Regency Seduction: The Captain's Courtesan / The Outrageous Belle Marchmain

‘Try me,’ was Alec Stewart’s terse answer.

Two of his men led her down a stone staircase and locked her in the basement, where the only light came in through a high-up single window. Rosalie had fought them all the way, but now she simply stood and shivered with cold and fear as her faith in her own judgement came crashing down around her.

Alec Stewart. Last night, he’d seemed—different. He’d assumed she was a whore and that hurt, but otherwise he’d seemed totally unlike the rest of the men at that hateful Temple of Beauty—so much so that she, Rosalie, whose defences against men she’d considered bullet-proof, had let him kiss her. And had felt her insides melt with a strange, sweet sensation she’d never experienced before.

Could he be Linette’s seducer? Yet there must be many more men of that name! Wildly she clutched at straws. His name had not, after all, been listed in Dr Barnard’s secret book as having visited the Temple that fateful June nearly three years ago!

Her heart sank again. He might have given a false name to the doorman. And it might have taken only one night for him to cast his spell on Linette and whisk her away. For heaven’s sake, she, Rosalie, had submitted to his charms swiftly enough! Captain Alec Stewart. He has a castle, Rosalie. A wonderful castle …

Clearly he’d never brought her sister to this crumbling heap. Her stomach cramped in torment. If it was him, he probably didn’t know or care that Linette was dead. Probably didn’t even remember her.

Rosalie would never, ever have guessed. But then, neither had Linette. You idiot, Rosalie. You thought Linette was so stupid, thought yourself so clever … She paced the floor. She lacerated herself with reproach.

Suddenly she thought she heard low voices out in the passageway. She’d been in here how long? An hour? It felt like for ever. She heard a bolt being drawn back and, as the door opened, she sprang round to face it.

Alec Stewart walked slowly into the room, loosening his necktie with his right hand. There was an unreadable look in his hard dark eyes, and somehow the sheer physicality of him, the extremity of male power emanating from that rangy, muscular body, slammed the breath from her lungs. She was reminded, in a surge of excruciating emotion, of the sweet knowingness of his kiss. The melting ache of his fingers on her breasts.

Then she realised he was holding that piece of paper.

He kicked the door shut with his booted foot and just looked at her. Rosalie hitched up her chin. ‘Locking up women now,’ she declared with scorn. ‘What right have you to keep me here against my will—Captain Stewart?’

He ignored her question. ‘I’ve been making enquiries,’ he said. ‘About who you are. You’re versatile, aren’t you, Athena?’ He stepped closer and pointed at the finger on which she wore the cheap little wedding band. ‘You weren’t wearing that last night. Does your husband know you were playing the whore at the Temple of Beauty?’

Fiddlesticks. She should have taken the stupid thing off. She jutted her chin. ‘I’m a widow, as it happens!’

‘My condolences.’ His sympathy was shortlived. ‘And your real name is …?’

‘R-Rosalie.’

‘Rosalie,’ he echoed thoughtfully. ‘And do you by any chance pen scurrilous articles for a rag called The Scribbler?’

Oh, Lord. ‘I don’t see why you should—’

He waved the sheet at her. ‘Fellow about town. That’s how the journalist Ro Rowland describes himself—or should I say herself? I wasn’t born yesterday; I am acquainted with London’s gutter press.’

The colour drained from her face. That meant Helen was being dragged into this! This was just what Rosalie had wanted to avoid; this was one reason why Rosalie had never told Helen or anybody the name of Linette’s seducer, even though she’d realised it might have hastened her search … Helen, I’m so sorry.

She squared her slender shoulders. ‘Sometimes, I’ve written pieces for The Scribbler. But often I just make notes—like the ones your men stole from me!—for my own interest. And what I’m doing isn’t against the law!’

‘It is if you’re intending to print lies. Defame my reputation.’

‘Reputation! Oh, believe me, I could write so much more about you that you wouldn’t like, Captain Stewart!’

She saw the gleam in his steely eyes and dragged air into her tight lungs. Too far. Too dangerous, Rosalie. You cannot possibly tackle him right here in his stronghold.

He was still staring thoughtfully down at her. ‘Is that so? Might I suggest you can hardly afford to take the high moral ground, Mrs Rowland, since I could retaliate by asking—what the hell were you doing last night, parading on that stage half-naked?’

