Samantha

  Her breath held in abeyance, Sammy took the final steps swiftly, fervently hoping the crowd was too thick, the patrons too preoccupied, to notice her. She tucked her skirts beneath her and slid into the groom's seat at the rear of the carriage. Ducking down, she curled into what she hoped was an invisible ball.

  Shrouded in darkness, the phaeton sped off through the night.

  8

  Samantha had the feeling she wasn't in fashionable London anymore.

  Conversely, she had absolutely no feeling in her arms and legs, and if the carriage hit one more bump, she was going to be violently ill on the groom's seat.

  Where were they?

  It seemed they'd ridden for hours, leaving the opera and the ton far behind. In Sammy's contorted position she was unable to see much of her surroundings, but she could make out a few broken-down houses and an occasional unkempt, dirty vagrant in the street.

  What sort of business meeting could take place here?

  Certainly, anyone who lived in such a shabby section of town couldn't afford to loan Remington money. Perhaps something sinister was planned, something that would place Remington in grave danger.

  It was a good thing she'd come.

  The phaeton slowed, then halted, shifting a bit as Remington alighted.

  "I'll be less than an hour," Sammy heard Rem mutter to someone.

  "I'll watch the phaeton fer ye, sir," a gruff voice replied.

  "Fine." Remington's heels echoed on the pavement, and a moment later a door opened, then closed.

  Sammy could have argued with how "fine" it was. How in the world was she going to alight with a sentry posted beside the carriage?

  Her luck held.

  '"Ello, Jack."

  "Chelsea! I didn't know ye were workin' tonight."

  "I wasn't s'posed to ... but I 'eard from Annie ye were comin'."

  Evidently, Remington's helper had met a lady with whom he was acquainted. Now was Sammy's only chance.

  Gingerly, she eased herself onto her haunches, nearly crying aloud as shards of pain shot through her cramped limbs. She bit back the cry, maneuvering herself to the side of the phaeton farthest from the chatting couple. She paused.

  "I've missed ye, Chels. It's not the same without ye."

  A throaty chuckle. "And just 'ow many women 'ave you told that line to?"

  An answering chuckle, one that told Sammy the man called Jack was still very much engrossed in his lady friend.

  Sammy sprang lightly to the street, ducking beside the carriage and waiting.

  "I'm not busy with anyone else tonight, Jack. Are ye interested?"

  "Ye know I am."

  Peeking over the top of the phaeton, Sammy blinked. Working? Busy with anyone else? What sort of establishment was this shoddy place anyway?

  She intended to find out.

  "Annie." Rem tipped his hat.

  "Well, hello, Rem, don't you look dashing tonight?"

  Glancing down at his formal attire, Rem grinned. "I came directly from my evening engagement."

  "Then she must not have been as good as my girls. You're wearing far too much clothing."

  A corner of Rem's mouth lifted. "I do emerge from the bedroom occasionally, you know."

  "Occasionally." Annie's tone was dry. Seeing Rem scan the room, she added, "Boyd's in his usual spot. Go on. I'll send some drinks back."

  "Thanks, love." Rem kissed her hand and headed to the back of the room.

  "That one's special, Cynthia," Annie murmured to the dark-eyed young woman who walked over just then. "He has a way of making a whore feel like a lady." Wistfully, Annie touched her hand where Rem had kissed it.

  "There are very few of those," Cynthia replied. "Very few."

  Annie glanced up at the cynicism in her new girl's tone. It wasn't the first time she'd heard that note of disdain for men—not only from Cynthia, but from many of her girls. She understood it well. She also understood, however, that its manifestation had no place in their line of work. Therefore, all her girls had strict instructions to leave their personal grievances outside the paying customer's door. And Cynthia was no exception.

  In every other way, however, she was.

  Cynthia had been in Annie's employ just shy of a week, but it had taken less than a day for the men to start clamoring for the creamy-skinned beauty, and less time still for Annie to realize that Cynthia was far too refined to be a prostitute.

  Adhering to her usual policy, Annie asked no questions, not even when the brothel was quiet and she could hear Cynthia's muffled sobs echo from behind her tightly closed door. No, whatever ailed the new girl was none of her concern, Annie told herself. Cynthia commanded a good price, and her past—along with any heartache it contained —was her own business.

