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She opened her mouth to respond, but he continued, ‘I merely ask the same of you. I would not much relish being blamed for whatever mischief you are planning in the future.’
Lucy gave a pained squeak.
‘You be blamed?’ Morgana cried. ‘I assure you my affairs do not involve you.’
One of his eyebrows rose. ‘Indeed? And is this not the second time I have pulled you out of a scrape?’
Morgana felt her face grow hot. At least he could not see her blush through the netting.
He gave her a level stare. ‘When there is trouble around me, I am usually blamed for it. I would not much relish being blamed for whatever wild scheme you are hatching at the moment.’
Morgana resented his low opinion of her, even as she conceded the truth in it. She gave him her frostiest glare, although he would be unable to see it through the netting of her hat. ‘I shall endeavour to please you, sir.’
That lazy smile slowly reappeared, and her heart lurched in spite of herself. ‘See that you do please me, Miss Hart,’ he murmured, his voice so low she felt it more than heard it.
She glanced towards Lucy, who was eyeing them both with a shocked expression. Morgana did not trouble herself to speak with him further, but she was aware of each breath he took, each move of his muscles.
When the hack pulled up to her town house, he jumped out to assist them from the vehicle. Lucy descended, mumbled, ‘Thank you, sir’, and hurried to the servants’ entrance below, leaving Morgana momentarily alone with Sloane.
He gave his hand, still as strong and firm as before. He gripped her fingers, but let go as soon as her feet touched the pavement, stepping back as he did so.
Morgana took a quick breath and composed her disordered emotions. No matter what he might think of her, he had been her rescuer once again.
She looked up at him, his face shaded by his hat and the waning light. ‘Thank you again, Mr Sloane,’ she said softly. ‘I am truly grateful for your assistance.’
He gave her a quizzical look, but eventually touched his hand to the brim of his hat and climbed back in the hackney coach.
Two days later Sloane stood at the door of the grey brick house, its exterior looking identical to those on either side. By God, he’d better not arrive home too addled from drink. He was liable to enter the wrong house. It would not help the awkward situation of living next to Morgana Hart if he barged into her home drunk as an emperor.
He glanced at her front door and pursed his lips, imagining stumbling up her stairway and flopping into her bed by mistake. No chance of that. He had long mastered control of vices such as gambling, womanising and drink. He might get foxed, but it would be in the privacy of his own home.
His own home. Now that made him feel like dancing a jig.
He wondered if the Earl had been informed that his scapegrace son had moved into Mayfair, his neighbourhood. Sloane wished he could have seen the Earl’s face when told of it. Perhaps David had given his grandfather the information. Sloane hoped the boy would not be so foolish.
The more Sloane saw of his nephew, the more he liked him. He and David had engaged in a pleasant conversation the previous night at Lady Beltingham’s rout, where Lady Hannah and her parents had also been in attendance. And Miss Hart.
He and Miss Hart had been civil to each other. She appeared to have conversed comfortably with other gentlemen. What might those men think if they knew she’d been parading near St James’s Street?
She took too many risks. And she was brushing against elements of the underworld that could turn even nastier than they had already. The company of pimps and Paphians could become violent. And if she were on a quest of reformation, even merely the reformation of her maid, she was not likely to succeed. Once the underworld took hold, it was near impossible to escape. He ought to know.
He started towards his door, when her front door opened and she appeared. On Miss Hart’s arm was an ancient-looking woman, all wrinkles and bones.
Miss Hart saw him immediately. ‘Good morning to you, Mr Sloane.’
She looked as bright as the day’s sunshine in a yellow dress and with a smile on her face.
He lifted his hat and bowed. ‘Good morning.’
She continued in this friendly manner. ‘Allow me to make you known to my grandmother.’
The frail lady looked as if she would crumble like some antiquarian artefact as she came down the steps and hobbled towards him, and he quickly raced down his and ran over to her to save her the exertion.
As if they were in the Prince Regent’s drawing room, Miss Hart said, ‘Grandmama, may I present Mr Sloane, who is to be our neighbour soon.’
Miss Hart’s grandmother gave a toothy smile. ‘Oh, how lovely to see you, my dear. Is it not fine weather today?’
Miss Hart continued. ‘The dowager Lady Hart, sir.’
