She considered asking the vicar for help, but when she timidly approached him after the service, he gave her a glance so contemptuous that she left without speaking. That had been hours ago, and ever since she had been drifting through the London streets while she planned how best to eke out her money and what kinds of employment she should seek.
The onset of more bone-chilling rain brought her to a reluctant decision; since she might not survive another night sleeping rough in this weather, she must spend some of her limited funds to rent a room, Remembering that Miss Merkle had said there were cheap lodgings neat Covent Garden, she had asked directions, then set off to find it.
A plaintive meow brought her back to the present. She glanced down to find a scraggly, half-grown cat sitting on the step beside her, its gaze fixed on the cold meat pie in her hands. The little creature's splotchy calico fur was matted with rain, and its huge green eyes were a mixture of hope and wariness. "Sorry, ma petite," Nicole said apologetically. "This is all I have to eat, and the good Lord only knows where my next meal will come from."
She bit into the pie, so ravenous she wanted to stuff the whole thing in her mouth at once. Instead, she forced herself to take a small mouthful, then chew slowly, so it would last as long as possible. Even cold, it tasted wonderful. After she swallowed the first bite, she took another. It wasn't easy to ignore the pleading green feline eyes.
With a small, mrrping sound, the cat jumped onto her lap and began rubbing its head against her chest. "Your manners leave much to be desired, my patchy friend," Nicole scolded as she held the pie out of j reach. "But you are not as wild as most street cats. Did you also have a home until someone cruelly evicted you?"
The dangerous thought made it impossible to ignore the cat's yearning I expression. "Very well, ma petite," Nicole said. "Perhaps it will bring me luck if I am generous to one less fortunate than I." She took a morsel of meat and offered it to the calico.
Her companion did not wait for a second invitation. The fragment disappeared instantly; then, with dainty gluttony, a warm, raspy pink tongue licked Nicole's fingers. For the first time since the day before, she found herself smiling. From then on, each bite she took herself was followed by a shred for the cat.
When Nicole was done, she stood and brushed the crumbs from her: hands. "Au revoir, my little friend, and good hunting."
Refusing to be dismissed, the cat stropped her ankles. Unable to resist such friendliness, Nicole lifted the calico and cradled the skinny little body in her arms. Immediately it began to purr so strongly that Nicole felt the vibration through her layers of cloaks. Severely she said, "Don't try to turn me up sweet, ma petite. The last thing I need at the moment is someone to take care of."
The cat tilted its head up and offered what looked very much like a coaxing feline smile. "Oh, very well, you silly beast," Nicole said with resignation. "If you are willing to travel in my pocket, we will give it a try. Hut mind you behave."
To her surprise, the cat settled happily into the right pocket of Nicole's clonk, its small body creating a spot of warmth against her side. Feeling unreasonably cheered, Nicole continued on her way to Covent Garden.
"WHO would have thought that whores would be so thin on the ground?" James Kirby grumbled as he surveyed the wet, dismal intersection at Covent Garden.
"This weather would drive anyone indoors," Masterson said dryly. " Besides, even ladies of pleasure are entitled to take a few days off at Christmas." They had seen several raddled, gin-soaked streetwalkers, but Masterson had flatly refused to let Kirby approach them, on the grounds that the object was to give Philip a night's pleasure, not the French pox and God knew what else. "Time to give the idea up, James. Let's go back to my rooms and make a bowl of hot punch."
"Wait!" Kirby pointed across the street. "She's perfect."
Masterson examined the object of Kirby's interest, a slim girl who stood in front of the new opera house. She was dressed in a voluminous and much-bedraggled scarlet cloak, and it was easy to see why she had caught Kirby's eye. What was visible of her face under the hood was very lovely—and also very innocent. "She's attractive," Masterson agreed, "but I'm not sure she's available. Doesn't quite have the look of a doxy."
"Who but a whore would wear a cloak like that? And she has exactly the right look for Philip—he's never liked the brazen sort. Come on, let's ask her. If she's respectable, she'll give us a flea in the ear quick enough, and we'll be no worse off than we are now." Kirby started across the street.
