Cherry-red ribbons, Cam saw in bemusement. That frivolous splash of red amid her otherwise sober attire was an incongruous note. Becoming more and more fascinated, Cam heard himself say, “You can’t go to Bradshaw’s. Reasons of morality and safety aside, you don’t even know where the hell it is.”
Amelia didn’t flinch at the profanity. “I assume a great deal of business is sent back and forth between your establishment and Bradshaw’s. You say the place is nearby, which means all I have to do is follow the foot traffic from here to there. Goodbye, Mr. Rohan. I appreciate your help.”
Cam moved to block her path. “All you’ll accomplish is making a fool of yourself, Miss Hathaway. You won’t get past the front door. A brothel like Bradshaw’s doesn’t take strangers off the street.”
“How I manage to retrieve my brother, sir, is no concern of yours.”
She was correct. It wasn’t. But Cam hadn’t been this entertained in a long time. No sensual depravities, no skilled courtesan, not even a room full of unclothed women, could have interested him half as much as Miss Amelia Hathaway and her red ribbons.
“I’m going with you,” he said.
She frowned. “No, thank you.”
“I insist.”
“I don’t need your services, Mr. Rohan.”
Cam could think of a number of services she was clearly in need of, most of which would be a pleasure for him to provide. “Obviously it will be to everyone’s benefit for you to retrieve Ramsay and leave London as quickly as possible. I consider it my civic duty to hasten your departure.”
Chapter Three
Although they could have reached the brothel on foot, Amelia, Merripen, and Rohan went to Bradshaw’s in the ancient barouche. They stopped before a plain Georgian-style building. For Amelia, whose imaginings of such a place were framed with lurid extravagance, the brothel’s façade was disappointingly discreet.
“Stay inside the carriage,” Rohan said. “I’ll go inside and inquire as to Ramsay’s whereabouts.” He gave Merripen a hard look. “Don’t leave Miss Hathaway unattended even for a second. It’s dangerous at this time of night.”
“It’s early evening,” Amelia protested. “And we’re in the West End, amid crowds of well-dressed gentlemen. How dangerous could it be?”
“I’ve seen those well-dressed gentlemen do things that would make you faint to hear of them.”
“I never faint,” Amelia said indignantly.
Rohan’s smile was a flash of white in the shadowed interior of the carriage. He left the vehicle and dissolved into the night as if he were part of it, blending seamlessly except for the ebony glimmer of his hair and the sparkle of the diamond at his ear.
Amelia stared after him in wonder. What category did one put such a man in? He was not a gentleman, nor a lord, nor a common workingman, nor even fully a Gypsy. A shiver chased beneath her corset stays as she recalled the moment he had helped her up into the carriage. Her hand had been gloved, but his had been bare, and she had felt the heat and strength of his fingers. And there had been the gleam of a thick gold band on his thumb. She had never seen such a thing before.
“Merripen, what does it mean when a man wears a thumb ring? Is it a Gypsy custom?”
Seeming uncomfortable with the question, Merripen looked through the window into the damp night. A group of young men passed the vehicle, wearing fine coats and tall hats, laughing among themselves. A pair of them stopped to speak with a gaudily dressed woman. Still frowning, Merripen replied to Amelia’s question. “It signifies independence and freedom of thought. Also a certain separateness. In wearing it, he reminds himself he doesn’t belong where he is.”
“Why would Mr. Rohan want to remind himself of something like that?”
“Because the ways of your kind are seductive,” Merripen said darkly. “It’s difficult to resist them.”
“Why must you resist them? I fail to see what is so terrible about living in a proper house and securing a steady income, and enjoying things like nice dishes and upholstered chairs.”
“Gadji,” he murmured in resignation, making Amelia grin briefly. It was the word for a non-Gypsy woman.
She relaxed back against the worn upholstered seat. “I never thought I would be hoping so desperately to find my brother inside a house of ill repute. But between a brothel or floating facedown in the Thames—” She broke off and pressed the knuckles of her clenched fist against her lips.
“He’s not dead.” Merripen’s voice was low and gentle.
