Into The Hall Of Vice

Her brows pleated slightly before at last she matched his gaze and puffed out an answer. ‘Which one?’

She seemed to relax, her arm all of a sudden softened beneath his touch. He should stop touching her now and let her go. Beyond reason, he tightened his hold. He doubted she would recognise him as the gent from Charing Cross with his disguise removed, but he remained unsure how keenly she studied his face and wasn’t apt to take the chance.

‘Any of them would suffice as a beginning.’ With a quick surveillance of the surrounding area, he released her and stepped away, hoping with his short withdrawal she’d find the words she needed. Indeed, she had no idea he was Mr Goodworth and that proved bloody convenient.

‘I’m dressed this way so I can enter the Underworld without notice. I wished to see inside.’

Similarly to their encounter earlier, the lady experienced no remorse at stating her intentions. One would think she was royalty, or very close to it, for all the attitude contained in her slight form.

His bark of laughter must have startled. Did she think her answer sufficed? Her eyes grew larger, if possible, her arresting green gaze fixed. ‘Of course you did, but the fast set inside would recognise you as an easy mark in less than a roll of the dice. One look at your graceful features, the curve of your…’ He lost his train of thought and jerked his attention to her face. ‘Your chin, with not a whisker in sight.’ Thank God. ‘Your delicate neck and slim legs. You believe a cap and some trousers can hide the truth? Why, they’re no disguise at all.’ He gestured up and down to echo the observations. She stared at him as if he were daft. Another laugh surfaced but he got the better of it. ‘Now explain this foolishness? What prompted this ridiculous charade and futile attempt to enter my hell?’ A lock of hair fell over his brow and with annoyance he pushed in back under the brim of his cap. He’d left in a rush, without his coat, his shirt sleeves rolled to avoid ink blots in the ledgers.

‘Your hell?’ Slim arched brows furrowed over intelligent eyes. ‘I was told Mr Sinclair owned this property. Are you the same?’

Oh, she was a dandy. Her tone rang with authority, absent of disdain but confident and seemingly accustomed to acquiring any and all things desired. He counted to five before he answered. ‘True enough he does. As do I and another of our associates. And you are?’ He watched with a keen eye, but no recognition to his identity showed. The dusky clouds overhead parted and filtered additional moonlight to cast her in a golden glow. Deuces, she was a beauty. If he didn’t know it already, the enchantment of starlight confirmed the conclusion.

‘Gemma.’ She gave a thoughtful pause and he waited. ‘I’m not sure my surname proves relevant.’

Aah, but he possessed that missing piece of the puzzle from their unexpected rendezvous this morning. ‘Well, Gemma.’ He tried her name on his tongue and oh, how he liked it, among other things. He was fast collecting a catalogue of observations, every one of them more enticing. Not that it mattered, he reminded. ‘I am Mr Hewitt and you are trespassing.’

‘I didn’t mean to get caught.’ She didn’t sound apologetic. If anything, she sounded annoyed he’d interrupted her plans.

‘Yes, I’ve no doubt.’ He wasn’t certain but he thought he smelled honeysuckle. None of the bushes near the hell were floral. It could only be the lady. ‘Well then, now that we’ve established your need for a costume, let’s have the why of it.’

She wrinkled her nose quite adorably and he rubbed his fingers together for want to touch her again. It wouldn’t be proper, but then their entire interaction had proved nothing of the sort. Gentlemen and Cits followed a code of ethics that did not apply to former beggars and homeless bastards. Lady Amberson was strictly forbidden. Regardless, his heart raced like a mad thing in his chest and he had no way to explain the reaction.

‘I’d rather not say.’

She eased back until she skimmed the brick building. Something had her on edge almost as much as he. It was due time she experienced a bit of discomfort. With a sardonic grin he inched closer. ‘Come now, you were caught looking through my window.’

‘It wasn’t exactly your window.’ Her answer was anything but rueful.

He slued his eyes above her head for effect. ‘Wrong again.’ The screech of an alley cat or otherwise disgruntled night creature caused her to startle, or mayhaps it was the way her brain processed his words. Truly the lady thought herself above. He really shouldn’t torture her so. ‘Now, sweet Gemma.’ He lowered his chin so his face aligned, their noses all but touching. ‘How can I help you?’ He spoke in a low rasp, vying for menacing but not quite pulling it off. He knew the perfect way to send her scampering and teach her a well-deserved lesson. And likewise, satisfy the vexatious curiosity racing in his blood.