  And speaking of business . . . "Wouldn't hurt you to stroll back there," Annie suggested shrewdly, gesturing toward Rem and Boyd. "Rem is rich as hell and handsome as sin. He's an earl."

  Cynthia's slender brows rose. "A member of the peerage, is he?"

  "Yes, why? Do noblemen entice you?"

  A bitter laugh was her reply. "Hardly, Annie. I assure you, in bed, all men are alike. And there's nothing noble about them."

  "He pays well. . . and he's good. Just ask Katrina. She swears he spends more time satisfying her than—"

  "I understand," Cynthia interrupted. "I'll make it my business to stop by the earl's table and see if I appeal to him."

  Annie surveyed Cynthia's warm, wheat-colored hair, the startling contrast of her jet-black eyes and thick, sooty lashes, the regal features and delicate curves that belonged more to a lady than a whore. "Honey, you appeal to everyone."

  Cynthia didn't smile. "Thanks." She walked off to do her job.

  "Rem. Good. You're here." Boyd leaned forward eagerly to greet his friend.

  "I came as soon as I got your message. I take it we heard from Knollwood." Briefly, Rem glanced over his shoulder, scanning the room through narrowed eyes. After a minute he turned back to Boyd.

  "We sure did." Boyd was unfolding a sheet of paper, his tone laced with sarcasm. "He got word that you're in need of money, and he'd like to help."

  "Let me see." Rem took the scrawled message. "That was certainly fast."

  "Parasites have many ears," Boyd replied dryly. "And I have many sources. I used them all."

  "How did you handle my proviso—demanding that Knollwood contact me solely through you?"

  "Simple. I specified that you're desperately trying to salvage the remains of your reputation ... a futile effort, should anyone link your name with his."

  "He voiced no objections?" Rem pored over the note.

  "None—as you can see for yourself." Boyd took an angry swallow of gin. "Evidently, Mr. Knollwood is a most reasonable man, until he owns your very soul. Then, he becomes the miserable gutter rat he really is."

  "Ummm ... we're to meet in the alley at the west end of Wentworth Street near Petticoat Lane."

  "A charming neighborhood." Boyd scowled. "Watch your pockets, Rem—and your back."

  "Three a.m.," Rem continued. "Tonight."

  "That's why I sent a messenger to drag you out of the theater. We have very little time to plan our tactics." Boyd paused. "How was the opera, by the way?"

  "Fine."

  "And Samantha?"

  "Driving me crazy."

  Boyd chuckled. "You're fighting a losing battle, I fear."

  "Let's stick to the subject at hand, shall we?"

  A twinkle. "All right." Boyd set down his mug. "Do you want me to back you up? In case things with Knollwood get nasty?"

  "No. It's too risky. If he sees you, he'll bolt. We won't get another chance. I'll have to handle it on my own." Again, Rem averted his head, nagged by the persistent feeling he was being watched. But all he saw were revelers drinking and dancing. Nothing appeared amiss.

  "How are you going to find out if Knollwood had a hand in the sinkings?" Boyd was asking.

  Rem turned back to face his friend. "That depe
nds on the conversation he and I have. I'll take it as it comes."

  "If he's armed—" Abruptly, Boyd halted.

  Senses already heightened by suspicion, Rem jerked about at Boyd's unexpected lapse and odd expression. Following his friend's mesmerized gaze, Rem prepared to strike, a tiger stalking his prey.

  "Hello, gentlemen." The surprising "prey" glided over, lingering beside their table. "Can I get you anything? Another round of drinks, perhaps?"

  Rem started. A woman? Impossible. Boyd never reacted this dramatically to women, least of all one of Annie's girls. Catching another glimpse of Boyd's face, Rem hastily altered his opinion.

  There was an instant of charged silence. At last Rem cleared his throat and replied, "Another round of drinks would be greatly appreciated." More silence. "Have we met?" he tried next, wondering if Boyd were ever going to snap out of his reverie.

  "No, I don't believe so." Cynthia shook her head. "I've only been"—the barest of pauses—"working at Annie's for a week. My name is Cynthia."

