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This was hardly the way to think when he ought to be heading to Lady Hannah’s to ask for her hand in marriage. Hannah would make a creditable wife. He had faith she would develop into a successful hostess and a pleasing bed partner. As Heronvale said, she would be an asset to any man with political plans.
So why did the idea of even spending a whole evening in her presence at Vauxhall make him want to head back to a smuggling den?
Sloane might have begged off, sent a note around that urgent business prevented him from keeping the Vauxhall engagement. Only one reason prevented him. He longed to see what Morgana thought of the place.
He shook his head in dismay at this thought, and crossed the street. A carriage, his father’s crest on its side, rolled past him and came to a rather abrupt stop.
His father leaned out the window. ‘Cyprian! I desire to speak with you. Get in, if you please.’
Sloane did not please. ‘You may say what you will through the window, sir.’
The Earl of Dorton glared at him. ‘I will not mince words, boy. I have come from Heronvale. The man wants to put your name forward for the Commons. Unheard of, and I told him so in no uncertain terms.’
Sloane gave him an unconcerned shrug. ‘Then you need worry no further.’
His father sneered. ‘I told Heronvale where you came from, boy. He knows it all.’
A muscle twitched in Sloane’s cheek. His conception had always been a matter of conjecture in whispered conversations among the ton. Sloane always trusted his father’s inflated pride to prevent him from confirming such rumours. Apparently the Earl’s hatred of Sloane exceeded even that.
Sloane let his father’s dagger plunge into his gut and twist, and then he mentally pulled it away, telling himself it did not matter. Heronvale must spurn him now. There would be no seat in parliament. It did not matter. Sloane still had wealth and that alone would give him power enough to plague his father to the end of the man’s days.
Sloane leaned into the carriage. Giving his father a direct look, he lifted the corners of his mouth in the sardonic grin that always made the man hopping mad. ‘Dash it,’ he said with thick sarcasm. ‘My political career is ruined.’ He spun around and walked away.
‘Stay!’ the Earl ordered. ‘Stay. I command you!’
Sloane continued on his way, but to his dismay the carriage caught up to him. As he walked, his father shouted from the window, ‘And another thing! You’ll not marry that Cowdlin chit. I’ll see you do not.’ The Earl’s face turned an alarming shade of red. ‘I will ruin you first. I swear I will. I’ll send you back to the sewers or wherever you came by your ill-gotten wealth—’
Sloane stopped and the carriage continued on its way. He could hear his father pounding on the roof and shouting to the coachman to stop, but by the time the man did, Sloane had headed off in the other direction.
His destination was even more aimless than before. His cheeks flamed and he felt as sick to his stomach as if he’d again been nine years old. The streets had not been crowded and there was no indication that anyone had heeded the exchange, but Sloane felt as if he’d been laid bare in front of everyone.
By God, he’d thought he’d mastered this long ago, the humiliation of being pulled to pieces by the Earl in front of relatives, servants, schoolmasters—anyone. He’d perfected the appearance of not giving a deuce what his father said, or he once had. Why now? Why did his father’s words wound him now? Because the Earl had spoken to Heronvale about his mother?
A memory of her flashed though his mind. A fragment, all he had left of her. A pretty lady, smiling at him, laughing, bouncing him on her lap and kissing his cheeks. He had no idea if the memory was truly of his mother, but many a childhood night he’d forced himself to believe so.
* * *
Sloane walked until the dinner hour. He had an impulse to beg a meal from Morgana, but they were probably sitting down at this very moment. He would wait to see her at Vauxhall. He had the odd notion that seeing her would mend the wound his father created. Of course, that was nonsense.
Elliot, efficient as usual, had made the arrangements for Vauxhall, engaging a supper box for the Cowdlin party and ordering the refreshments.
Elliot also had Sloane’s dinner waiting for him. Afterwards his valet helped him dress for the evening, until all he need do was wait for the Cowdlin carriage.
He paced the Aubusson carpet of his drawing room, his footsteps so muffled by its nap he could hear the ticking of the mantel clock. His father’s voice kept ringing in his head. To mask it, he started to hum a tune.
Come live with me and be my love…
His butler announced that the carriage had arrived, and Sloane gathered his hat and gloves. The night was warm, a harbinger of summer nights to come.