Masterson had to admit that the garment in question was unlikely to be worn by anyone but a prostitute or a dashing society lady. Decent females didn't wear such violent, expensive shades of red, nor did they have masses of ostrich feather trim drooping about them, and they certainly did not wander alone in Covent Garden. Resignedly he followed his friend.
As soon as Nicole realized that the two young men were heading straight for her, she started to hasten away, for a day on London's meaner streets had already taught her caution. Then one of the men called out, "Wait, miss, we want to talk to you."
The voice was polite and seemed sober, so warily she stopped and turned to face them.
The redheaded young man who had called gave her an ingenuous smile. "We're looking for someone to keep a friend company tonight. Would"—he considered—"five pounds be sufficient?"
As soon as she realized his meaning, she gasped in shock. How dare he! What kind of girl did he think she was?
Misinterpreting her gasp, he said, "Very well, ten."
Nicole realized that it was quite obvious what kind of girl he thought she was. She opened her mouth to give him an icy set-down, then slowly closed it when a shocking but practical thought occurred to her. Ten pounds was a substantial amount of money, enough to support her for weeks if she was careful. Enough to make the difference between surviving or starving.
Though part of her was appalled that she would even consider such a proposition, she found herself coolly evaluating the risks. She would lose her virtue, of course, but virtue would be of precious little use if she starved to death. There was also the disastrous chance of pregnancy, but from what she had heard, that was unlikely to happen after a single night.
Her hasty calculations suggested that the benefits of being ruined would outweigh the risks. Nonetheless, the idea of allowing a total stranger such intimacy was abhorrent; the man might be revolting or even vicious. Stalling for time to make up her mind, she said, "Is your friend such a monster that he cannot find a woman for himself, so he sends you to pimp for him?"
"He's a perfectly pleasant fellow," the redhead assured her. "We are doing this as a surprise Christmas present, since he's been working too hard."
Taking a deep breath, Nicole decided to put herself into the hands of fate. "Twenty pounds," she said firmly. If they would pay such a great amount of money, she would take it as a sign that letting herself be ruined was the right thing to do.
"Twenty pounds?" the redhead said dubiously. "That seems a trifle steep."
With a mixture of regret and relief, Nicole said, "It is my price, monsieur. If it is more than you wish to pay, so be it."
"Wait." For the first time the dark-haired man spoke. He pushed Nicole's hood back onto her shoulders. Then, while the cold rain spattered her cheeks, he took her chin in one hand and studied her with a detached gaze. "She's very pretty. A sweet face. I think Philip would like her."
Nicole's companion chose this moment to stick its head out of her pocket and give a piercing yowl. Both men gave the furry, triangular head a startled glance.
"My cat," Nicole said, rather unnecessarily. "Where I go, she goes."
The corners of the dark-haired man's mouth twitched with amusement. "James, does Philip like cats?"
"Of course. Don't you remember that great ugly ginger torn he smuggled into our rooms at Winchester?"
The dark man gave a faint shudder. "Good God, how could I possibly have forgotten Thomas Aquinas and his unnatural attachment to my
boots?" He smiled at Nicole. "Clearly you are singularly well qualified to please this particular gentleman. Come, let us adjourn to more comfortable quarters."
For a moment Nicole teetered on the verge of flight, but the streets offered nothing but cold and damp and danger. At least tonight she would be warm, and probably well fed. In return for a few hours of endurance, she would have the money she needed to survive. Face set, she pulled her hood over her dark hair and followed the two young men to their carriage.
PHILIP had not spent such an enjoyable evening since his father died. It was good to laugh with friends, to remember that he was still young and that worrying himself into a decline would do no one any good. When Kirby's clock begin to chime midnight, he got to his feet with reluctance. "A pity to leave so soon, but I must if I want to be off at dawn tomorrow morning."