Her eyes grew large as she matched his. ‘Mr Hewitt.’

‘Yes.’

‘I should take my leave.’ She swallowed as her gaze flittered to his mouth, down, up, then down, up again. ‘I’ve troubled you enough for one evening.’

‘You’re no trouble at all.’ The little minx. He leaned in, his body full of heat, her lips but a hair’s breadth from his and all reality changed in that moment. He should send her on her way, release her from this moment fraught with dangerous consequence, but the words to do so refused to emerge.

The mood shifted, her stance softened, though the air was charged with an energy he could in no way describe. It was as if he could feel her heartbeat, experience the rush of her emotions, all by being closer. He wondered if she detected the same. Perhaps she did. Her eyes fell closed. Long lush lashes bowed down to rest on pale cheeks, as smooth and opalescent as the inside of a rare shell.

He itched to trace his fingers over her skin, thread through her hair and close the tiny distance needed to connect their mouths. Nothing more than a little puff of breath escaped her lips while his body throbbed with yearning and, down below, his smalls tightened significantly.

No matter everything about the encounter was wrong. If anyone should see him, mouth to mouth, pressing a lad against the bricks of the hell, they would fail to understand the truth of the situation.

‘You’re a clever thief if ever I’ve met one.’ He never meant to voice the words, desperately attempting to regain clear thinking, but this seemed new territory.

‘Oh.’ Her eyes popped open.

He didn’t wait for her to elaborate.

He brought their mouths together and her shudder of surprise reverberated in his soul. She did nothing more than stand still at first while his mouth fit over hers with perfection, the sensual heat of her lips extended to every part of him, every nerve ending and cell. She tasted as he imagined, sweet, fresh and wonderful, and when she recovered from her initial shock, she placed her hands tentatively on his shoulders, the wall at her back reliable support, their kiss taking on a rhythm of its own.

He’d kissed dozens of women. Maybe more. Bawds, ladybirds, cast-offs and runaways. Not one proper. No one like Gemma. Her innocence and shy inhibition evoked an urgent need to touch, caress, explore every inch of her. He laid his palms flat against the wall, caging her with his body, the little temptress, and deepened the kiss, his tongue grazing over her bottom lip in invitation.

She gasped. Her fingers curled into the collar of his jacket and held tight. Did she like it? He tested her pleasure by stroking over her plump lower lip again. This time she sighed, relaxing just enough for him to lick his way inside, the warm wet silk of her mouth pure divinity. If only she were to rub her tongue against his… a rush of erotic suggestions flashed through his mind with lightning speed, his cock painfully hard. He fought for good sense and reason. And in an act of self-preservation as much as deprivation, somehow he did the one thing he needed to and withdrew.

Gemma closed her eyes and blinked hard. What just happened? She’d been kissed by a stranger. No, not a stranger. Mr Hewitt. Cole. Still, he was a stranger. More importantly, she’d been kissed.

A dozen conflicting thoughts fought for attention in her brain while wisps of emotion and sensation swirled within her chest down to her stomach and back up again. She was dizzy and yet never more in the moment, here, now, sheltered by his embrace. She wondered at her steadiness, her legs weak and her heart racing. Uncurling her fingers from where she’d grasped his shirt for strength, she ran her tongue along her lower lip with a startling sense of awe. He’d licked her there, tasted her mouth with his tongue. It was wicked and unforgivable, but thinking about it caused a keening spike of sensation to skitter throughout her limbs, all at once unable to keep still.

‘Oh.’ The single syllable was the best she could manage until her wits returned. ‘Mr Hewitt.’ She should slap him. Wasn’t that what years of propriety and etiquette lessons had drilled into her female mind? She needed to object and respond with outrage. But oh, how heavenly the intimacy of his kiss. It was as though she belonged, in that exact space and time, for that reason only.

He stared at her with a slightly bemused expression and his hair caught a slant of moonlight, the soft waves of yellow glinting gold from the sides of his cap, the lock across his forehead, even the soft fleece of his hard forearms. She reached forward, tempted to touch, and then remembered herself, only to rush her hands to her sides with haste. That wouldn’t do. Without a skirt full of folds, she had nowhere to hide her nervousness. She clasped one hand within the other and held her fingers for safekeeping.