Amelia was trying very hard to believe that. “We must get Leo away from London. He’ll be safer out in the country … won’t he?”
Merripen gave a noncommittal shrug, his dark eyes revealing nothing of his thoughts.
“There’s far less to do in the country,” Amelia pointed out. “And definitely less trouble for Leo to get into.”
“A man who wants trouble can find it anywhere.”
After minutes of unbearable waiting, Rohan returned to the brougham and tugged the door open.
“Where is he?” Amelia demanded as the Gypsy climbed inside.
“Not here. After Lord Ramsay went upstairs with one of the girls and, er … conducted the transaction … he left the brothel.”
“Where did he go? Did you ask—”
“He told them he was going to a tavern called the Hell and Bucket.”
“Lovely,” Amelia said shortly. “Do you know the way?”
Seating himself beside her, Rohan glanced at Merripen. “Follow St. James eastward, turn left after the third crossing.”
Merripen flicked the ribbons, and the carriage rolled past a trio of prostitutes.
Amelia watched the women with undisguised interest. “How young some of them are,” she said. “If only some charitable institution would help them find respectable employment.”
“Most so-called respectable employment is just as bad,” Rohan replied.
She looked at him indignantly. “You think a woman would be better off to work as a prostitute than to take an honest job that would allow her to live with dignity?”
“I didn’t say that. My point is that some employers are far more brutal than pimps or brothel bawds. Servants have to endure all manner of abuse from their masters—female servants in particular. And if you think there is dignity in working at a mill or factory, you’ve never seen a girl who’s lost a few fingers from cutting broom straw. Or someone whose lungs are so congested from breathing in fluff and dust at a carding mill, she won’t live past the age of thirty.”
Amelia opened her mouth to reply, then snapped it shut. No matter how much she wanted to continue the debate, proper women—even if they were spinsters—did not discuss prostitution.
She adopted an expression of cool indifference and looked out the window. Although she didn’t spare a glance for Rohan, she sensed he was watching her. She was unbearably aware of him. He wore no cologne or pomade, but there was something alluring about his smell, something smoky and fresh, like green cloves.
“Your brother inherited the title quite recently,” Rohan said.
“Yes.”
“With all respect, Lord Ramsay doesn’t seem entirely prepared for his new role.”
Amelia couldn’t restrain a rueful smile. “None of us are. It was a surprising turn of events for the Hathaways. There were at least three men in line for the title before Leo. But they all died in rapid succession, of varying causes. It seems that becoming Lord Ramsay causes one to become short-lived. And at this rate, my brother probably won’t last any longer than his predecessors.”
“One never knows what fate has in store.”
Turning toward Rohan, Amelia discovered he was glancing over her in a slow inventory that spurred her heart into a faster beat. “I don’t believe in fate,” she said. “People are in control of their own destinies.”
Rohan smiled. “Everyone, even the gods, are helpless in the hands of fate.”
Amelia regarded him skeptically. “Surely you, being employed at a gaming club,
know all about probability and odds. Which means you can’t rationally give credence to luck or fate or anything of the sort.”
“I know all about probability and odds,” Rohan agreed. “Nevertheless, I believe in luck.” He smiled with a quiet smolder in his eyes that caused her breath to catch. “I believe in magic and mystery, and dreams that reveal the future. And I believe some things are written in the stars … or even in the palm of your hand.”
Mesmerized, Amelia was unable to look away from him. He was an extraordinarily beautiful man, his skin as dark as clover honey, his black hair falling over his forehead in a way that made her fingers twitch with the urge to push it back.
“Do you believe in fate too?” she asked Merripen.
A long hesitation. “I’m a Roma,” he said.
Which meant yes. “Good Lord, Merripen. I’ve always thought of you as a sensible man.”
Rohan laughed. “It’s only sensible to allow for the possibility, Miss Hathaway. Just because you can’t see or feel something doesn’t mean it can’t exist.”
“There is no such thing as fate,” Amelia insisted. “There is only action and consequence.”