  "A pleasure, Cynthia." By this time Rem was having trouble containing his amusement. Cynthia was an extremely lovely, soft-spoken woman of perhaps two and twenty, who looked more like a gently bred lady than a courtesan. And Boyd, Rem's rugged, hard-edged friend, who liked his women sturdy and seasoned, was staring at her as if she were a priceless painting—one he would give anything to possess. "Permit me to return your introduction," Rem continued. "I'm Remington Worth and this is Boyd Hayword. You'll probably be seeing quite a bit of us. We're frequent guests at Annie's." To Rem's surprise, his final words elicited a flicker of anger in Cynthia's eyes, one that dissipated so swiftly that a less observant man would have missed it.

  "Mr. Hayword. Mr. Worth ..." Cynthia stumbled over Rem's name. "Forgive me. Annie mentioned you were titled. How shall I address you?"

  The distaste tinged her tone much as it had her eyes, subtly, yet definitively. Interesting.

  "Titles have no place at Annie's," Rem assured her. "Feel free to use my given name."

  "Very well." Cynthia inclined her head toward Boyd. "Does that apply to you as well, sir?"

  At last Boyd found his tongue. "It most assuredly does, as I have no title to boast."

  The genuine humility of Boyd's response struck home. "I see." Cynthia's expression softened. "Well then ... Boyd, can I offer you anything besides that drink?"

  "Only the gin ... and perhaps your company." Boyd might have been requesting a maiden's first dance, so honorable was his tone.

  A tinge of color rose to Cynthia's cheeks. "I'll see to the gin right away. The company we can discuss later."

  "You'd best toss down that drink in a hurry," Rem commented when Cynthia was out of earshot. "You need it."

  "What?" Boyd was still gaping.

  "She won't disappear, Boyd. She'll be back."

  This time Rem's sarcasm penetrated Boyd's fog. "Lord, she's beautiful," he muttered. "Too beautiful to be—" He broke off.

  "I agree. She also appears somewhat taken with you."

  "I wonder what the hell she's doing here?" Boyd scowled. "Surely such a woman could seek another means of employment."

  "You really are smitten, aren't you?" Rem asked in surprise. "I've never seen you like this."

  Boyd regarded Rem with probing intensity. "Really? Well, I've seen you precisely like this—every time we speak of Samantha Barrett. The difference, my friend, is that I'm honest enough to admit there's a void in my life ... which is more than I can say for you." Boyd gripped the table. "I'm searching, Rem. As I've said in the past, I need more than the satisfaction of knowing I've dedicated my life to England. I need to care for someone, and for that someone to care for me. I need to leave my personal mark on this world ... to have a family, a foundation."

  "All of this with a winsome courtesan you've just laid eyes on for the first time?"

  "No. All of this with a woman I can love."

  A dark cloud passed over Rem's face. "You sound like Samantha. Coming from her, I can understand it. She's a romantic child. But you, Boyd? What is this sudden preoccupation with falling in love?"

  "It isn't sudden. Nor should it only be my preoccupation." Exasperated, Boyd shook his head. "You're so damned stubborn, Rem; so determined to keep your scars raw, never allowing them to heal. Is self-protection really worth all that?"

  "For me, yes."

  "Well, it isn't for me."

  "What about Boydry's?"

  "What about it? It's a bloody tavern, Rem, not a person. I set it up to suit the Admiralty, and you know it. I'd much prefer operating a coffeehouse with sober, respectable patrons than a dilapidated pub in the worst section of London."

  Their discussion ceased as Cynthia returned, setting two mugs on the table. Vaguely, Rem was aware that snatches of conversation were transpiring between Cynthia and Boyd, but the majority of his attention was claimed by a resurgence of the powerful warning sensation that plagued him earlier. Dammit. Something was wrong.

  This time he swiveled totally about, boldly scrutinizing the room.

  "That's the second time you've done that since you arrived," Boyd murmured when Cynthia had gone.

  One corner of Rem's mouth lifted. "I'm glad to see you're still alert. . . despite your budding infatuation."

  Boyd didn't smile. "What is it?"

  "I don't know. Nothing probably. I just have this nagging feeling I'm being watched."

  "Were you followed?"

  Rem frowned. "I don't think so. In truth, I was so rushed, I didn't pay much attention."

  "I wouldn't worry too much about it," Boyd replied, scanning the room. "Anyone who followed you to Annie's would assume you're merely enjoying the entertainment."

  The person who'd followed Rem was assuming exactly that.