‘I really don’t think that’s any of your business!’

‘Unfortunately it is, since you’ve set yourself in judgement on my affairs. You were putting yourself up for sale at Dr Barnard’s—why? To dig up filth for your news rag? Is that why Dr Barnard was after you?’

Rather too close to the truth, that. ‘I was not for sale!’

‘All right, I correct myself.’ One dark eyebrow arched. ‘You were, in my case at least, offering it for free.’

She gasped and struck out at him. But he caught her hand in an iron-hard grip.

Blue eyes, turquoise-blue eyes, whose bed did you sleep in last night? Yesterday Alec Stewart had found himself rather hoping that there was some reason—and not the obvious one—for this girl to be appearing on stage at the Temple of Beauty.

Well, perhaps he’d found that reason and he didn’t like it one bit. She made money out of digging up prurient details of other people’s lives. Hence her appearance at Dr Barnard’s, hunting, he guessed, for lurid gossip about the visitors to that seedy place. Hence her temerity in coming here, to cast her blue eyes boldly over Two Crows Castle, while carrying in that bag of hers some nasty notes about the crimes of a so-called rackrenter. Yet—how stunned she’d looked when she realised he was the owner of Two Crows Castle! And why was it that everything she did, or said, challenged all his preconceptions of her?

He remembered the way she’d reacted to his kiss last night. Even now he caught his breath at the way her silvery-blonde hair tumbled like a silken waterfall around her shoulders, at the way her drab cloak had fallen apart to allow him a distracting glimpse of the small but ripe breasts that were prominent beneath her shabby gown.

Very pretty, and very professional. Get a grip, man. Not only is she a courtesan, but she writes for a news rag. She’s damned dangerous.

As if to confirm his every suspicion, she made a dart for the door. He grabbed her easily with one outstretched arm. Still she struggled, panting to get away. He pulled her closer and his physical desire reared inevitably at the sensation of her warm body agitating against his. ‘Little fool,’ he uttered. ‘Little fool, stop that. Or I won’t be held responsible for my actions, do you understand?’

That quietened her. Her turquoise eyes flew up to his in shock and she went very still. Then she tossed back her glorious hair. ‘You need not think, Captain Stewart,’ she shot up at him, ‘that I’m afraid of you and men like you!’

‘Then you damn well ought to be,’ he said dispassionately. ‘Though to be fair, you dealt with Dr Barnard’s customers—myself included—most professionally last night.’

She gasped. ‘Last night was a mistake! If I’d known everything about you …’

‘Known what, exactly?’ he drawled.

‘Do you deny that you pack this—this hideous old ruin with impoverished ex-soldiers?’

Frowning, he let her go. But now his broad shoulders and back were planted solidly against the door and he made a formidable barrier indeed to any thought of escape. ‘My friends know the truth.’ His eyes blazed danger. ‘Write what you like, Mrs Rowland, and be damned to you.’

‘I will, if I choose! And I could also write about the way you expect young women to just melt at your feet! How you promise them—promise them …’

His eyes gleamed. ‘Promise them what, exactly?’

‘Nothing,’ she muttered. Oh, Lord. She should not have said that.

He was drawing nearer. ‘Promise them what, Mrs Rowland? I want to know.’ Now a truly wicked smile was curving his lips. ‘Money? Pleasure? Perhaps you’re more tempted than you care to admit by what you think our encounter last night promised?’

She gazed up at him, speechless. It was impossible. It was incredible. Yet—desire, raw and primitive, flooded her veins. Her breasts ached traitorously for his knowing touch. Her eyes were locked with his as she wildly sought inspiration that didn’t come. And he was drawing nearer, a wicked light in his gaze. ‘Playing coy, are you, Mrs Rowland? Who knows—if you promise to be … generous, I might consider letting you go, with no more questions asked.’

‘Generous?’ Her heart shrivelled. ‘Exactly what—?’

‘You were only too happy,’ he silkily prompt ed, ‘to allow me a sample of your wares last night. Now, what’s the price of your freedom, I wonder?’ He’d reached out, to touch her cheek. This woman, thought Alec grimly, was testing his self-control with her dangerous games. Desire was licking hungrily at his loins; his manhood was thickening, and though he had no desire to lower himself to her level of trickery, he most certainly wanted to teach her a lesson.

