Temporary Mistress

Chapter Two

ISABELLA WAS SHOWN into the presence of a middle-aged lady and left on the threshold of a sitting room softly lit by two torcheres.

"Do come in. I'm Mrs. Crocker." Molly Crocker gazed at the young woman in the doorway with a practiced eye-the bedraggled but expensive gown, her fine amethyst and pearl jewelry, the beauty of her face and form. And she wondered why a lady of fashion was being pursued in the night.

"Please accept my apologies… for intruding so precipitously," Isabella murmured as she moved forward. "But I saw your light outside-"

"No need to apologize, my dear. Mercer tells me you're in some danger. Come sit down by the fire and join me for tea. You look chilled to the bone."

"Thank you for your kindness." Sitting opposite the well-dressed mistress of the house, Isabella stretched her hands toward the fire and luxuriated briefly in the welcome warmth. Abruptly recalling her manners, she turned from the fire. "Forgive me, my name is Isabella Leslie."

Molly looked up from pouring a cup of tea. "Delighted to meet you, my dear. Would you like a wrap against the chill?"

"No thank you. I'll soon be warm with this glowing fire."

"Sugar? Milk? Lemon?"

"Milk and sugar, please." Isabella softly sighed. "How grateful I am to have found a safe haven."

"You must tell me what I can do to help." Molly offered the cup of tea and nudged a plate of tea cakes across the small marquetry table, nearer her guest.

"I'm afraid I don't know what to do. Everything happened so quickly." Isabella took a deep draft of tea, as though needing sustenance before going on. "You see, my grandfather died just hours ago," she explained, "and without warning, my relatives tried to force me into a loathsome marriage to my cousin."

"I'm so sorry. How awful for you."

Shaking away the sadness that overwhelmed her at mention of her grandfather, Isabella wiped at the wetness that had risen in her eyes. "Thank you." Her voice was unsteady. "Even though he'd been ill for some time, the finality of losing him is-"

"Devastating, I'm sure," Molly murmured.

Isabella nodded and blinked away her tears. "And then to have my relatives so cruelly ignore his death…" she whispered. "Can you imagine anyone so unfeeling?"

"There must have been a great deal of money involved."

Isabella's brows arched upward. "How did you know?"

"I've seen much of the world, my dear. Heiresses are ready prey for the unscrupulous."

A flare of indignation illuminated Isabella's eyes. "I have no intention of becoming anyone's prey. I refused to marry my cousin." Her fingers clenched on the tea saucer. "When my uncle threatened to tie and gag me for the ceremony, I bolted." She grimaced. "And was indeed hunted, wasn't I?"

"It was fortunate you turned down our lane."

"Your light gleamed like a beacon in the night."

"And Mercer hasn't reported any unwelcome visitors, so your relatives must have lost the scent."

"Thank God."

While Molly admired the young lady's indomitable spirit, courage alone wouldn't ensure her independence. "Have you someone you'd like us to send for, or a friend you'd care to go to tonight? Another relative perhaps who would offer you refuge. My carriage is at your disposal."

Isabella's expression turned grave, and she shook her head. "Grandpapa and I lived a quiet life. And my few relatives have all entered into the conspiracy against me."

"What of a legal advocate outside your family?"

"I'm afraid Mr. Lampert, Grandpapa's lawyer, is quite unable to help me. He was thoroughly intimidated tonight when my uncle threatened him." She set her cup down and nervously twisted her fingers. "I doubt he can afford me protection."

"Perhaps another barrister of more resolve could warn off your relatives."

"I'm not so sure Uncle Herbert would comply regardless the warning given. When he threatened to tie and gag me in order to consummate the marriage, I understood how pitiless his intent. So while a legal advocate could theoretically protect me, in truth he would also have to serve as bodyguard to be effective."

"Perhaps that's what you need. A bodyguard."

Isabella's fine nose wrinkled in a grimace. "How dreadful life would be if it came to that. I'd hate to be under constant surveillance."

"Better, perhaps, than marriage to-"

"Fat Harold." Her smile was fleetingly impish. "Forgive me, but he's really frightfully fat and he fancies himself a dandy as well. I couldn't imagine being married to him even if he were likable-which he isn't in the least." She sighed again. "I wish Grandpapa were still alive. Having his money is turning out to be terrifying."

"You could give it to your relatives."