‘A pleasure, my lady.’ He bowed.
‘Hmm?’ Lady Hart she smiled again. ‘It was so nice of you to call. You must do so again.’ She looked up at Morgana. ‘We are off to the shops.’
Miss Hart must have seen a look of bewilderment on his face because she responded with amusement. ‘Yes, Grandmama. Off to the shops.’ She leaned towards Sloane and whispered, ‘We shall not make it further than the corner, you know.’
His brow cleared. The old lady must be a bit senile, that was it.
‘Are you visiting your house, Mr Sloane?’ Miss Hart asked. ‘You will be pleased, I think. I’ve never seen such a marshalling of mops and rags.’
He could not help but return her smile. ‘That is Mr Elliot’s doing, no doubt. I’m afraid he approaches all tasks with great efficiency.’ He gave her a careful look, so as not to miss her reaction. ‘But I do not merely look at the house. I am taking residence at this moment.’
Miss Hart gave a small sound in the back of her throat, but quickly recovered her manners. ‘How nice for you.’
He responded with a wink. ‘I hope I shall be a tolerable neighbour.’
Two spots of pink appeared on her cheeks, putting Sloane in mind of how she might look flushed with passion. Such thoughts were not going to make living next to her easier.
Her grandmother twisted to look at a curricle that had passed by in the street. When she turned back towards Sloane, her eyes lit up. ‘How delightful to have you call, dear. We are off to the shops.’
‘Yes.’ Miss Hart nodded shakily. ‘We must be off.’
She and Lady Hart made slow progress. They had barely reached the pavement in front of the next house when Sloane called back to her. ‘Miss Hart?’
Still holding her grandmother’s arm, she looked over her shoulder. ‘Yes?’
‘May I be so bold as to inquire who lives with you?’
Her eyebrows twitched and she paused a moment too long before speaking. ‘Lady Hart and her companion, Miss Moore.’
He continued. ‘And who chaperons you?’
She maintained a perfectly bland expression. ‘Why, my grandmother, of course.’ Without waiting to see his response, she turned back and proceeded down the street with all the speed of a lame snail.
Sloane watched her with sinking dismay. Not only would he be living next to a single female about whom he harboured lecherous thoughts, he would be living next to an unchaperoned one.
There had been no invitations for that night, so Morgana was forced to remain at home. Ordinarily that posed no difficulty at all—she was perfectly capable of entertaining herself—but this night it was nearly impossible to refrain from gazing out of the front window in the hope that she might glimpse her new neighbour. Would he go out? Or would he relish an evening at home in his new house?
And how long would it take for her to give him as little mind as she did the Viscount and Viscountess on the other side?
She had not yet seen him leave the premises, but the thought of him walking around the rooms on the other side of her wall was nearly as distracting as the window.
Her grandmother and Miss Moore had retired early, as was their habit, so she was alone. She brought her mending to the drawing room, but her eyes were too tired to focus on the stitches in the flickering light. She picked up a book instead, but found it equally tiresome. She wandered to the window and looked out. When she caught herself there, she whirled about and determinedly marched away.
She settled at the pianoforte and played the music she knew by heart. Morgana loved to play, loved the feeling that the action of her fingers brought out the melodies. She did not mind that her skills at the keyboard were passable at best. She enjoyed the music anyway.
She played every piece of music she knew, from common ballads to snatches of Mozart. Then she played them all over again, but she remained restless. She rose and found herself back at the window.
This time her vigil was at an end. She saw Sloane leave his house and walk briskly down the street. Even though he was no more than a shadow, she could not mistake that tall frame, that gait so smooth and graceful, yet infused with masculine power. He soon disappeared into the darkness as if the darkness were welcoming back a missing piece of itself.
She sighed. They had almost regained their friendly banter. It had been such a relief to converse pleasantly with him after their other recent cool encounters. In some ways it was easier to have him avoid her. But now that their relationship had regained some of its ease, she longed to be in his company again.
Voices sounded outside the drawing-room door, several female voices. There was a knock and Morgana swung around. ‘Come in.’
The door opened only a crack, and Lucy poked her head in. ‘Might I have a word with you, miss? If I am not disturbing you, I mean.’