The realisation of what he was suggesting hit Rosalie like a hammer blow. The brush of his hand across her delicate cheek scorched her. ‘You wouldn’t. You can’t …’

‘I really cannot think of a more enjoyable way of bargaining,’ he said softly. ‘Can you?’

Her world spun. All she could feel were his hands, splayed across her back, his fingertips firm and warm through her clothing. All she could see, when she jerked her head up, was his hard face, lit with an emotion she could not name as he drew her relentlessly into his arms.

His dark eyes raked her. ‘I think the price of your freedom, Athena,’ he breathed, ‘should be—this.’ He lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers.

She meant to resist. She had no intention of letting him do this. But as he clasped her close, heat uncoiled from deep within and flooded her veins, awakening each and every pleasure point in her body. This time there was no gentleness whatsoever in his touch, but his mouth was wildly sensual as he took hard possession, parting her lips with ruthlessness. His tongue was thrusting, at the same time caressing; she felt her legs giving way, felt herself longing to surrender to more, much more, as he hauled her against him and she felt the lean length of his muscular body, felt the hard intrusion of his arousal pressing against her abdomen.

Her breasts were peaking painfully, demanding his touch; between her thighs was liquid longing. His kiss was slow, erotic and powerful, tasting faintly of brandy and the very essence of male domination. She’d thought she hated men and their ways. Yet she was powerless to resist this one.

Linette. Her sister’s name tore through her. With all her strength she thrust him away. ‘You are—you are vile to treat me in this way!’

He stepped back, his hard face bleached of every emotion. ‘I thought it was maybe what you wanted. You are, it strikes me, a deceptive and muddle-headed young woman, Mrs Rowland. This gossip sheet you write for—if anything at all should appear in it about Two Crows Castle, then I warn you, I’ll take strong action. Because there are people who depend on me and I won’t let them suffer for the sake of your cheap scandal-raking, do you understand?’

Just then there was a knock on the door, which opened to reveal Eyepatch. Rosalie found herself shuddering at the scornful look he cast her way. He said, ‘A word, Captain?’

Alec joined him in the doorway, bending his dark head to the other’s in a brief exchange. Eyepatch left and Alec Stewart came back in, slowly.

Alec had to admit that this woman—Rosalie—confounded him at every turn. What was she? Who was she? A whore at the Temple of Beauty, who knew rather a lot about art? A pretty little widow and a digger-up of scandals, who had no idea of the effect she had on men?

And now Garrett brought still more news about his treacherous captive. Alec folded his arms and gazed down at her. ‘Well, Mrs Rowland, investigative reporter amongst other things, it seems you’ve got certain obligations that you’ve neglected in order to come on your little jaunt this morning.’ He pointed to the open door. ‘You’d better be on your way.’

Obligations? What …? She glared up at him. ‘You mean I’m free to go?’

‘We made a bargain, remember?’ He shrugged. ‘That kiss was payment for your freedom. I’ve no desire to hold you captive.’

‘You already have!’ she flared. ‘I’ve been here against my will for at least an hour! I could press charges on you.’

‘That’s a novel idea.’ His dark eyes gleamed. ‘Though I would, of course, be forced to press charges in return. Of robbery, perhaps.’

‘I—impossible!’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Think about it, Mrs Rowland. It would be more than easy for me to say there are valuables missing from this place. After all …’ he looked at his pocket watch coolly ‘… you’ve been here for quite a while on your own.’

‘But I’ve been locked in a bare room!’

Again he shrugged those wide, powerful shoulders. ‘Your word against mine. And I could produce plenty of witnesses who’d remember you from the Temple of Beauty. Do you really think you’d be taken seriously at the magistrates’ court?’

She tilted her stubborn chin. ‘Would you be taken seriously, Captain Stewart?’

‘I’m a war hero,’ he responded tonelessly. ‘Though it means little in financial terms, my word would carry more weight than that of a courtesan who writes for a gossip rag.’

He saw the colour stinging her creamy cheeks. Saw her fighting to find words of resistance and failing.

He was almost disappointed. Almost felt his heart softening for the defiant little widow. But he clamped down hard on any errant feeling like pity. His face as stone, he went to open the door and pointed the way. ‘As I was saying, you’ve clearly been missed. There are three people outside, looking for you. Including—’ his eyes narrowed ‘—your daughter.’