"They're all hateful. I'd as soon give the money away on the street as hand it over to them. Besides, Grandpapa's charities have to be funded, especially his home for retired sailors, which takes enormous work to keep going, what with Mr. Gandy and Mrs. Thomas scrapping every day over the smallest administrative details. I'm sorry." Her fingers fluttered across her mouth like those of a child caught speaking out of turn. "As though the particulars of my life are of interest to you."

Molly gazed at the lush young woman who had appeared on her doorstep in a fashion those less pragmatic than she might have construed as miraculous. "I may have a solution to your problem." Ever the businesswoman, she recognized advantage in the unusual circumstances.

Isabella immediately leaned forward, her expression brightening. "Would you really? I've been unable to think of a means of extricating myself from this disaster. If I return home, my uncle will coerce me into that hateful marriage. Even if I find other quarters, he's sure to track me down. The courts, while just, I'm sure, can't protect me every minute, and Uncle Herbert wants Grandpapa's money so badly, he's not likely to leave me in peace."

"What I'm about to propose might curtail his interest in you as a marriage partner for"-Molly's mouth quirked faintly-"fat Harold."

"His son."

Molly nodded. "I suspected as much." Her gaze took on a sudden sharpness. "I don't mean to alarm you, but would your relatives inherit should you die?"

"No. Grandpapa's will is very clear. If I die without children, his fortune goes to his charities."

"So you must marry your cousin in order for them to benefit."

"Which I have no intention of doing," Isabella firmly declared.

"I understand." Molly's glance briefly swept the room. "Do you have any idea where you are?"

Isabella gazed about, taking in the fashionably decorated chamber, the opulence of the furnishings, her hostess clothed in elegant dishabille. "In a house in St. James's. Other than that, I'm at a loss."

"This is London's finest brothel, and I own it."

Color flared high on Isabella's cheeks. Even in the candlelight her flush was unmistakable. "Oh, dear," she said in the merest whisper, her eyes wide, shock numbing her mind.

"You're completely safe."

It took her a moment to answer, and her voice was still wispy. "Really?"

"Of course, you're free to go if you wish."

A sudden silence fell.

Isabella had little choice in places to go.

"Or if you find yourself in need of help," Molly said, her voice temperate, "you might consider my proposal. It's nothing more than a suggestion-with no coercion intended or implied. Your independence won't be compromised."

Another silence ensued while Isabella experienced the full impact of the old adage Out of the frying pan into the fire. Chewing on her lower lip, she tried to dredge up other options to the dangers her relatives posed. But no easy means of salvation came to mind, no Good Samaritan dwelt in the background of her life waiting to respond to her pleas. She was entirely alone. The enormity of her solitude tightened her stomach with dread. But a pithy sense of survival had served her well since her youth, when she'd lost both her parents, and lifting her chin, she met Molly's gaze. "Tell me. I'm listening."

"Your relatives must marry you off to one of them to insure they gain your money."

"It seems to be their plan." Isabella's voice was low.

"Without you, the money goes elsewhere."

"So Grandpapa's will maintains. Although they might try to alter it."

"Wills are filed with the court. It would be difficult to challenge it or your grandfather's soundness of mind without convincing proof. Now, if you were ruined or disgraced, would they still wish you to be their bride?"

"I'm not sure disgrace matters to them so long as they can seize Grandpapa's fortune."

"If you were publicly ruined, would that put another face on their plans?"

Isabella smiled despite her apprehensions, beginning to understand the gist of Mrs. Crocker's proposal, understanding deliverance might be within reach after all. "It would have to be exceedingly public. I'm not sure disgrace alone would be sufficient."

"Say you were not only morally disgraced but pregnant? I could see that such a tidbit was placed in the gossip columns. Would you be persona non grata then?"

"Pregnant?" Isabella whispered. "I couldn't."

"In theory only, my dear. You needn't fear."

With her heart racing because she was anticipating the answer, she quietly asked, "What exactly would be required of me?"

"In return for the temporary security of my house and a ruined reputation conspicuous enough to deter your relatives' plans, I would ask you to agree to a limited role as a courtesan."

"A courtesan!" She'd thought-good God! She didn't know what she'd thought-but a courtesan! Impossible, for a thousand reasons that had to do with sense and rationality and her dear grandfather's memory. "I couldn't… really, I couldn't."

"It would involve a very limited role, my dear. And if you wish, your relatives could be informed of your denouement quietly, with a warning of public exposure only should they threaten you. It could be handled very delicately. Few need know beyond a very limited circle-all of whom could be relied on for their silence."