He walked up to the carriage and greeted Lord and Lady Cowdlin and Hannah through its open window. ‘Would you like me to collect Miss Hart?’
‘She is not coming,’ said Lady Hannah.
Her mother added, ‘She sent a note today, begging off.’
Sloane frowned as he climbed in, suddenly dreading the long night ahead. ‘She is not ill, I hope?’
‘Not at all,’ Lady Cowdlin assured him.
He worried that something had happened with the courtesan school, while he was wandering the streets of Mayfair feeling sorry for himself. He frowned.
Hannah, who was in very high spirits, did not notice. She could barely sit still. ‘Poor Morgana!’ she said. ‘I hope she did not feel she would be out of place among my friends. Indeed, she has little to say to them. You have been kind to engage her, Mr Sloane.’
‘I find Miss Hart’s company quite pleasant,’ he said, tersely, offended at her characterisation of Morgana.
Hannah responded with a knowing expression, as if she understood he was merely being civil. Sloane gave it up. To say anything else might arouse suspicions that more went on than the Cowdlins should ever know about Morgana.
Hannah’s giddiness wore very thin by the time the carriage rolled over the new Vauxhall bridge.
‘I do wish we were to arrive by boat. It would be vastly more romantic,’ sighed Hannah.
‘Not good for my gout,’ grumbled her father.
Hannah continued to prattle on about everything being ‘exciting’ or ‘marvellous’ and how she could not wait to tell Athenia Poltrop this or that. She barely took heed of the spectacle that greeted them when they crossed through the garden’s entrance.
Thousands of lamps were strung throughout the tall elms and bushes, like stars come down to earth. Arches and colonnades and porticos made it appear as if ancient Greece had come alive in the stars, though the music of the orchestra sounded modern in their ears.
Sloane had always liked the fantasy that was Vauxhall. Nothing was as it seemed here, illusion was its only reality. Here a man could wear a mask and even the glittering lamps could not reveal whether he be a duke or the duke’s coachman. Here rogues and pickpockets shared the walks with frolicking vicars and extravagant nabobs. Indeed, a lady might walk by her maid without knowing her. She might dance next to her footman or the man who delivered coal to her Mayfair townhouse. It was impossible to feel one did not belong in this place.
But Hannah hurried them down the Grand Walk, past the Prince’s Pavilion and the theatre, past the colonnade, heading for the circle of supper boxes near the fountain.
Sloane wondered if Morgana would have rushed down the Grand Walk so quickly. Or would she have become distracted by the sights and all the people? Would she have tried to guess who the people were and to what sort of life they would return when the night was over?
‘I declare, this place is filled with riff-raff,’ Lady Cowdlin sniffed, apparently as oblivious to the splendour as her daughter.
‘Pay them no mind, dear,’ Lord Cowdlin advised. His lordship, however, paid particular mind to a group of women as pretty as flowers, all masked and escorted by two gentlemen. Sloane suspected Cowdlin would search out this very group as soon as the opportunity presented itself.
The supper box Elliot had arranged for them was in a spot with a view of the fountain, its water sparkling like tiny gold coins in the park’s illumination. The music from the orchestra rose and fell, carried in and out on the wind.
Lord and Lady Poltrop were already seated in the box, sipping some of the good vintage wine Sloane—or rather Elliot—had ordered for the occasion. Athenia jumped up when she saw Hannah, and the two young ladies embraced each other as if it had been an age since they’d been together when it had probably been as recent as that very afternoon.
‘No one else has arrived,’Athenia said to Hannah. ‘Indeed, I feared to be the only one here. Can you think how humiliating? Your brother will come, will he not?’
‘I wonder if he and the others were directed to the wrong box.’ Hannah looked about her with a worried expression. She reached out a hand towards Sloane. ‘Mr Sloane, do take us to search for the others! Perhaps they are on the other side. Oh, do take us.’
Lord Cowdlin was too busy whispering something to Poltrop to take heed of Hannah’s request, but Lady Cowdlin magnanimously gave her permission. ‘Do not venture into the Dark Walk, however,’ she warned in a jocular voice.
As if Sloane would be so foolish as to take two silly girls into an area of the park more suited to the sort of rakish behaviour he had forsworn. He’d rather they quickly discover the missing members of their party so he could get some relief from the chatter.