Chapter Eight

Katy was outside, clinging to Biddy. As soon as she saw Rosalie, she reached out to her. ‘Mama? I want Mama …’

‘Oh, darling …’ Rosalie hurried to hold her tight in her arms. Alec Stewart was looking at them both, sharply, knowingly. Naturally, Rosalie thought with scorn, that devil of a man had assumed Katy was hers. Well, let him. She realised Matt was there, too, looking rather warily at Captain Stewart and his crew.

‘Biddy. Matt,’ she said quickly. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Miss Helen sent me after you, miss, and told me to bring Matt, too. She was really cross when she realised you’d not taken him, like you’d said.’ Biddy glanced wide-eyed at the formidable figure of Alec Stewart, who had gone to say something to one of his men. ‘She told me,’ went on Biddy, ‘to say you must come home, because you ought not to be on these streets alone! I brought little Katy, too, ‘cos she was missing you bad, weren’t you, chick?’

Katy, in Rosalie’s arms, seemed quite happy now, and in fact had wriggled round to stare at Alec, who was strolling back towards them. She was clearly intrigued by the gleaming gold curb-chain of his pocket watch and her little fingers reached out to it.

‘Katy, don’t!’ Rosalie backed away with her quickly. She feared that he would use this as an opportunity to castigate her still further. Accuse her of rearing a future child-thief, perhaps.

But Alec had forestalled her. He pulled out his gold watch so Katy could see it. ‘This is all it is, sweetheart,’ he told the infant softly. ‘Something to remind me that I’m a busy man and I should have been somewhere else half an hour ago at least.’

‘Tick-tock.’ Katy looked up at him with her wide, dark-lashed green eyes. ‘Tick-tock man.’ She reached out to touch it, then gurgled in merriment.

Rosalie saw Alec’s mouth curl into a brief but devastating smile as he patted Katy’s chubby fist and put his watch away. Her heart jumped. So handsome. So beguiling. So false. As if to prove her point, he turned to Rosalie and the smile was quite gone. ‘It appears to me that your duties lie elsewhere, Mrs Rowland. I warn you—and I assure you I mean it—that there’ll be no writing about me or Two Crows Castle. My men will escort you and your companions as far as the hackney stand on Bishopsgate.’

Matt O’Brien was still watching him almost with awe; much use he was in protecting her from Captain Stewart, Rosalie thought in despair. Her chin lifted an inch. ‘We will make our own way, thank you!’

‘You won’t,’ he broke in icily. ‘I want you well clear of this place.’ He swung round and raised his voice. ‘Sergeant McGrath!’ The villainous-looking Scotsman with red hair came up. ‘Find Mrs Rowland and her companions a hackney cab, will you? And make damned sure they get into it.’ Without a further glance at her, he turned and strode off while McGrath led the way along Crispin Street, with Matt O’Brien at his side, eagerly asking questions.

‘I hear your Captain fought like the very devil against the French at Waterloo,’ Matt was saying to McGrath.

You traitor, Matt. Rosalie, holding Katy tight, walked furiously behind, with Biddy chattering away beside her. And she herself was a fool. Today, as Ro Rowland, roving reporter, she’d blundered straight into that man’s stronghold. Twice now she had let him kiss her. She’d twice melted in his strong arms, and, even worse, had wanted more. She shivered at the memory of that powerful body, moulded hard against hers; dear Lord, she had not even tried to resist him!

Her cheeks burned at the recollection of her astonishing stupidity. If Alec Stewart truly was Linette’s seducer—how on earth was she going to tackle him now?

McGrath beckoned a hackney, spoke to the driver, then strolled off. Biddy’s brother said he’d walk, since his next job of work was close by in Fenchurch Street. So just Biddy, Rosalie and Katy got into the cab.

‘Where to, miss?’ asked the cab driver.

‘Clerkenwell. St John’s Church,’ she answered distractedly, fumbling for her purse.

‘No need for that,’ said the cabbie. ‘Your fare’s bin paid.’

‘No! I won’t allow it!’ she exploded with renewed fury. Captain Stewart must have given the necessary coins to McGrath. How dare he …?

‘Suit yerself,’ shrugged the cabbie. ‘Pay me twice over if you wants to throw your money away.’