His features softened when she’d said his name, some unfamiliar emotion visible in his eyes. Or perhaps it was a trick of shadow. This was no time for a flight of romantic fancy. They stood in near darkness without a candle or lantern to light their encounter. Still, she knew she was safe. Without fear to cloud her intuition, overwhelming and exalting emotions of pleasure and excitement overrode better judgement. A minute passed, maybe two, of breathless silence.

Good heavens, what was she doing? Telling mistruths and fabricating stories, sneaking out of house in disguise to gain entry into a scandalous establishment. A thrilling acknowledgement of daring chased the sudden conclusions and she broke into a smile. Her brother would be furious were he to discover what she’d done. A second bolt of awareness echoed the first to punctuate the realisation. She was all at once empowered and a tad naughty, to disobey the duke with no consequence.

And she’d kissed a stranger, a very handsome stranger, actually. His bold kiss stole her breath and caused her insides to dance.

The approaching pattern of carriage wheels on cobbles pulled her attention to the street. How could sixty minutes spend so quickly? If only she’d been discovered sooner, the ridiculous conclusion freed another smile. She matched eyes with Mr Hewitt whose penetrating gaze assessed her every motion with what could only be labelled an expression of forced patience.

‘I must go.’ She darted a quick peek towards the roadway.

‘Just like that, I’m to allow you to leave?’ Bemusement curled around each syllable and her heart began a new sprint. Would he kiss her again? How delightfully wicked. Sophie would die from envy when she returned with this story to tell.

‘Yes.’ Her answer, nothing more than a breathy feminine sigh, caused his brows to rise, and then he grinned and she forgot to breathe altogether.

‘Off with you then, minx. No more window peeping. Perhaps our paths will cross in the future.’ He gave a sharp nod towards the curb, and when at last she forced her eyes away, she slid from his shadow and never looked back.

‘What happened? Did you gain entry? You must tell me everything.’

Sophie’s insistent badgering threatened to obliterate the echo of Mr Hewitt’s voice, deep and rumbly in her ears, though Gemma struggled to retain the memory of his rich tenor. Too soon the slap of the steps and crack of the whip dashed away hope of accomplishing the feat. Sophie continued her inquisition and all was lost.

Gemma settled on the seat, easily accomplished without layers of ruffles and skirts, while Sophie turned the key in the lamp and illuminated the interior further.

‘What happened to you?’ A bewildered tone tainted Sophie’s voice and Gemma brought a hand to her cheek with the question before her friend leaned across the bench, face pinched as if examining an oddity at the Bartholomew Fair.

‘Why do you ask?’ Gemma strove for nonchalance though her pulse still hammered a frantic beat.

‘You’ve lost your cap and your skin is flushed pink. Did you run a long distance? I daresay even your breathing sounds odd.’ She hesitated for one last look before reclining against the bolster. ‘No one would ever mistake you for a boy.’

Gemma touched a fingertip to her lips, relieved her friend hadn’t noticed anything different there and secretly yearning to forestall the fast evaporation of the tingling deliciousness evoked by Mr Hewitt’s kiss. He was a wickedly handsome man, destined to turn female heads without an iota of effort. She grinned. ‘I never got in and found a bit of trouble.’ Indeed. ‘I exerted all my energies to escape.’

‘You look horribly mussed. The ordeal sounds wretched.’ Sophie frowned with empathy. ‘I’ve tried every way imaginable to enter that hell. Now you too, dressed as a lad, failed just as I. Good heavens, you’d think Prinny lived there the way they protect entry into the Underworld.’

The friends matched eyes and burst into a bout of giggles before Sophie continued with a sobering enquiry.

‘What do we do now? Neither of us is further along with our objective and each passing day brings stronger feelings of desperation for my brother’s welfare. He is quite alone, separated from everyone and everything he’s know his entire life. I daresay, whenever I think of his situation, my heart breaks further. It’s no matter he chose to leave. Something horrible must have driven him to the result.’

Gemma thought of Rosalind and her decision to stop speaking almost two years prior. How broken must one be inside to find comfort in absolute silence? Crispin and Rosalind were not so different in that way. The two had pulled away from the people who loved them most.

‘Yes.’ Gemma reached across and threaded her fingers with Sophie’s. ‘But we have each other now and we won’t stop until we discover the truth.’