The carriage came to a halt, this time in a much shabbier place than St. James or King Street. There was a beer shop and three-penny lodging house on one side, and a large tavern on the other. The pedestrians on this street had the appearance of sham gentility, rubbing elbows with costers, pickpockets, and more prostitutes.
A brawl was in progress near the threshold of the tavern, a writhing mixture of arms, legs, flying hats, and bottles and canes. Anytime there was a fight, the greatest likelihood was that her brother had started it.
“Merripen,” she said anxiously, “you know how Leo is when he’s foxed. He’s probably in the middle of the fray. If you would be so kind—”
Before she had even finished, Merripen made to leave the carriage.
“Wait,” Rohan said. “You’d better let me handle it.”
Merripen gave him a cold glance. “You doubt my ability to fight?”
“This is a London rookery. I’m used to the kind of tricks they employ. If you—” Rohan broke off as Merripen ignored him and left the carriage with a surly grunt. “So be it,” Rohan said, exiting the carriage and standing beside it to watch. “They’ll slice him open like a mackerel at a Covent Garden fish stand.”
Amelia came out of the vehicle as well. “Merripen can handle himself quite well in a fight, I assure you.”
Rohan looked down at her, his eyes shadowed and catlike. “You’ll be safer inside the vehicle.”
“I have you for protection, do I not?” she pointed out.
“Sweetheart,” he said with a softness that undercut the noise of the crowd, “I may be the one you most need protection from.”
She felt her heart miss a beat. He met her wide-eyed glance with a steady interest that caused her toes to curl inside her practical leather shoes. Fighting for composure, Amelia looked away from him. But she remained sharply aware of him, the relaxed alertness of his posture, the unknown pulse secreted beneath the elegant layers of his clothing.
They watched as Merripen waded into the chaos of brawling men, sorted through a few of them. Before a half minute had passed, he unceremoniously hauled someone out, easily deflecting blows with his free arm.
“He’s good,” Rohan said in mild surprise.
Amelia was overwhelmed with relief as she recognized Leo’s disheveled form. “Oh, thank God.”
Her eyes flew open, however, as she felt a gentle touch at the edge of her jaw. Rohan’s fingers were nudging her face upward, his thumb brushing the tip of her chin. The unexpected intimacy sent a little shock through her. His flame-bright gaze had seized hers again.
“Don’t you think you’re being a bit overprotective, chasing your grown brother across London? He’s not doing anything all that unusual. Most young lords in his position would behave the same.”
“You don’t know him,” Amelia said, sounding shaken to her own ears. She knew she should pull away from his warm fingers, but her body remained perversely still, absorbing the pleasure of his touch. “It’s far from usual behavior for him. He’s in trouble. He—” She broke off.
Rohan let a gentle fingertip follow the shining trail of her bonnet ribbon to the place where it tied beneath her chin. “What kind of trouble?”
She jerked away from his touch and turned as Merripen and Leo approached the carriage. A rush of love and agonized worry filled her at the sight of her brother. He was filthy, battered, and grinning unrepentantly. Anyone who didn’t know Leo would assume he hadn’t a care in the world. But his eyes, once so warm, were dull and wintry. His formerly fit body was paunchy, and the visible portion of his neck was bloated. There was still a long way to go before Leo was in total ruins, but he seemed determined to hasten the process.
“How remarkable,” Amelia said casually. “There’s still something left of you.” Plucking a handkerchief from her sleeve, she strode forward and tenderly wiped sweat and a smear of blood from his cheeks. Noticing his unfocused gaze, she said, “I’m the one in the middle, dear.”
“Ah. There you are.” Leo’s head bobbed up and down like a string puppet’s. He glanced at Merripen, who was providing far more support than Leo’s own legs were. “My sister,” he said. “Terrifying girl.”
“Before Merripen puts you in the carriage,” Amelia said, “are you going to cast up your accounts, Leo?”
“Certainly not,” came the unhesitating reply. “Hathaways always hold their liquor.”
Amelia stroked aside the dirty brown locks that dangled like strands of yarn over his eyes. “It would be nice if you would try to hold a bit less of it in the future, dear.”