Rosalie slumped inside the carriage. Biddy was excited by the novelty of the trip and pointed the sights out to Katy through the window. ‘There’s St Paul’s, Katy, see? And there’s the Smithfield market …’

But Rosalie could see nothing except Alec Stewart’s hard, mocking face. She remembered his mouth and how it had branded her with the kind of kiss she hadn’t even known existed.

* * *

Katy had become fretful by the time they reached Clerkenwell. As they climbed out, the clock of the nearby church was chiming one, and Katy, in Rosalie’s arms, was crooning softly to herself, ‘Tick-tock man. Tick-tock man.’

Thus Rosalie would always remember the exact time that she realised what her enemy was capable of. Would always remember, as she held little Katy tight, the moment when Biddy cried out, ‘Lord have mercy, what on earth’s happened here?’

Rosalie swung round to thrust Katy into Biddy’s arms. ‘Look after her,’ she breathed. She was already hurrying towards the house.

The door was wide open. Helen was standing on the steps surrounded by neighbours and little Toby was clinging tearfully to her.

‘Helen.’ Rosalie pushed her way through. ‘Helen, what’s happened?’

‘Oh, Rosalie … Come and see.’

A horrible sick feeling tore at Rosalie’s gut as she followed her friend inside. In the front room the little square-built printing press, Helen’s pride and joy, had been viciously attacked with what could only have been a strong hammer or a pick-axe. Leaden type and pieces of wooden frame were scattered all over the floor.

‘Someone broke in while I was out. They picked the lock. Then—my printing press …’ Helen’s voice broke. ‘Look at this.’

She handed Rosalie a note scrawled in ink. Gossip-raking bitch.

Rosalie felt quite faint. ‘Did no one see anything?’

Helen shook her head. ‘Mrs Lucas over the road went for the constables when she heard the noise, but whoever it was had run off by the time they arrived. Oh, Rosalie, I—I knew I had enemies, but—this? Who could have done something so malicious? How am I going to start, all over again?’

Rosalie was reeling, because she knew somebody who was capable of such a ruthless revenge. Someone who had, quite possibly, kept her locked in his basement to give his men time to do this. Would such a person feel any regret whatsoever for seducing and abandoning an innocent girl? The answer, surely, was no.

She felt physically sick. I’m afraid I’ve found him, Linette.

And, oh, Lord, he was going to be a powerful adversary.

Some hours later Alec was pacing the landing outside the main bedchamber of his father’s magnificent Belgrave Square house.

As soon as he’d seen his unwelcome visitor—Mrs Rowland—off his premises, he’d ridden to give a fencing lesson in Piccadilly, then he had an appointment down at the Limehouse docks with a warehouse owner who wanted to hire a dozen men. Alec always tried to find work for his ex-soldiers if they were fit for it.

He’d got back to Two Crows Castle to find a message for him, written by the Earl’s steward, Jarvis. Master Alec. I’m afraid that your father has been taken ill. The doctor is with him. Please come.

A thousand thoughts had raced through Alec’s brain as he’d urged his horse westwards through London’s busy streets to Mayfair. A thousand regrets. How serious was this? Had his father’s bout of illness been brought on, perhaps, by the shock of evil knowledge? Would his father even want to see the son he’d disowned a year ago?

Jarvis, a loyal old retainer, came out of the bedchamber now, bearing a tray laden with medicinal beakers. ‘Your father will see you now, Master Alec, sir.’

That was something. ‘Is the doctor still with him?’

‘He’s gone, but he’ll call back within the hour. He said there are no physical signs of illness, but your father needs to rest.’

Alec felt a great release of tension throughout his body. But—No wonder he needs to rest, with a young wife who pleads to be taken to every party of the Season. With a young wife who …

No. You must forget that, for now.

Alec went swiftly up to the lavishly furnished chamber. His father lay against the pillows of the four-poster in the half-light, for the curtains of the big room were already drawn against the early February dusk and only the coals in the fire lightened the gloom.

‘Alec.’ Slowly his father turned towards him. His gaunt hands twisted the bedcovers fretfully. ‘It’s been so long, Alec. So long since I’ve seen you …’

When you told me you’d no desire to see me ever again.

‘Sir. If there’s anything I can do, you have only to say the word. How are you?’

‘Oh, the doctor says I’ll live.’ His voice rasped. ‘Your brother—he was here the moment he heard I was ill.’

I’ll bet he was. Alec merely nodded. ‘Jarvis told me what the doctor said. That your affliction is thankfully nothing serious.’