Chapter Five

‘What’s eating at you?’ Pittman, Cole’s man of all things, lit the lanterns in the Wigmore suite of rooms and prepared to take his leave. Cole needed someone to attend household tasks he had no time to accomplish. Cook, housekeeper and valet were only three of the roles the servant had acquired over the years. Pittman kept the woodbin filled, oil lamps ready and an assortment of food stuffs in the pantry, as well as clothing laundered and pressed – all without question.

Pittman had grown up in Charing Cross, though Cole would readily challenge any dandy to produce a more loyal and dependable servant. Uppers staffed their houses with those wanting to fill their pockets. Pittman valued his employment for the manner it filled his soul. Pride, self-worth and respect composed true qualities unequalled by the generous salary Cole provided.

‘Nothing of concern.’ The complete opposite, actually. He had been tempted to whistle on his walk home as the heat of that kiss, Gemma’s kiss, hummed in his blood still.

‘There’s roast mutton in the kitchen. I’ve refilled the tinder box and replaced the bed linens. Your boots are cleaned and shined…’

‘Very good. As I’ve told you many times, you’ve no need to report your daily accomplishments. I trust you.’ The words rang true with honest appreciation.

‘Thank you. Then I will leave you to your rest.’ Pittman exited without another word.

Cole locked up and undressed. After a brisk wash from the water basin, he reclined on the bed and commanded sleep to come, but the same distracted tension, an agitated restlessness that seemed ever-present of late, held him hostage. He stared at the white ceiling and scoffed with the irony of it all. He needed sleep to function, his schedule demanding and uncommon. Awake all night at the hell, he slept during the day, but of late he couldn’t relax enough to sustain a solid amount of rest no matter which hours he kept.

There was a time when he wouldn’t close his eyes for fear of the nightmares that pursued him, winding him tight with anxiety and relentless fear. Every night he’d struggle to resist sleep and fail, awakening in the dead black of night with a cold sweat on his brow and tears on his cheeks, disappointed he’d succumbed to the inner terror that lurked in the darkest place of his soul, waiting to plague him.

But then Maggie found him and provided safety and shelter. She offered a sense of belonging and a modest education. It took some time but the terror finally stopped. Nightmares of abandonment, rats at his feet and starvation in his belly were now a bitter memory, so what was the reason for his perpetual agitation?

His body craved sleep and the mindless escape it provided, yet exhaustion held him captive, unable to calm.

He blew a long breath of exasperation and turned his thoughts to Lady Amberson. Gemma. A woman as elusive as a fantasy. As beautiful as his most daring imaginings. He may as well have created her in a daydream, she’d tasted so sweet. Perhaps dangerously addictive. The thought of her sparkling green eyes and their mischievous kiss managed to alleviate the rebellious insurrection which held him tethered of late. He turned to his stomach and hugged the pillow as his eyes fell closed and he found peace.

The next morning after breakfast, with Rosalind by the hand, Gemma walked along the slated path behind Stratton House. Kent hadn’t showed at their morning meal and she did not miss his strict questioning of her schedule or outraged grumblings about volatile issues in Parliament.

Here in the garden, flowers were in full bloom in every hue and variety afforded a duke’s entitlement, from rare specimens to familiar English roses. Foxglove, poppies and pyramidal orchids dotted the walkway while sweet pea and hop crept along the ground to cover the earth in a blanket of myriad colours. Interspersed among the florals were decorative marbles and hand-carved statues depicting cherubs and goddesses, the ornaments adding a peaceful contemplative element to the vibrant landscape. The scent of damp loamy soil permeated the air and reminded of how elemental things became when one looked past the trappings of society.

Gemma had no idea if Rosalind appreciated the gardens as much as she. It was a new routine for her sister, who often ate meals upstairs or returned to her rooms directly after breakfast. Of late, Rosalind would walk through the gardens with Gemma chattering like a magpie to fill the silence. Today was no different. It if eased Rosalind’s misery or aided in mending her heart, Gemma would talk for hours on end.

‘I have a secret to share, dear sister.’ They’d reached a turn in the path near a marble birdbath and stood in watch while two bluebirds splashed in fervent business until an intrusive rook swooped in and frightened them into flight. Why was it superiority often ruined the gentler acts of life? She dismissed the observation with a slight frown and continued. ‘Yesterday I kissed a man.’