The two young ladies walked arm in arm, keeping up an intense conversation and paying Sloane little mind. He walked a step behind them, close enough to prevent any mischief befalling them. They circled the area where men and women danced beneath the musicians’balcony. Though both girls craned their necks to search the crowd, they spent as much time whispering to each other. Sloane, out of a desperate need for respite from their company, looked around for Hannah’s ‘particular’ friends, the ones who surrounded her at every society function.
He did not see them, but he spied the colourful group of ladies Lord Cowdlin had so admired. Not surprisingly, they had seated themselves in a box where they could be easily noticed.
He guided Hannah and Athenia past them, but one of the prettily dressed females cried, ‘Well, now. Aren’t you the handsome gent.’
Another giggled, but a third said a sharp, ‘Hush.’
Sloane whirled around, but other strollers obscured his view. Lady Hannah and her friend kept walking, and Sloane had to push his way through the crowd to catch up to them.
He looked over his shoulder again and a gap in the crowd afforded him a good look at the group.
One of the young ladies was raven-haired, another a redhead, the others golden-haired and mousy brown. But it was not these his eyes were riveted upon. It was the tall, dark-haired woman who stood in the midst of them.
Morgana.
Chapter Twelve
How could he have not instantly known them at first glance? Before the crowd closed the gap again, he’d even recognised Penny and Miss Moore. He’d bet one of the gentlemen with them was Penny’s favourite inamorato, that idiot Duprey. The identity of the other gentleman put a worried crease between his eyes. Few of Penny’s masculine acquaintances would be men Sloane thought fit for Morgana’s company.
He put his hand on Hannah’s elbow. ‘Ladies, let us go back to the supper box. Your friends may have arrived in our absence.’
‘Oh, let us do that,’ Hannah replied enthusiastically.
They all walked at a brisker pace: Hannah, to find her friends; Sloane, to find a way to get back to Morgana.
Several young people could be seen in the supper box. Hannah and Athenia broke away and hurried to greet them. Hannah’s brother Varney saw them, rushing forward to escort them into the box.
Sloane’s nephew appeared to be the only one to notice Sloane’s arrival. ‘Good evening, Uncle,’ David said. ‘Is this not a beautiful night for the Gardens?’
Sloane agreed that it was, but could say little more, because the supper arrived and soon everyone was piling plates full of paper-thin slices of ham and tiny chickens. A fruit girl filled dishes with fresh strawberries and cherries, and a sideboard offered a selection of wines and arrack, the heady punch always served at Vauxhall. His nephew dipped into the arrack more than once.
Soon a bell signalled the start of Madame Saqui’s daring rope dancing, and the young people poured out of the box in a hurry not to miss a moment of it. Lady Cowdlin and Lady Poltrop begged off, assuring Sloane they would be very comfortable in the supper box with each other for company and certain their husbands would return at any moment.
Sloane did not follow the young people to view Saqui’s performance, but rather strode across to the South Walk’s supper boxes to find Morgana.
Penny and Miss Moore were the only ones of the party seated in the box. Sloane’s eyes narrowed. Sir Reginald, one of Penny’s gaming-hell regulars, was there as well, not exactly the sort of company Morgana should keep.
She and the girls were likely watching Madame Saqui. Sloane threaded through the crowd exactly like the pickpockets were doing. He looked for Morgana, finally finding her, standing with Rose at the edge of the crowd, chatting with a grey-haired man. Just as he’d feared, they had attracted an admirer.
He pushed his way through.
‘Morgana!’ he cried, seizing her arm.
Morgana jumped, pulling away, before she realised the man who had accosted her was Sloane. She felt flushed with excitement to see him, even though she had not wished him to know they were there. Vexed at Katy for her impudent gibe as he passed them, Morgana saw the precise moment he’d recognised them. She should have realised he would come after her.
‘You have found us.’ She gave a defiant toss of her head. ‘I am going to box Katy’s ears.’
‘What the devil do you think you are doing?’ he said in a fierce whisper as he squeezed her arm.
She pointedly stared at the hand grasping her. ‘I am watching Madame Saqui,’ she said in patient tones. ‘And I do wish you would not always come rushing up to me, screeching my name.’
He released her.
‘I beg your pardon,’ he muttered.