He expected Kirby to insist that he stay, but his host said only, "You're right. I need some rest myself if I'm to make it to the ancestral home tomorrow." He gave Philip a bright-eyed smile. "When will you be in town again?"
"I'm thinking of hiring a house and bringing my mother up for the Season. She'll be out of mourning soon, and I think some gaiety will be good for her." Philip made a face. "Unfortunately, she's been hinting that it's time I looked for a wife. If I bring her here, she'll throw every suitable miss in the Marriage Mart at me. She's already introduced me to every eligible female in Northamptonshire."
Horrified, Kirby exclaimed, "That's a dashed dangerous business, Philip. It's all very well to be a dutiful son, but if you aren't careful, you could end up leg-shackled."
"Believe me, I'm aware of the perils. I trust that forewarned will be forearmed." The baronet collected his hat, shook hands, and wished his friends a happy Christmas, then went into the hall to climb the two flights of stairs to his own rooms. So convenient to live in the same building.
But that wouldn't be true much longer. Regretfully Philip realized that he really must let go of his rooms. He'd had them since leaving Cambridge, but he was unlikely to be spending lengthy periods of time in Lo don again, so it was far more reasonable to stay in a hotel for his brief; visits.
He sighed. One after another, the realities of adulthood were catching | up with him. He had obligations to his family and his name that could not be neglected. Which brought him back to the depressing topic of marriage. '
In an attempt to preserve his good spirits, Philip counted his blessings as he ascended the shadowy steps. Though he had initially been intimidated by his new responsibilities, he now had them well in hand. He very ; much enjoyed being master of Winstead, for there was something elementally satisfying about working the land and seeing to his tenants' welfare, is Though he did miss London friends like Kirby and Masterson, he had other friends in Northamptonshire, and family as well, so he certainly wasn't lonely. Nor did he mind bearing his mother company, for she was the most delightful of women.
As he pulled out his key and opened the door to his rooms, he realized why marriage was such a depressing prospect: he'd never met an eligible girl who was half so amusing as his mother or his sister, Marguerite. It wasn't just bias on his part; they both really were exceptionally charming, intelligent females. It must be the French blood. A pity that the Continent was closed to Britons; perhaps in Paris it would be possible to find a bride who wouldn't bore him, but with Britain and France at war he was unable to put that theory to the test.
His sitting room was warm, and he saw a glow of lamplight coming from the corridor that led to the bedroom. A member of the staff must have come in to build a fire and leave a light for him. It was like being in his own home and explained why there was always a waiting list for rooms in the Rochester.
Whistling softly, Philip hung up his hat and walked down the short passage to his bedroom. He was starting to untie his cravat when his gaze came to rest on his bed.
He stopped dead in his tracks. Kneeling in the middle of the blue counterpane was a dark-haired young female, a delicious-looking creature who wore nothing but a provocative white negligee and an enormous red silk bow tied around her slender neck.
"What the devil?" Thinking that he must have drunk more than he'd realized, Philip gave his head a sharp shake, but the nymph was still there. "Who are you, and how did you get in here?"
"My name is Nicole, Sir Philip," she said in a soft voice that contained a charming hint of accent. "I am a present from your friends downstairs. They said you have been working too hard, so they hired me to ... to entertain you for the night."
For a moment Philip felt pure exasperation at such high-handedness. Tonight he had wanted to get a good night's sleep to prepare him for the long drive home. If he had been in the mood, he would have found a girl himself.
But as he examined his visitor, he realized that he could easily get into the mood. She was very lovely, with delicate features and huge brown eyes, and her sheer white gown revealed as much as it concealed. His fascinated gaze came to rest on the spot where the trailing ends of the red bow curved over her left breast.
His pleasant languor vanished under a surge of vivid anticipation. Apparently his friends knew what he needed better than he did.
"Nicole is certainly an appropriate name for the season." He peeled off his coat and waistcoat and tossed them aside, not bothering to watch whether they hit chair or floor. "But I've never seen a St. Nicholas who was half so appealing."
