Kate Pearce - Simply Wicked

“Not so long ago, my lord, probably less than half an hour.”

He tipped his hat to her. “Thank you, Mrs. Jones, you have been most helpful. I’ll make sure she gets home safely.”

Before she had even shut the door, he was racing down the slippery steps and toward the main thoroughfare, where he hoped to pick up a hackney cab. Rain skittered sideways across the filthy cobbled street, obscuring his vision. Whatever Marguerite was going to do, his instincts told him it wasn’t good. He flagged down a cab, hopped in and gave the driver Madame Helene’s direction.

Marguerite hadn’t contacted him or asked for his help; she’d chosen to go to her mother instead. But he didn’t care. She might try to back away from him, to push him out of her life, but he wasn’t going to allow it. They’d both broken through their pasts to find themselves, and if he had to drag her into that new future kicking and fighting him, he’d do it, not just for himself but for her.

His knowledge of the layout of the pleasure house exceeded most members’, so after greeting the footman stationed in the hall, he headed straight down the back stairs to the kitchen. He halted at the door, wiping rain drops from his face in a vain attempt to improve his vision.

“Good evening, Anthony.”

“Good evening, Madame.”

Even as he continued to search the busy kitchen for Marguerite, he managed to bow to Helene. She walked toward him, her pale yellow skirts rustling, and effectively blocked his path.

“Are you looking for anyone is particular?”

He met her gaze. “Your daughter. Is she here?”

“Marguerite?” Helene raised her eyebrows. “Now why would you want to see her? I thought she had given you your marching orders.”

“She tried to.”

“And?”

“I refuse to accept them.”

Helene continued to study him, all traces of her usual relaxed smile absent. “I’m not sure whether that is a good thing for either you or Marguerite. Perhaps you can help me decide.”

“She knows the worst of me, and yet she refuses to denounce me. How can I offer her anything less than the same?”

“She told you about her marriage?”

“Some of it, but not, I fear, the whole. I think she believes herself unforgivable.”

“As you do.”

“As I did. Marguerite has helped me realize that there is always hope as long as people who love you believe in you.”

“Marguerite was always a clever woman.”

Anthony leaned his shoulder into the doorframe, needing the support of something solid. “Then help me find her, help me show her that whatever happened in the past, she is still loved.”

He heard his own words, realized he meant them far more personally and profoundly than he had ever meant anything in his life before. Madame Helene stood on tiptoe and kissed his cold wet cheek.

“She has gone out with her brother. I believe they are going to the Jugged Hare Inn at Saint Katherine’s dock.”

“Why in God’s name are they going there? Did Minshom set it up?”

Helene shrugged. “I do not know, but they are to meet someone important there.”

“Sir Harry Jones, I’ll wager.”

“I won’t bet against you this time, my lord.” Helene lightly slapped the side of his face, her expression hard. “But if you make my daughter unhappy, I will make you wish you had never been born, title or no title, influential family or not.”

“I understand, and I will try to avoid such a fate.” He grabbed her hand and kissed it. “Thank you. I’ll go after them.”

“Tell the footman stationed at the back of the house to give you a horse. There is always one saddled and ready to ride.”

“You think of everything, Madame.”

Helene curtsied. “I try to. Good luck, my friend.”

Anthony crammed his hat back on, brought the horse’s head around and set off again, this time in the direction of the Thames. He’d heard rumors that the Jugged Hare was a Molly house, although he’d never been there himself. Was Sir Harry hiding there? It would be just Minshom’s idea of a joke to host his former acquaintance in a house of such peculiar ill-repute.

Whatever Madame Helene thought, Anthony was sure Minshom was involved somehow. The timing and choice of venue bore his hallmark. It was highly possible that Minshom had sent Marguerite a note sharing Sir Harry’s supposed whereabouts, thus setting her up for a second emotionally disastrous encounter.

He tightened his grip on the reins, urged the horse forward through the deserted streets. He wasn’t going to allow Minshom to dictate what happened this time. With Christian’s help, he would make sure that Marguerite was shielded from the worst Minshom could throw at her.

“How on earth are we supposed to find Sir Harry among this crowd?” Marguerite asked as Christian used his shoulder to create a path through the throng of merrymakers in the public bar of the inn. The air was thick with an acrid mixture of wood smoke, cheap gin and strong perfume.

“We’re not.”

“Then how are we going to find him?”

“We’ll ask the landlord.”

Marguerite sighed; such a prosaic answer and so unexpected from Christian. The scene at the inn was enough to keep her mind occupied. Amongst the loud, colorful throng, it was almost impossible to tell which were real women and which men. From past conversations with her mother, Marguerite knew that apart from the obvious, the size of a person’s feet and hands often gave away their sex. As soon as she dropped her gaze to the floor, she began to make sense of the nature of the relationships around her.

She watched Christian talk to the landlord and wondered if he realized how many of the other customers were staring at his tall elegant form. She had no idea what her brother thought of the lascivious winks and shouted comments. His sexuality remained a mystery to her. According to Lisette, he was willing to sample everything on offer at the pleasure house but seemed to view it all quite dispassionately.

Christian beckoned to her, and she obediently made her way to his side, the hood of her cloak still obscuring her face from the cheerful masses. He bent toward her to be heard above the rising torrent of banter and catcalls.

“He says they have a Jonas Harry staying here in room five but not a Harry Jones.”

Marguerite winced. “Really. Shall we go and check if there is any likelihood of them being the same man?”

“I think we should.”

Christian’s breathtaking smile flashed out. One of the Mollys pretended to swoon, and screeching, fell back into his lover’s arms in a swirl of dirty petticoats. Christian took Marguerite’s hand and stepped around the couple with a deferential bow, which simply provoked more playacting and whooping.

The upstairs landing was narrow and stank of spilled beer and urine, but at least they were alone. Marguerite touched Christian’s arm.

“You don’t have to come in with me.”

He kept walking and knocked loudly on the scarred oak face of the fifth door. “Are you insane? Of course I’m coming with you.”

Marguerite sighed. Her brother’s instinct to protect her had been well-developed in their lonely childhood. She could hardly expect him to abandon her now. Tears pricked at her eyes, and she grabbed at his hand.

“You must promise me not to be shocked by anything you hear, by anything that Sir Harry says . . .”

Christian stared down at her. “Marguerite, you are my sister; nothing you do will change that. I’ll love you regardless; we all will.”

She’d thought she’d lost her family, but she was wrong. They were all around her, supporting her, not judging her, ready to help her if she’d let them. Christian knocked again and this time got a response as the door was unlocked from the inside.