She turned back to the spectacle, but her heart beat wildly, not at Madame Saqui’s daring exploits, but that she could be in this magical place with Sloane even for a few minutes. Perhaps for the time being she could pretend he was her beau, pretend he was not about to scold her again.
Madame Saqui faltered on the rope and teetered for several seconds before regaining her balance. The crowd gasped a collective ‘Ohhh!’ Perhaps Madame experienced the same sensation Morgana felt, as if she could tumble through the air.
Morgana had forgotten Rose was by her side until the girl touched Sloane’s sleeve. ‘Mr Sloane, may I introduce my father to you?’
‘Of course.’ He sounded as surprised as Morgana had been.
‘Mr Brian O’Keefe, one of the musicians here.’
Morgana had nearly fallen to the ground when the man came up to Rose. She’d made the girls promise they would not engage in any liaisons this first outing. Morgana had been about to send the man packing when Rose told her who he was.
Sloane shook the man’s hand. ‘Indeed?’
Madame Saqui was joined by her husband and son and the crowd applauded with approval. Morgana was more interested in watching how easily Sloane conversed with the musician, as at ease as if he were talking with a gentleman at Almack’s. It was a quality she greatly admired in him.
Rose and her father stepped away to watch the rest of the performance, and Sloane leaned in to whisper in Morgana’s ear, ‘What possessed you to bring those girls here? Do you not know what happens in this place? You are noticed, believe me. You look like a group of harlots.’
She knew this scold was forthcoming. ‘We are a group of harlots,’ she replied, her voice unapologetic. He must reconcile himself to the life they were training these young women to lead. So must she. ‘Madame Bisou said some practice would be beneficial.’
The performance ended to another burst of applause and cheers and the crowd began to disperse.
Rose came up to her again. ‘May I spend some more time with my father, Miss Hart? He will bring me back to the box.’
‘I think that would be very nice for you.’ Morgana smiled. She watched Mr O’Brien escort his daughter to the two-storey gazebo, from where the orchestra played high above the crowd. ‘Rose’s father. Imagine that.’
‘Gainfully employed, as well,’ Sloane added. ‘What the devil is she doing in your courtesan school?’
His scold seemed to be over, and he seemed more her friend again. It made her want to dance the night away with him.
‘I was wondering the very same thing.’ She took a breath to steady herself. ‘I should go back to the supper box.’
He took her arm more cordially than before. ‘That puts me of a mind to tell you that the gentleman cosying up to Penny is no man you should know.’
That puffy man with the exaggerated manners? Morgana could see no harm in him. She gave Sloane a saucy glance. ‘Oh, is he scandalous? As scandalous as you?’
He dipped down to her ear. ‘You have no idea how scandalous I can be.’ His voice was low and his breath on her skin warm.
She swallowed.
They passed under the arch near the supper box. Mary rushed up to them, Robert Duprey at her side. ‘Miss Hart! Miss Hart!’
Morgana was about to beg her to stop calling out her name, when Mary cried, ‘Lucy has run off!’
‘What?’ Morgana stopped.
Mary saw Sloane and gave a quick curtsy. ‘Good evening, sir.’
Duprey nodded. ‘Oddest thing. Standing happy as you please. Calls out, “He’s here!”, then takes off.’
Mary added, ‘Mr Elliot ran after her, but we thought we should find you right away. Or at least that is the advice Mr Duprey gave, which I thought was excellent.’
‘Elliot?’ exclaimed Sloane. ‘What the devil is he doing here?’
Morgana held up her hand to silence him. ‘Where did she go?’
‘Ran down the Dark Walk. Worst place. Dangerous,’ Duprey responded.
Lucy had been doing so well. She’d even seemed happy sometimes, blossoming, like her garden. Morgana could not bear it if someone had frightened her.
She turned to Sloane. ‘Will you take me to look for them? I dare not go alone.’
Sloane hesitated only a moment. ‘Come along.’
The Dark Walk was not totally without light, but the lamps were fewer and dark alcoves and small private rooms were dotted along the path. Some sounds of revelry could be heard from the shadows, and Morgana was glad Sloane was at her side.
‘I wonder if she saw the man from Hyde Park,’ Morgana said. ‘I cannot think anyone else would frighten her so. She wore a mask, for goodness’ sake. He would not have known her.’