After tugging off his boots, Philip sat down on the edge of the bed facing the girl. She was even prettier close up, her wide eyes like dark velvet pansies. Seeing green leaves twined in her hair, he leaned forward for a closer look, then chuckled.
"You really are a perfectly wrapped Christmas present." Touching one of the waxy berries, he added, "Mistletoe is my favorite holiday tradition." |
Enjoying the moment, he let his fingers drift down through her silky tresses and along her graceful neck. Then he moved his hand to the back j of her head and pulled her close for a kiss. He closed his eyes, the better to revel in the soft warmth of her lips and the tantalizing invitation of her spicy scent.
But even as his breath and blood quickened, he realized that something was wrong. Under his hands, her shoulders were rigid, and he felt a touch of moisture against his upper lip.
He opened his eyes and found that huge tears were silently flowing down her pale cheeks. It was an unnerving sight. While he was no gazetted rake, he'd never had a girl cry when he kissed her. "What's wrong?"
Her own eyes flew open, and he saw alarm in the dark depths. "Nothing, monsieur." Raising one hand, she wiped at the tears with the back of her wrist. "Please, just go ahead and do—whatever it is you are going to do."
As Philip mentally reexamined the last few minutes, a horrible suspicion occurred to him. "Surely this isn't your first time!"
She nodded, her expression a heartrending mixture of misery and valor.
For Philip the effect was similar to having a bucket of cold water poured over his head. While there were men who delighted in deflowering virgins, he and his friends had always preferred the practiced embraces of skilled demireps. But now that he examined the girl more closely, he saw that she was definitely not of that company; in fact, her demeanor more nearly resembled that of an early Christian trying to appear brave while lions entered the Coliseum. "Why on earth did those idiots choose you?"
"I was in Covent Garden and wearing a truly vulgar cloak, so they assumed I was the kind of female they were looking for," Nicole replied. "Does it matter that I am inexperienced?"
"Yes, it matters," he said shortly.
"I see—my ignorance will reduce your pleasure. I'm sorry—I did not mean to cheat them. Or you." Distressed tears trembled in her eyes again. While she had steeled herself to accept passively whatever was done to her, she was unprepared for talk or explanations.
With some violence, the baronet slid off the bed and stalked across the room. Tall and powerfully built with the breadth of his shoulders emphasized by his white shirt, he was a
daunting sight. Still, there was no denying that he was a fine figure of a man. In spite of what the redhead had said, Nicole had expected someone repulsive.
After muttering something under his breath, Sir Philip turned and leaned back against the fireplace mantel with his arms folded across his chest. His voice overcontrolled, he said, "Why did you agree to do this?"
Perhaps there was a protocol for such a situation, but if so, it was not one Nicole's mother had ever explained. Well, when in doubt, use the truth. "For the money, of course," she said in a small voice. "I am a seamstress, but I lost my situation, and since I've been in London for only a month, I had no one to turn to. Even so, it did not occur to me to ... to sell myself, but when your friends made the offer ..." She shrugged expressively. "It seemed like providence."
His brows drew together. "So it was a choice between me or starvation?"
"Well, yes," she said uneasily, hoping he would not take offense.
"How wonderfully flattering," Sir Philip said caustically. "Are you planning to take this up as a career?"
"Most assuredly not," she retorted. "I will find another situation before the money runs out."
He studied her face for a long moment, then sighed and ran one hand through his thick, light brown hair. "Taking advantage of desperate virgins is really not a habit of mine. Perhaps it's best if you go now."
He didn't find her attractive. It was an oddly disconcerting thought, even though at the same time Nicole was so relieved that her knees were shaky when she slipped off the bed and went to the neat pile of possessions she had tucked in a corner.
She was sorely tempted to change into her own clothing and leave without saying more, but unfortunately honor insisted that she could not do that. She knelt and fumbled with her cloak until she found the bank notes in the pocket, then rose and walked to Sir Philip. "Here," she said, her voice bleak. "Please return this to Lord Masterson, for I did not earn it."