Gemma hesitated in calling Mr Hewitt a gentleman, though she thought of him as such. Title did not necessarily equal goodness. She’d seen proof many times over. Still, the divide between their social stations resembled a mountain range. How she was tempted to blur the lines of distinction whenever she made the acquaintance of a pleasant someone who lived a different kind of life. In that temptation, she stood alone, though, society’s perspicuity harsh. In her world, bloodlines composed one’s past, present and future.

Rosalind stopped walking. She turned inward and held both of Gemma’s hands, prepared for a detailed story. Gemma laughed and smiled, her silent sister able to draw her back to the conversation with purpose, all without a syllable.

‘Yes. Well, it was wonderful. Beyond comparison, actually, although I’ve not kissed another to possess the necessary criteria.’ Accustomed to their one-sided conversation, Gemma rattled on. ‘Although somehow, I know inside.’ She released Rosalind’s hand and clenched her fist against her heart. ‘In here, no matter who I kiss for the rest of my life, it will never replace the experience of that kiss. Simply because it was my first, and it was extraordinary.’

Rosalind’s finely arched brows rose with delicate ease.

‘It was delightful and isolated; a one chance occurrence and a beautiful memory. I’m sure I’ll never see him again.’ She didn’t mean to sound regretful, though she must have as Rosalind squeezed her hands, now joined together again. ‘That one kiss made me feel special for being me. Not the sister of duke. Not a gentile lady. Just me. It’s silly, I know.’ Another squeeze from Rosalind punctuated the statement. ‘But the way he looked at me in that breathless minute before he placed his mouth upon me, like I was precious, a rare gem… I will never forget that feeling.’ She looked at her sister and waited, breath held if perhaps Rosalind would say something. Anything. Show the tiniest inclination to reply. But after a long moment stretched, Gemma resumed their stroll. Her sister’s face had expressed myriad emotions during the retelling, yet not enough to evoke a response. Still, Gemma refused to be disheartened.

They reached the place in the path where a granite prayer stone marked the remembrance of their father. Creeping thyme grew in abundance around the monument and the sharp lemony fragrance soothed Gemma’s heartache. How she missed her father. He had been a kind, loving man, with a large, generous heart, so different from her brother, who wore his title like a weapon to wield. Father had raised them to consider a person’s constitution before station, but so much had changed since his death, Kent hardly remembered their father’s intendment. Either that or Kent considered himself to have risen above the sentimental remembrance.

As was their routine, Gemma and Rosalind sent a silent prayer heavenward and then they resumed their walk. Perhaps having the thought of their father dear to their hearts, it was time to broach the troubling subject of Rosalind’s silence.

‘I was wondering…’ Gemma didn’t mean to force the issue, but the cloud of disappointment, and loss of hearing her sister’s laughter and voice, pained her daily. She wanted to share her adventure and laugh at her foibles and relieve the depths of Rosalind’s anguish and despondency. She wanted to help. She searched her sister’s eyes for any shade of invitation. ‘About the evening we learned of Father’s death.’

Rosalind stopped so abruptly Gemma’s slippers caught in her hems. Without warning, her sister tugged her arm free from where they were linked and withdrew, nearly stumbling as she hurried backwards, her eyes wide with alarm and something else, something stark and lonely, the reflection of utter despair. She blinked away a fast flood of tears.

‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I will never speak of it again if it pains you, Rosalind.’

It was a foolish promise to make and altogether too late, the mood broken, moment lost, and Gemma made no attempt to stall Rosalind as she turned away and hurried towards the house.

It was mid-morning the next day before Goodworth arrived at Second Chances, the successfully run lodging house he owned and managed with Maggie Devonshire. The building’s location on the border of Strand Street was threateningly close to the upper classes, but he’d purchased the land and restored the building with that exact purpose in mind. The lodging house would serve as a reminder to society’s finest that an entirely different world existed less than a stone’s throw from Trafalgar Square. True, he’d paid for a fine limestone slate roof and painted shutters with paned windows beneath, but aside from the appealing exterior, the heart of his noble work lay inside the ten rooms he let to anyone and everyone who needed a second chance. The occupants lived rent free with food and laundering, as well as assistance in finding work, healing or otherwise repairing their lives from the incident that had propelled them towards a downward course. Goodworth couldn’t be prouder of his accomplishment but never did he let pride override his hard work and intent to do more; to help others whether they be destitute, beaten or impaired.