination and his hand around his cock could only take him so far, and were about as gratifying as thin gruel set down before a starved man.

  The Velvet Swan, a high-class bordello in Covent Garden, would be his salvation. Jeremy didn’t come here often, but tonight when he’d left his club after dining, he had given the address to his driver. For no good reason it had seemed like the only place for him to go. As soon as Jeremy stepped in through the red door, he found himself greeted warmly by the abbess. Heavy perfumes and the smoke of tobacco pipes mixed with the earthy scents of all the swiving going on. Swiving, tupping, docking, shagging. By whatever term, it all meant the same—fucking. Plenty of souls were busy fucking in this house tonight, and Jeremy was here to do the same.

  The abbess, Therese Blufette, was a woman to be admired for her beauty as much as for her skills in business. She had always treated him with a certain fondness that went beyond the typical client relationship, and he’d never understood why. He couldn’t be any different from the thousand others who spent their coin on flesh.

  As he followed her into the salon, she looked pale and thin to him. Being French, she had that lovely darker complexion many European women favored and a fine figure still, for a woman of her more mature years. After he settled in with a drink, she approached him.

  “Mr. Greymont, I am pleased you have come to see us. It’s been a long time.”

  He tilted his head in acknowledgement. To be honest, he felt dead inside and wasn’t up for chatting nonsense with the abbess tonight, regardless of his admiration.

  She seemed to sense his reticence though and got quickly to the point. “I wish to speak with you about a private matter, one I think you will have an interest. If you would be so kind to call for me once you’ve enjoyed the company of your companion, I would be ever grateful, sir.”

  He raised an eyebrow and nodded once. She had piqued his interest, and he figured whatever she wished to tell him couldn’t be too ridiculous. She seemed an intelligent woman after all. “As you wish, Madame.”

  Madame Blufette looked very relieved, some color suffusing her pale cheeks at his agreement. She thanked him graciously and left the room.

  After she’d gone, Jeremy viewed the merchandise pragmatically, finding what he liked right away—that being hazel eyes paired with blonde hair. Bloody perfect…

  Jeremy followed his alluring companion, who called herself Marguerite and spoke English with a sultry French accent, up the stairs.

  Upon reaching the landing, he knew surprise to see a face he recognized, but had hoped never to see again. Off to the right with his back to him, Lord Pellton and another man, younger, but clearly sharing a physical likeness, were engaged in negotiation with Therese Blufette. Jeremy seized the opportunity to slip by unobtrusively and unnoticed.

  A huge guard stood his post at the very end of the hallway. Thick, muscular arms folded over a wide chest the size of a tree trunk—a very old tree. Bordellos had to employ sergeant-at-arms sorts such as him in order to function. The merchandise was valuable and deserving of protection when badly behaved clientele got out of hand, which was often when strong drink mixed with stiff cods and a houseful of quim.

  The guard eyed Jeremy directly, giving him the once-over as was his job. Jeremy offered a sharp nod, and the big man responded in kind.

  Marguerite stepped into their destined room and Jeremy followed, closing the door behind them. She stood waiting on him, a slow smile spreading as she opened her pink dressing gown, revealing smooth, naked flesh for his pleasure. Dark-budded nipples hardened as he looked her over. Pert breasts, long legs, and a pretty quim all waiting for his hands and his mouth and his cock. There for the taking. He told himself to get it over with. That he’d feel better when it was done.

  Jeremy closed his eyes as he reached for her, hoping to make it easier.

  It did nothing to help him forget…

  * * * *

  …Sitting on the side of the bed, Jeremy held his head in his hands, elbows propped on restless knees. “I can’t do this now. I need to go from this place.”

  “Is it me? Would you like a different girl?”

  Yes, a different girl, named Georgina. “No, it’s not you. You’re fine, luv. It’s me. I shouldn’t be here. I am not myself.” And I can’t get hard for anyone but her, apparently.

  “Your heart is taken by another?”

  Jeremy sighed. Yes. “Trying to forget is harder than I thought it would be.” He shook his head, incredulous at baring his soul to a prostitute. Putting the money on the side table, he smirked up at her. “Don’t tattle on me?”

  “Never, sir.” Marguerite pulled on her robe, looking at him in wonder. “She is a lucky woman to have got you. Can I beg you to stay for just a few minutes?”

  “Why?”

  “The men in the hall—I don’t wish to go with them again, and I might avoid it if I am engaged with another patron.”

  “I know the elder one. Do they come here often?”

  “Just last night. The older man is uncle to the younger. Our abbess, Madame Therese, is not glad for their patronage. They’ve caused trouble before, hurting girls.”

  “What happens?”

  “They seek a ménage, one woman for the two of them, and their touch is harsh and painfully given. None of the girls like to service them, so the price goes higher. They feel they are being robbed, thus their treatment is even more punishing.”

  “Was it you last night?” Jeremy asked gently, feeling sorry for her.

  Marguerite nodded. “I am saving money so I can go to France, to Calais. I have a sister there. I only agreed to go with them because of the coin. I told myself it was worth it.”

  “They hurt you. I saw bruises on your skin.” Jeremy felt suddenly sick thinking of Georgina suffering rough treatment at the hands of Pellton if she’d accepted him for a husband.

  “I survived it, and besides, they indicate they will have no need to continue coming here. They boasted that soon they will not have to pay for their wicked
pleasures for the elder intends to marry, and once he has the girl, they can both use her as they wish and she can do nothing about it. The nephew even bragged that he had tried her out and found her most satisfactory for she fought him and he liked that about her. I cannot imagine why a lady of society would agree to marry into such a family.” Marguerite shook her head, pondering the mysteries of the rich and entitled.

  Jeremy felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. It was Pellton’s nephew who raped her. That is why Pellton knew she wasn’t a virgin!

  “Marguerite, did they seem sure that the elder would marry the girl?”

  “He appeared confident and boasted that when he wed her they wouldn’t have to pay for their ménages anymore.”

  Feeling cold, freezing fear engulf him, Jeremy prayed for rationality to overcome the sudden need for vengeance swimming through his blood. “Thank you,” he told Marguerite, thinking he owed her a great debt. “I now know why I was supposed to come here tonight.”

  He fished open his money purse and pulled out some bills and a card, handing them to her. “Take this, Marguerite. Visit this address and see a Mr. Paulson when you’re ready. Give your name—I’m sorry, what is your surname?”

  “LeSavior. Marguerite LeSavior.”

  “Right,” he said, thinking the angels must be laughing down at him right now. A “savior” she certainly was. “You’ll have comfortable passage to Calais whenever you want. Go to your sister. Make a life. You deserve better than this.”

  “Why would you do such a kindness for me, sir?”

  “Because I have the means to do so and it is no hardship for me to help you, but mostly because you have helped me. More than you can ever know, Miss Marguerite LeSavior.” He bowed. “Thank you,” he said to her at the door, thinking that if he ever had a daughter she might just have to be styled with the name Marguerite, at least for one of her names.

  When Jeremy let himself out, he saw Pellton at the end of the hall, following behind a courtesan, entering a room, the nephew trailing behind. Jeremy got a good look at him and knew what he saw. Pellton’s nephew wore a coat, notable in color—notable in that it was a deep, dark red.