Love's Price(2)

Miss Wilson was Lord Westwood’s cousin and ward, betrothed to his brother whom she was scheduled to marry at a grand wedding in the fall. In the months leading up to the ceremony, Helen would have attended Miss Wilson’s every fickle whim, and it was obvious that they would have been dreary months indeed.

Miss Wilson was the type who would have constantly nagged and complained, but Lord Westwood was offering a good salary, so Helen had been tempted by the lure of extra money.

Harriet was in trouble again, working as a servant in a house where the owner was rumored to ravish the maids, and Helen was determined to rescue Harriet from the dire situation. Helen would do anything to keep her sister safe, so she could have struggled through with Miss Wilson, but apparently, it wasn’t meant to be.

Miss Wilson didn’t want a companion. Or if she did, she didn’t want it to be Helen, which was fine by Helen.

Experience had proven that Helen was tough, shrewd, and capable, but she was weary of fighting just to get by. From the moment she’d walked out of Miss Peabody’s school, she’d suffered at the hands of numerous despicable bosses, their groping husbands, leering sons, or finicky daughters.

Due to Helen’s stellar education, she had been luckier than most in landing posts as a governess or lady’s companion, but she had to grovel and obey, had to tolerate every consequence—regardless of how unfair. The slightest slip of the tongue could pitch her out into the streets where there was a distinct probability she might starve.

There were simply too many poor, desperate women in London trying to eek out a living, and she didn’t plan to become one of them.

“Shall I call the butler to show you out?” Miss Wilson inquired.

“There’s no need to bother him. I can find my own way.”

Miss Wilson flashed a cool, patronizing smile, and Helen left, but it was swiftly evident that she should have had the butler summoned.

She’d met with Miss Wilson in an upstairs parlor, and it had seemed a straight route to the foyer, but she made several wrong turns and wound up in an unfamiliar corridor, which was unnerving.

If she was observed in a deserted wing of the mansion, unescorted and with no reason for her presence, she’d be accused of mischief, of larceny or spying, when she couldn’t be caught in an impropriety. Since she labored for the wealthy and aristocratic, her ability to maintain employment depended on her reputation, and she couldn’t afford the least ethical mishap.

Hoping to locate a staircase, she started down a hallway when she realized she could hear male laughter emanating from one of the rooms. It sounded as if a party was in progress—in the middle of the afternoon—and she bit down a groan.

She absolutely could not be spotted by a crowd of men! It was foolish as well as dangerous, but she couldn’t risk going back the way she’d come. There was no option but to brazen it out, and she tiptoed toward the chamber, anxious to flit by undetected.

As she approached, the noise grew louder. Glasses clinked, and a sharp bark of surprise rang out, followed by curses and grumbles.

She slowed, sneaking up to the open door, and as she neared, she couldn’t help but peek inside. A dozen men were playing cards, drinking, and smoking cigars. Coats and cravats had been removed, sleeves were rolled back.

In the center of the table, she could see a huge pile of money and some jewelry, an indication that they were gambling—and for high stakes—and the spectacle shocked her.

At that very instant, Miss Wilson was in residence. How dare they imperil her reputation with such an inappropriate activity! Did the earl know what was transpiring? Was he complicit?

He had to be.

Miss Wilson had claimed Lord Westwood was too busy to conduct Helen’s interview. Was this why? Was he wagering?

Helen scanned the group, curious as to which fellow he was. The fat one in the corner? The bald one on the sofa? The swaying drunk over by the hearth? What sort of dissolute wretch was he?

Before Helen had traveled to the failed appointment, Mrs. Ford at the employment agency had mentioned vague gossip about Lord Westwood, but she had personally vouched for him, insisting he was an honorable gentleman. She’d asked Helen to ignore any stories, which Helen had been happy to do.

From her time spent in noble households, she’d learned that appearances could be deceiving, that tales could spread on the flimsiest of facts, but she couldn’t refuse to accept what was occurring right in front of her.

She’d just remembered to hurry on, when she noticed that one of the men was watching her.