Lucy actually wished to speak with her? This was puzzling behaviour indeed. ‘Certainly, Lucy. Come in and sit down with me.’
Lucy lifted a plain mahogany chair from against the wall and moved it next to the sofa where Morgana had settled herself. Lucy perched primly on the edge of the seat.
The pretty maid finally spoke. ‘Miss Hart, you remember how you said you would teach me to be a courtesan? And I would have a house and money of my own and pretty clothes?’
‘I have not forgotten, Lucy. I have been trying to work out what to do next. Did you look through my Ladies Monthly Museum and read the article on comportment?’
Lucy nodded. ‘Yes, miss, but—’
‘I promise I shall discover how we may learn the other lessons we need.’ Morgana held out a faint hope that she would have the opportunity to speak with Harriette Wilson. Miss Wilson could answer her prayers.
Lucy stood up suddenly. ‘Miss, I’ve something I must tell you.’
Morgana’s spirits plummeted, certain Lucy had decided to go to Mrs Rice after all. ‘What is it?’
Lucy held up one finger, gesturing for Morgana to wait. She hurried to the door and opened it. She leaned halfway out of the room for a moment, then stepped aside. Three young women entered.
They stood in a line in front of Morgana. All were strangers to her. Two wore brightly coloured dresses. One showed revealing décolletage, the other wrapped a shawl around her. Morgana could not decipher the expressions on their faces. Wary? Eager? Defiant?
‘Yes?’ she asked cautiously.
Lucy joined the line. ‘Miss Hart, these girls heard you talkin’ to that Mrs Rice. The lady in the glove shop? They want to be courtesans. They want you to teach them.’
Morgana felt her eyes widen. ‘But—’
Lucy gave her an imploring look. ‘Please, miss. They said Mrs Rice is not a nice lady. They don’t want to work for her no more. They want to be on their own, like you told me.’
What sort of Pandora’s box had she opened?
One of the girls swiped a lock of red hair off her forehead. ‘The shop ain’t no good place to be, miss, begging your pardon for speaking. Mrs Rice, she makes us see as many customers as come. Sometimes we have to do as many as—’
Morgana’s cheeks grew hot. ‘Yes, I quite understand.’
The red-haired girl went on. ‘We could do better on our own. Me and Mary, we talked about it, and, if you teach us how to be high-fliers, we’ll be willin’ to give you a portion of our money.’
‘Oh!’ Morgana knew her cheeks were flaming now. She stood. ‘I think you misunderstood. I am not a… a procuress. I merely wanted something better for Lucy.’
‘We want something better, too, miss,’ the third girl said. She had raven black hair set off by skin so pale it was almost white, but her lips, perhaps tinted, were coloured rose. She gave a graceful toss of her neck. ‘And we want it enough to pay you for it.’
‘No.’ Morgana shook her head. ‘It is not possible—I cannot—It does not bear thinking of.’
‘Excuse me, miss.’ The girl covering herself with the shawl stepped forward. ‘We do understand your hesitation. This must seem like an outrageous request on our part, but you are our only hope.’
Morgana was stunned. The girl spoke in cultivated tones. ‘You sound… educated.’
She bowed her head. ‘I have fallen on difficult times, miss.’
‘Rose here and me may not be educated in books and all,’ the red-haired one broke in. ‘But we’ve had hard times, too, and the way I figure it, we’re as deserving as some of those others that gets to be a fine gentleman’s fancy-piece.’
The one with the shawl added, ‘We have determined that it will be better to be under a gentleman’s protection. If you are able to teach us how to achieve that, we would be grateful enough to pay you whatever you wish.’
‘Not whatever she wishes, Mary,’ her red-haired companion cried. ‘Don’t be daft. We have to save enough money to tell all the fellows they can go to the devil.’
‘Don’t use such language in front of Miss Hart!’ Lucy broke in. ‘I’m sorry I brought you here.’
Morgana held up a hand. ‘Never mind, Lucy.’ She gazed at all four of them. It was easy to see why the brothel wanted them. They were all pretty girls, with pretty figures, still in the bloom of youth. What might they look like a few years from now? Like… like the Portuguese girl, all used up and old before her time?