“Ah, but sis…” As Leo looked down at her, she saw a flash of his old self, a spark in the vacant eyes, and then it was gone. “I have such a powerful thirst.”
Amelia felt the smart of tears at the corners of her eyes, tasted salt at the back of her throat. Swallowing it back, she said in a steady voice, “For the next few days, Leo, your thirst will be slaked exclusively by water or tea. Into the carriage with him, Merripen.”
Leo twisted to glance at the man who held him steady. “For God’s sake, you’re not going to put me in her custody, are you?”
“Would you rather dry out in the care of a Bow Street gaolkeeper?” Merripen asked politely.
“He would be a damn sight more merciful.” Grumbling, Leo lurched toward the carriage with Merripen’s assistance.
Amelia turned to Cam Rohan, whose face was inscrutable. “May we take you back to Jenner’s, sir? It will be tight quarters in the carriage, but I think we can manage.”
“No, thank you.” Rohan walked slowly around the carriage with her. “It isn’t far. I’ll go on foot.”
“I can’t leave you stranded in a London rookery.”
Rohan stopped with her at the back of the carriage, where they were partially sheltered from view. “I’ll be fine. The city holds no fears for me. Hold still.”
Rohan turned her face up again, one hand cradling her jaw while the other descended to her cheek. His thumb brushed gently beneath her left eye, and with surprise she felt a smudge of wetness there.
“The wind makes my eyes water,” she heard herself say unsteadily.
“There’s no wind tonight.” His hand remained at her jaw, the smooth band of the thumb ring pressing lightly against her skin. Her heart had begun to thump until she could hardly hear through the blood rush in her ears. The clamor of the tavern was muted, the darkness thickening around them. His fingers slid over her throat with stunning delicacy, finding secreted nerves and stroking gently.
His eyes were above hers, and she saw that the golden-hazel irises were rimmed with black. “Miss Hathaway … you’re quite certain fate had no hand in our meeting tonight?”
She couldn’t seem to breathe properly. “Qu-quite certain.”
His head bent low. “And in all likelihood we’ll never meet
again?”
“Never.” He was too large, too close. Nervously Amelia tried to marshal her thoughts, but they scattered like spilled matchsticks … and then he set fire to them as his breath touched her cheek.
“I hope you’re right. God help me if I should ever have to face the consequences.”
“Of what?” Her voice was faint.
“This.” His hand slid to the back of her neck and his mouth covered hers.
Amelia had been kissed before. Not all that long ago, as a matter of fact, by a man she had been in love with. The pain of his betrayal had cut so deep, she had sworn never to allow any man close to her again. But Cam Rohan hadn’t asked her consent or given her any chance to protest. She stiffened and brought her hands to his chest, exerting pressure against the hard surface. He seemed not to notice her objection, his mouth subtle and insistent. One of his arms slid around her, lifting slightly as he pulled her against the solid contours of his body.
With each breath she drew in a deeper scent of him, the sweetness of beeswax soap, the hint of salt of his skin. The supple power of his body was all around her, and she couldn’t stop herself from relaxing into it, letting him support her. More kisses, one beginning before another had quite finished, moist and intimate caresses, secret strokes of pleasure and promise.
With a soft murmur—foreign words that fell pleasantly on her ears—Rohan took his mouth from hers. His lips wandered along the flushed curve of her neck, lingering on the most vulnerable spots. Her body felt swollen inside her clothes, the corset cinching around the desperate pitch of her lungs.
She quivered as he reached a place of exquisite sensation and touched it with the tip of his tongue. As if the taste of her were some exotic spice. A pulse awakened in her breasts and stomach and between her thighs. She was filled with a dreadful urge to press against him, she wanted to fight free of the layers and layers of smothering fabric that made up her skirts. He was so careful, so gentle—
The crash of a bottle on the pavement jolted her from the haze.
“No,” she gasped, now struggling.
Rohan released her, his hands steadying her as she fought for equilibrium. Amelia turned blindly and staggered toward the open door of the carriage. Everywhere he had touched, her nerves stung with the desire for more. She kept her head low, grateful for the concealment of her bonnet.