He was off to the side of the merriment, slouched in a chair and looking very bored. Absently, he shuffled a deck of cards, his slender fingers elegant and mesmerizing.

With his black hair and wide shoulders, his lean face and generous mouth, he was incredibly handsome.

He picked up a glass of liquor and sipped at it, staring at her over the rim, so she could see he had blue, blue eyes. She felt as if she was drowning in them, as if they could swallow her alive. She was spellbound, their visual connection almost tangible.

As if they shared a private joke, a decadent, seductive grin curved his lips then—with the grace of a lazy cat—he rose to his feet. He was fit and tall, well over six feet, with a broad chest, flat waist, and long legs, and before she grasped his intent, he headed directly toward her.

With a whimper of alarm, she stumbled away and fled. Behind her, she heard him say, “Gentlemen, I believe she’s arrived.”

Hoots and jeers wafted out, and one retorted, “Now the party can begin in earnest.”

“Yes, it can.”

There was more laughter, but it faded as she flew down one staircase, then another. Finally, the foyer was in view, and she lurched to a halt, her heart pounding as she searched for a servant to assist her.

She had to retrieve her cloak, but had no idea where it was. Though she was desperate to be away, she didn’t have the coin to purchase a new one, so she couldn’t go without it. Eventually, a footman appeared and brought it to her. As he vanished, she slipped it on and was raising the hood when a pair of strong arms wrapped around her from behind, and she was caught in a viselike grip.

“I wondered where you went,” a rich baritone whispered in her ear. “You minx! I chased you across half the house.”

“Ah!” she shrieked, struggling to escape, but he merely tightened his hold.

“Are you leaving? Why? Didn’t you like the looks of the guests? They’re actually quite harmless.”

“Let me go,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

“There’s no need to be coy,” he insisted. “We’re all adults, and I’ve offered you plenty to entertain us. Or are you planning to demand more?”

“Let me go!”

He leaned in, and she could feel his entire torso pressed to her backside, but though she fought mightily, she couldn’t put any space between them.

For pity’s sake, was she about to be ravaged in the earl’s vestibule? How had she landed in such a predicament?

He nuzzled her nape as he pushed down the hood of her cloak to reveal her golden-blond hair. She had it pulled into a neat chignon, and he rubbed his cheek against it.

“Your hair is the most fascinating color,” he absurdly said. “I can’t wait to see it flowing down your back.”

The remark was too outrageous to be borne, and she stomped on his foot as hard as she could.

“Ow!” he grouched as he released her.

She staggered away and whirled to find him towering over her.

“Are you insane?” she seethed.

“What? I compliment your pretty features. I’m prepared to forfeit a small fortune for your services, yet you attack me as if I’ve offended you. And you call me insane?”

“You couldn’t pay me to remain here another second.”

He studied her, his gaze narrowing at her criticism.

“I don’t understand you.”

“Why? Because I don’t choose to be mauled and abused?”

“Abused!”

“Yes. How dare you grope me! And right in the foyer, too. What if Miss Wilson had observed you? How would you explain your behavior?”

“Miss Wilson? You mean Miranda? Why on earth would she be any of your concern?”

Helen gasped. In residing with the earl, what antics were Miss Wilson forced to endure? Clearly, Mrs. Ford had been wrong, and the rumors were true: Westwood was a fiend.

“If your conduct is any sign,” Helen huffed, “of what’s allowed in this house, I feel very sorry for the young lady in question.”

She spun and marched to the door as he snapped, “Where are you going?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” She glared over her shoulder. “I’m leaving.”

“You are not.”

“I am, and you can’t stop me.”

He seemed greatly confused. “I told Monique to send me her most experienced girl. She assured me that you’d be amenable to whatever we wanted. Why are you acting this way?”

“Monique? Who is Monique?”

“Don’t you know the name of your own madam?”

“My madam!”

He paused, scowling. “Aren’t you from the brothel?”

Helen was surprised she didn’t faint. “You think I’m a...a...”

“You’re not a prostitute?”

In the past four years, she’d suffered many heinous indignities. She’d been bullied and pressured and intimidated, but she couldn’t remember ever having been quite so insulted.