‘Well, I’m sorry we came,’ the girl shot back, ‘because this lady’s going to send us back, and I don’t much fancy the beating old Rice’s man is going to give us.’
A beating? Morgana turned away from them and walked over to the window where she’d so recently seen Sloane disappear into the night. She had not imagined beatings. She had merely pictured them climbing the stairs in the back of the glove shop and entering small bedchambers to await one man after another, night after night. Would she ever be able to look at herself in a mirror if she sent them back to that life?
‘Nobody is going back,’ Morgana said quietly.
Chapter Six
Two of the girls squealed and jumped up and down. The third sank into a chair. Morgana gestured for them all to sit.
‘I cannot make any promises to you.’ Morgana looked at each of them in turn. ‘I have not been able to find a proper tutor’—an improper one, she meant—’but I can teach you to walk and talk and dress in a refined way. I can show you how to make economies and I can teach you the proper value of items.’
Their expressions were much more decipherable now. Desperation was gone from their faces.
Morgana went on. ‘But there are things about pleasing men I do not know—’
‘Oh, we know how to please men,’ laughed the bold girl.
‘Yes. Of course…’ Morgana blinked, unable to hide her embarrassment. ‘Well, then. Let me know who you are.’
The bold girl spoke first. ‘My name is Katy Green. I’m from Derbyshire, at least I was until I came to London.’
She pointed to the dark-haired beauty, ‘This is Rose O’Keefe. The new girl.’
‘I am not really one of Mrs Rice’s girls, miss.’ Rose spoke with a pleasing Irish lilt. ‘I overheard these two talking. To be sure, says I, t’would be grand to come along.’
Rose was an enchanting vision of dark and light. In the proper clothes, she would cause heads to turn wherever she went. Her success as a courtesan seemed already a fait accompli.
Morgana gave an inward sigh. What sort of life was she offering the girl?
Better than Mrs Rice, she must remember.
‘I am pleased to meet you, Miss Green and Miss O’Keefe.’ She turned to the third girl. ‘And you are?’
‘Mary Phipps, miss.’
Morgana had a dozen questions on the tip of her tongue for this girl. What had happened to her? Why was she one of the girls in Mrs Rice’s glove shop? How could someone, so like Morgana herself, be reduced to harlotry? But poor Mary’s energy had been spent. Morgana would save her questions for later. There would be time enough. Mary and the others would be staying for a while.
‘I am happy to meet you as well, Miss Phipps.’
Miss Phipps, looking ashamed, averted her eyes.
Katy gave her a kind, almost motherly look, although Mary was clearly the elder of the two. ‘Mary is a bit quiet, miss. We’ll have to liven her up. Men like spirit, I say.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Morgana cleared her throat. It would be a monumental task to transform quiet, subdued Mary Phipps into the likes of Harriette Wilson.
The enormity of transforming any of them into scandalous women who earned their livelihood by men’s largesse descended upon Morgana like a sudden downpour. She mentally shook herself, thrusting away cowardice and determining to set herself to the tasks before her, one step at a time. That was how to battle self-doubt. Charge ahead. Perform the task. Save the deluge of emotions for later.
Was that how poor Mary survived? Did each of these girls set themselves to the task and suffer their emotions later?
Uncertainty came creeping back. Morgana curved her hand into a fist. Time to act. Worry could come after. She turned to Lucy. ‘We must find places for everyone to sleep, Lucy. Is there room abovestairs?’
‘We will manage, miss,’ Lucy assured her.
‘And tomorrow morning we must find other dresses. Plain ones. These will not do at all.’
‘We must wear plain dresses?’ Katy frowned.
‘Yes, you must. In this neighbourhood, you must not attract any notice. I cannot tell you what trouble there would be if our… our courtesan school is discovered.’
‘School?’ laughed Katy. ‘Fancy me going to school!’
‘Please do not speak a word of it,’ Morgana begged. Not only was the enormity of the task ahead threatening to engulf her, but the risks as well.
Lucy led them out of the drawing room, and Morgana rang for Cripps, who immediately presented himself.
‘Cripps, we have three guests in the house.’ She spoke in crisp tones. She knew she must think of some way to explain the girls’ presence in the house, but that was a task she could put off for later.
His brows rose an infinitesimal distance. ‘Very good, miss. Do you require me to rouse Mrs Cripps to make rooms ready?’