‘I recognised you,’ Sloane reminded her.
‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘But only after Katy made her silly comment.’
He stopped her for a moment and made her face him. ‘Morgana, when will you realise that you cannot truly hide behind a mask or a hat with netting? If you are where you should not be, it is always possible for someone to discover it.’
She averted her eyes. She knew he spoke the truth. She had come to accept the likelihood of ruining herself over the courtesan school.
He took her chin in his fingers and turned her face back to his. ‘You greatly risk your reputation with activities such as this. Already your name has been called out.’
‘By you, as well,’ she protested.
He nodded, but it only brought his face closer. ‘I am sorry for it,’ he murmured, his voice as soft as the orchestra’s music drifting in from the distance. ‘Forgive me.’
She lifted her face to his, remembering how easy it had been to stretch just a little farther and taste his lips.
The sound of giggles reached them, and Sloane pulled her aside so that they were shuttered by the bushes. A young couple walked by laughing and kissing. Morgana was shocked to see the lady was Athenia Poltrop and her companion Morgana’s cousin Varney.
Sloane recognised them as well. ‘Well, at least now I know what she and Hannah were whispering about.’
Recalling Hannah always returned Morgana to her senses. ‘You must need to return to your party.’
He wrapped his arm around her back and squeezed her against his side. ‘Let us find Lucy first.’
They walked all the way to the hermitage before they found her. Lucy, racked with sobs, sat on a bench with Mr Elliot holding and rocking her.
‘Lucy.’ Morgana wanted to rush to her, but Mr Elliot shook his head. ‘What is it, Mr Elliot? What has happened to her? Has someone hurt her?’
She felt Sloane stiffen beside her, felt him as ready as she to fly to Lucy’s defence.
Elliot’s expression was pained. He turned to Lucy. ‘Shall I tell them?’
Lucy gave them a miserable glance and nodded to Elliot, who did not release her from the circle of his arms.
‘She’s been hurt, all right, but it was a long time ago…’
In his precise, methodical voice, Elliot explained what Lucy had shared with him a little at a time in their quiet talks together pulling weeds and planting seeds. Lucy had been seduced at the shocking age of fourteen. The man next door, a family friend, seduced her and gave her to think it was her fault, that she’d been the one to entice him. The man found time for her often, Elliot went on, and Lucy in her naïveté came to believe it meant he loved her. He gave her money and other presents.
‘But right before you hired her, Miss Hart, something else happened.’ Lucy buried her face against Elliot’s chest. ‘This man took her to a place with two other men. They all had their way with her, and the men paid her for it. A few days later, the man took her to be with other men. She protested this time and he laughed at her, telling her to simply enjoy herself. He told her she was nothing but a common harlot. So Lucy believed that was what she must be.’
‘Oh, Lucy!’ Morgana felt tears sting her eyes. She knelt beside the girl, who fell into her arms. ‘How very awful for you.’
‘I was startin’ to think maybe I wasn’t all bad.’ Lucy managed between shuddering sobs. ‘Your lessons—Madame Bisou’s and Miss Moore’s—you tell us all the time that we are worth somethin’ no matter what, that we deserve nice things. I was startin’ to believe it, but I saw him, and I remembered…’ Her voice trailed off.
‘Who was it?’ Sloane’s voice cut through the night like sharpened steel.
Lucy looked up at him, and her sobbing stopped. ‘His name is Mr Castle. He has the button shop next to my father’s hosiery.’
‘Where?’ Sloane said in the same honed voice.
‘Cheapside,’ she answered. ‘Milk Street.’
He nodded, still thin-lipped.
Morgana rose to her feet, her eyes on Sloane, sensing the danger rising in him. It filled her with dread.
Elliot spoke up. ‘I’ll bring her back in a bit, when she’s a little calmer.’ He gave Morgana a direct gaze. ‘You can trust her to me.’
Morgana had no doubt she could. Lucy was in very good hands indeed. ‘Well, we shall go then. I’ll tell the others she was scared for a moment, but you talked her out of it, reminding her of the mask.’
He nodded agreement.
As soon as she and Sloane were out of earshot, Morgana asked, ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Do?’ He stared straight ahead, but his voice still held that timbre of violence.
‘About the man who molested Lucy.’
He did not answer.
‘Are you going to kill him?’