"Couldn't we-I mean, couldn't we just say that-"

"With so much wealth at stake, your uncle might require evidence of your altered state."

Isabella's spine went stiff. "Surely, you can't mean that!"

"You heard of the Westmore scandal last season, where Lady Jane's fiancé insisted on a doctor's examination before marriage. In his case, he was questioning her virginity. Your uncle might question your avowal of ruin, and should he press the issue in court, he could have you examined."

Suddenly the flashing images of a dozen black-robed judges staring down at her with undisguised lechery along with stout Harold, hideously nude, waiting for her in the marriage bed, caused bile to rise in her throat. Forcing back the urge to vomit, she swallowed hard and drew in a steadying breath. "Considering the alternative, your proposal begins to take on a degree of merit. I know my relatives are utterly ruthless. I would have been married tonight against my wishes and the minister's protest if I hadn't run away." She took another deep breath, exhaled, and gazing squarely at Mrs. Crocker, asked the damning question. "What would I have to do to implement your plan. Please be frank."

"You'd have to sleep with one of my clients."

"Sleep?"

"Make love to one of my clients."

"And what would you get out of this?" She knew of course; she simply wished to gauge the candor of her hostess.

"Money, of course. The price for a virgin is dear."

"What makes you think I'm a virgin?"

Molly could have been blunt and told her the truth-that her innocence practically glowed like a nimbus above her head. But diplomatic in the delicate negotiations, she said instead, "Let's just assume you are. And whatever the personal price of your experience here, it would be considerably less than being married to your cousin for the rest of your life. The liaison I'm suggesting would be of a finite duration."

"How finite?" She felt as though she were bargaining for the future of the universe. Or her universe at least.

"We could discuss it with the client."

Isabella's voice turned brisk. "A night, a week, a fortnight? Tell me, what is the usual commitment?"

"No more than a fortnight. Probably more likely a day or so."

"A day or so…" The price of her freedom suddenly looked more affordable. She cared little for her virginity if losing it meant thwarting her relatives' plans. Not that they'd care whether she was a virgin or not if they could get their hands on her fortune. But the pregnancy suggested by Mrs. Crocker was ingenious. If she was ruined, ostensibly pregnant and publicly exposed-or threatened with the possibility-they'd be forced to give up any thought of Harold marrying her. Their position in society was already insecure with the stench of trade in their backgrounds. It would be untenable should the scandal surrounding her sojourn in Mrs. Crocker's house become known. Particularly with Amelia and Caroline in the market for husbands.

"My options are limited, aren't they?"

Molly tipped her head in acknowledgment. Lifting the plate of cakes, she offered it to Isabella. "Should you agree, your independence would be assured."

"Is that chocolate?" Isabella pointed at a diamond-shaped petit four glazed with pink icing.

"Chocolate with raspberry crème filling."

She smiled and picked up the small cake. "This is ever so bizarre, Mrs. Crocker."

"But of benefit to us both."

Isabella took a bite of the cake and shut her eyes against the sublime taste. When she opened her eyes a moment later, she indelicately spoke through a mouthful of chocolate and raspberry. "I'd be rid of them once and for all, wouldn't I?"

"I'd bet a large sum on that eventuality."

"A pleasant thought." Isabella gazed into the dancing flames for a contemplative moment, and when she turned back to Mrs. Crocker, a new determination shone in her eyes. "Very well, I'll do it."

"You're sure?"

"Considering the alternative…" Isabella softly drawled.

Molly smiled. "A wise choice."

And so the bargain was made.

Dermott's head rested against the rim of the marble tub, the steam rising around him, a pleasant sense of lassitude permeating his senses. He'd been up for days, thanks to Olivia's sexual demands, the race had taken its toll on his energy levels, and after a half dozen brandies downstairs, the warm water was putting him to sleep.

"You're not allowed." Kate's voice was playful and very close.

His long, dark lashes slowly lifted. Her lithe, curvaceous form, and then her smiling face, met his gaze. "Am I on call?" he teasingly inquired.

"Consider, darling, I haven't seen you for a week." Stepping into the tub large enough to accommodate two comfortably, she eased herself down until she was straddling his thighs. "And you have to stay awake long enough to allow me my pleasure."

"Have to?" One brow rose in sardonic query.

"Have to, darling. I'm ravenous for you. And if I weren't so polite, I would have jumped you immediately you entered the room."

"So you should be commended for restraint."

"You should reward me handsomely for my restraint." She grasped his penis and squeezed gently.