Morgana was equally uncertain of the housekeeper’s opinion of their guests. ‘That will not be necessary. Lucy will see to their lodging.’
His brows rose another notch. Lucy would have been the last of the household staff Cripps or his wife would have chosen for such a task. ‘May I inform Mrs Cripps which rooms will be occupied?’
Morgana gave him what she hoped was a quelling look. ‘We shall address such matters tomorrow.’
He blinked twice. ‘As you desire, miss. How else may I serve you tonight?’
‘I will not require anything else. Thank you, Cripps.’
The dignified butler bowed and left the room.
Morgana sank back on to the sofa. How would she explain all this to Cripps and his wife? And the other staff? And Miss Moore? She dropped her head into her hands. How could she explain the presence of these girls to respectable Miss Moore?
She sat erect again and lifted her chin. She would simply manage it. She must, because she would not be responsible for sending any of those girls to Mrs Rice, that horrid creature.
Morgana stood and resolutely walked out of the room and up the stairs to her bedchamber.
Sloane relaxed in the coffee room of White’s, nursing a brandy and vaguely watching the other gentlemen. He wondered how many of them resented his ease and welcome here. He was a member and there was not a thing any of them could do about it, not even the Earl who had acknowledged him as a son. A legacy from a grandfather, a man with whom Sloane shared no blood ties, made it possible.
Years before, when the Old Club and the New Club merged into White’s, the present Earl’s father had arranged to have all his sons and grandsons and great-grandsons guaranteed membership for the next hundred years. The old man died before knowing that a rotten apple had appeared in the barrel.
As a young man Sloane had refused to set foot in White’s. Anywhere his father was welcome, Sloane disdained, but now the wisdom of age prevailed.
If he was to take his place in society, he must appear where society gathered, and gentlemen of importance appeared at White’s. This night he’d played a few sedate games of whist, careful to fold his cards before winning too much lest he be accused of fleecing the true sons of the ton.
In Sloane’s darker days, his next meal had often depended on the turn of a card. The hungrier he became, the more skilfully he played, until he could count fairly well on living high as long as there was a nearby card game.
In fact, one marathon round of whist last autumn had deepened his pockets considerably. With such an abundance of riches, it dawned on him to change his game.
In these difficult economic times, wealth was gaining prominence over the elevation of one’s birth. Soon nabobs and cits would amass enough wealth to buy all the power and influence his father’s generation believed to be their birthright. Sloane, however, need not wait for such a day. Sloane had the status of birth, counterfeit though it was. He had more capital than his father. All he needed was a respectable reputation and nothing would stop how high he could rise.
He’d been scrupulous about his behaviour since making his appearance in the beau monde. All the ton knew of his past was mere rumour. If they had heard of some of the things he’d done to survive, or some he’d done in the service of his country, they would surely blackball him, but he’d given them nothing to remark upon these last months. What was more, he was in a fair way to contract a respectable marriage.
That thought did not conjure up an image of the delectable Lady Hannah. Rather, Morgana Hart flashed into his mind. Sloane frowned. Morgana Hart was unpredictable and much too apt to engage in ruinous escapades. Sloane could not afford to have her drag him down with her. He ought to avoid her.
Even though she lived next door.
Sloane took a sip, letting the brandy slide down his throat and warm his chest. Did her bedchamber share a wall with his? he wondered. Was she at this moment undressing for bed, perhaps sitting in a filmy shift, brushing her long silky hair? Sloane set his glass down on the table so sharply that some heads turned at the sound.
He must cease these rakish thoughts.
At that moment, three gentlemen entered the coffee room, one tall, but thin and slightly stoop-shouldered. Though this grey-haired man leaned on a cane, an aura of power still emanated from him. The two men with him were mere moons to this man’s planet. He turned and caught sight of Sloane.
Sloane, glass in hand, met the man’s eye and nodded.
His father, the Earl of Dorton, stood stock still.
Sloane knew what to expect, and the anticipation made him wish to laugh at the sheer predictability of it all. The Earl’s gaze would gradually move away and he would turn his back, acting as if he had not even seen this unnatural son. He would do as he had done all of Sloane’s life. Act as if Sloane did not exist.