  Sammy, just moments ago, had realized what sort of establishment she was observing. Shocked and hurt, she'd crept closer, peering inside to convince herself that Remington was, indeed, a patron. Seeing him flash his dimple at the woman who was handing him a drink, Sammy's eyes filled with tears. Not only was he frequenting this seedy brothel, but he had deceived her about the purpose for his hasty departure from the opera. What kind of hero, conventional or not, cavorted with prostitutes, and lied, as well?

  The untainted entity of Sammy's blind faith fragmented ... a bit. Still, she refused to allow it to shatter completely. As a heroine, it was up to her to reform her hero.

  Now, if she only knew precisely how to go about it...

  Pensively, Sammy paced the length of the shadowy street. She'd never lain with a man; these women were proficient at it. Remington was deterred by her inexperience. He didn't want her; yet he didn't want her to lie with another. So, how could she gain the experience he obviously sought without angering him? This was all dreadfully confusing.

  "'Ey, love! What've we 'ere? A little jewel, I'd say!"

  The slurred male voice cut into Sammy's thoughts.

  "Pardon me?" She blinked into the darkness.

  "Look, Blake! We've found ourselves a regular lady, we 'ave!" Three unkempt, burly men loomed before her.

  "Whatcha lookin' fer, yer highness? Yer coach?"

  A tight knot of fear formed in Sammy's stomach. Furtively, she looked about, praying for another person to call out to. But the shoddy street was deserted.

  Instinctively, she backed off.

  "Where ye goin', m'lady?" The first man stalked forward and snatched her wrist. "We 'aven't 'ad the chance to impress ye yet!"

  "Please," she whispered, "let me go."

  "Ah, now is that nice?" He pulled her against him, so close she could smell the alcohol on his breath. She shuddered. "Ye're a good lookin' little thing, ye know?" He traced the top of her bodice. "Real good-lookin'."

  "Stop it!" Sammy began to struggle. "Unhand me at once!"

  "Unhand 'er!" the second stalker mocked, "Well, maybe the lady prefers t' entertain in private, Gates. What do ye say we find out?"

  "No!" Wildly, Sammy fought against her unyi
elding captor. He dragged her with him as if she weighed nothing, with only an occasional grunt to indicate he was aware of her struggles.

  "Feisty, ain't she? 'Ope she's as good when we get 'er 'ome," the third derelict chimed in.

  "Gates, just what do you think you're doing?" A clear female voice rang out through the night.

  Sammy's captor came to a dead halt. "Cynthia?"

  "I asked what you were doing!" Cynthia walked purposefully toward them, her eyes ablaze.

  "We're just 'avin' a little fun, that's all."

  "With one of Annie's girls? You know better than that!"

  Gates's eyes bulged. "This 'ere's one of Annie's? But she looks like—"

  "I don't care what she looks like! Do you want me to march in there and tell Annie that the three of you are abducting her newest employee? If so, I will—and then I wouldn't dare show my face at Annie's again, if I were you."

  '"Ell, no!" the third man cut in hastily. "Ye know we don't mess with Annie's girls. We just didn't know." He averted his head. "Let 'er go, Gates," he ordered his friend, who was still clutching a white-faced Samantha. "Now. My favorite woman works at Annie's."

  With a muttered oath, Gates thrust Sammy at Cynthia. "First you, now 'er. Cynthia, tell Annie she should start hiring girls that look like whores, not blue bloods." He turned his back. "Let's go," he muttered to his friends.

  Sammy waited until they'd disappeared before she collapsed. Leaning against the brick wall behind her, she began to shake uncontrollably. "Thank you," she whispered.

  "You're welcome." Gently, Cynthia steadied Sammy's trembling shoulders. "Are you all right?"

  "I think so ... thanks to you."

  "What on earth are you doing here?"

  "I'm ... that is ..." Sammy closed her eyes. "It's too complicated to explain."

  "Try me. I'm a good listener."

  Opening her eyes, Sammy regarded her rescuer. "You're the one who was serving him his drink," she blurted out.

  "Who?"

  "My ..." Sammy paused. What could she call Remington? He wasn't her husband, nor even her betrothed. In fact, he regarded her as a burdensome child. And she certainly couldn't explain to this . . . woman that Remington was her hero. "The gentleman at the far table. Remington Worth. The Earl of Gresham," she said at last.