"What did you have in mind?" he murmured softly, suddenly fully awake.

"Something large and stiff and capable of-um… darling, is it only that I haven't seen this for a week, or is he really larger than usual tonight?"

"We could better tell," Dermott replied in a throaty growl, "if you'd let him measure the limits of that sweet pussy of yours."

"You're not too tired? You don't mind?"

"Have I ever?"

She feigned a moment of contemplation and then grinned. "Not since you turned fifteen, rumor has it."

"Fourteen, thanks to Harvey Nicols's very attractive mother, who liked to seduce her son's school chums."

"She still has an eye for the men, gossip attests."

"She's distinctly a woman of passion. Like you, darling Kate. Now, come here and I'll show you how much I missed you."

While Dermott and Kate renewed their friendship, Isabella was shown into a pretty bedchamber in Molly's apartments. Two servant girls bustled about, bringing in bathwater and towels, scented soaps, and a tray of food that smelled delicious.

Isabella stood in the center of the room while her bath was arranged, feeling as though she were watching a stage play. As though the sprigged-muslin curtains and bedding, the crème-colored French furniture, the crystal chandeliers, were beautiful props, and the only reason she could smell the scented beeswax candles with such vividness was that she had a front row seat. The servant girls bobbed and bowed to her but didn't speak, and only when the last bucket of hot water was poured into the painted porcelain tub did a voice break into her reverie.

"Would you like a maid to help you with your bath?"

Molly had come in at the last, carrying a robe, and when Isabella spun around at the sound of her voice, it took her a moment to merge the apparent fantasy with stark reality. "Thank you, but I'd prefer to be alone."

"I thought as much, so I had our chef make you a tray you can enjoy by the fire later. I thought this would warm you after your bath," she added, handing over a delicate cashmere robe.

"I appreciate your"-Isabella lifted her hand in a sweeping gesture-"kindness and-"

"You're welcome to change your mind at any time." Molly recognized Isabella's hesitation.

"You're extremely benevolent."

"Just sensible. My ladies are here by choice. I wouldn't have it any other way. Although many are here for reasons that bear a resemblance in one form or another to your situation. Their options, too, were limited; they often are for women in this man's world." Her voice took on an amiable briskness. "Now, make yourself as comfortable as you may tonight, and we'll talk some more in the morning. Nothing is cast in stone. Perhaps you'll think of someone who will serve as advocate for you, and all your despicable relatives can go hang themselves," she finished with a smile.

"Wouldn't that be wonderful," Isabella replied, buoyed by her benefactor's optimism. "I shall rack my brain tonight."

"Don't forget to eat, now. Guillaume pouts when his food comes back to the kitchen untasted."

"You needn't worry on that count." Isabella's smile held a genuine warmth, her mood much improved by Mrs. Crocker's candor. "I'm famished."

"I'll see you at breakfast, then."

The door softly closed a moment later, and Isabella found herself alone.

In London's finest brothel.

And if someone would have told her a day before that she would be so placed tonight, she would have thought them mad.

As Mrs. Crocker noted, she still had time to consider alternatives. But the savory aroma of her supper was causing her to salivate, and even if she hadn't been damp and dirty from her flight through the rain, the hot, scented bath would have been potent lure. She had the entire night to consider solutions to her dilemma. Just then both her supper and bath were getting cold.

Short moments later, she was seated in the luxurious warmth of the bath, the supper tray balanced on the rim of the tub, her mouth full of dover sole that was as near to heaven as culinary art allowed. Guillaume needn't worry about his food coming back untasted. She intended to eat every morsel and perhaps lick the plate as well. She'd eaten very little in the days past with her grandfather's life slipping away, and for the first time she'd become aware of her hunger.

Not until the last fragment of the lemon genoise was gone did she look up with a satisfied sigh and set the tray on the floor. A half bottle of very good champagne had come with the meal, and whether it was the food or wine or the soothing warmth of the bath, she felt lulled and appeased.

After a time, she dried herself, and wrapping the luxurious white cashmere robe around her, rested on a chaise conveniently placed near the fire. Her grandfather's long illness had taken its toll on her stamina. She'd not slept through the night for almost a month. And within minutes, she'd fallen asleep.

Molly quietly came in to check on her some hours later and covered Isabella with a blanket where she lay. The firelight gilded her pale skin and golden hair, the white robe clothed her in softness, the picture of innocence so breathtaking, even Greuze couldn't have improved on it.