The Formidable Earl Page 4

  “Absolutely not.” Miss Strong’s cheeks turned a deep shade of pink. Leaning forward, she whispered, “I would be completely reliant on you for all things and…and…

  “And?”

  “People will think I’m your mistress.”

  Simon stared at her blankly. “I don’t really see the problem.”

  She crossed her arms and huffed out a breath. “Of course you don’t.”

  He made a sincere effort to understand her issue with what he believed would be a step up from being a St. Giles whore. Really, he should be the one insulted, not her. “It’s not as if you’re a gently bred young lady and I’m actually asking you to be my mistress.”

  “I know,” she agreed, her gaze averted.

  “And I won’t expect you to pay me back in sexual favors if that’s your concern. I promise.” Her eyes widened with a surprising amount of shock for a woman who earned her way in precisely that manner. “Of course, it wouldn’t be very practical if we’re to help you move about in Society. Perhaps it would make more sense for you to be my ward. As such, you would be residing at a respectable address, your wardrobe would not set you apart from any other lady of the ton, and most importantly, it would allow us the freedom to meet in private whenever we choose to discuss our plan. No one would question me visiting you, though you might need a chaperone.”

  As soon as the culprit they sought was found and brought to justice, Miss Strong would be free to remove herself from his life once again. It would be as if she’d never existed, as if—

  “I don’t like it.”

  Of course she didn’t. Stubborn and cynical to the core, she had probably conjured all manner of ulterior motives and ways in which he meant to use her to his advantage.

  “All right.” He folded his arms, placed both elbows on the table, and leaned toward her. Her irises flared and his muscles flexed in response. Something about his nearness disturbed her, though judging from her rosy cheeks, not on account of fear. “Do you have a better suggestion?”

  There was a long drawn out pause, after which she finally shook her head. “No.”

  Simon allowed himself an inward smile. Although he had his own apprehensions, he had to admit that having Miss Strong around for a while might prove interesting. “So it’s settled then?”

  Her rigid posture turned less combative. She blew out the most capitulating breath he’d ever heard. “Yes.”

  A strange surge of victory swirled inside him. “Good.” He indicated her tankard. “If you’re done, we can be on our way. The house isn’t far.”

  Looking as though she wished she could stay at the tavern for the next decade, Miss Strong grudgingly stood. “Thank you for the food and drink,” she said once they were back in the street. Darkness had fallen while they’d been talking.

  “It was my pleasure.” Simon nudged her away from the edge of the pavement so he could assume the precarious spot and linked his arm with hers. She was stiff, yet oddly alluring. “Since we’ll be working together, perhaps we should try to become better acquainted.”

  Her eyes remained fixed on a spot straight ahead, giving no indication that she’d even heard him. He cleared his throat and tried not to feel affronted by her lack of interest in him she showed. “Perhaps we can start with something simple. Like our ages.” How in God’s name knowing when they’d each been born would help forge a bond he’d no idea, but it was the first question that came to mind. And besides, he actually was curious to know how old she was. “I was born on September thirteenth. I’ll be three and thirty in a few months.”

  “I will be twenty in July,” she said, angling her head just enough to glance up at him. “On the fifteenth.”

  A soft sparkle in her eyes and the hint of a smile teasing her lips nearly made him loose his footing. She truly was stunning. Especially when she let down her guard. Unable to make his mouth work, Simon merely stared at her until she broke eye contact and returned her attention to the distant horizon.

  Simon nodded, even though she wasn’t looking at him and would not be able to see. “How did you end up at Amourette’s?”

  There was a brief hesitation and then, “Philipa Harding, the woman who owns Amourette’s, is my mother’s sister.” Simon didn’t know what precisely to say to that. As if sensing his befuddlement, Miss Strong chuckled. “I see I have managed to shock you into silence.”

  They reached a wider street and crossed to the opposite side. Still unsure of how to respond, Simon kept silent and was glad when Miss Strong continued with her account.

  “My mother and aunt were orphaned when they were six and ten. Thankfully, a decent couple who couldn’t have children of their own took them in. But they had little more than love to give them, so Mama and Philipa were forced to leave and find work for themselves when they each turned sixteen. Both lacked the necessary education required for well-paid employment, so it was a struggle. Eventually Philipa gave up and turned to prostitution. By the time Mama had to find work for herself, Philipa had earned enough to ensure her younger sister would not have to head down the same path as she. She paid for Mama to take cooking lessons. When Papa sought a cook for his new home in London, she answered the advertisement, and that’s how they met.”

  “That’s quite a romantic tale.”

  “One that came to a very sad end the day Mama died,” Miss Strong reflected with a wistful murmur. They turned a corner. “Papa was away at war when consumption took her. When he returned and I told him what had happened, the light in his eyes faded and never fully returned.”

  “He must have loved her deeply.”

  “Yes. He did.” She gave Simon an assessing look – the sort that seemed to pierce his soul. “Papa was a good, kindhearted person. He was raised as a gentleman, so one would think Mama’s relationship to a whore would have put him off. But it didn’t.”

  “Because his love for her was greater than his concern for respectability?”

  Pity—for him, he realized with some indignation puckered her brow. “No. It was because a person’s character always mattered more to Papa than where they came from or what they did for a living.” She gave a soft snort and turned her attention away from him once more. “And as far as character goes, Philipa possesses one of the finest.”

  Except she was still a whore as well as the owner of London’s most infamous brothel. Simon considered this for a moment and almost felt compelled to give his cravat a tug. As a man who’d always avoided the tiniest whisper of scandal, who’d sought respectability at every turn, deciding to seek adventure with a woman who sold herself to men for a living filled him with discomfort. Not that he was about to renege on his new arrangement with Miss Strong, but he supposed it would be odd if the situation didn’t alarm him to some degree. After all, he was completely new to risking his reputation. Going to Amourette’s was the most daring thing he’d ever done in that regard. It had been meant as a brief departure from Social stricture. Instead, it had launched him straight into danger and mayhem with a woman he barely knew and with whom he would have wanted nothing to do until he’d met her last night.

  Hell, if someone had suggested he’d be risking his social standing right now in order to help a traitor’s daughter he’d found in a brothel, he would have laughed and then bet his fortune on them being wrong.

  “What about you?”

  Simon blinked. “What?”

  “I’ve told you a great deal about myself and how I came to be where I am. So what about you?”

  “Well, I was born into a wealthy upper-class household with little effort on my part.” He shrugged to dismiss a strange new feeling of inadequacy he’d never experienced before. “My father died while I was away in Spain, and I just lost my mother last year.”

  “Oh.” Her free hand settled over his as they walked. “I’m so sorry.”

  Even though his mother had been difficult to please, and he’d always felt like she’d been unreasonably critical of him, Simon knew she’d just had his best intentions a
t heart. No one will care much about what your brother does, Simon. As the heir to the earldom, all eyes will be upon you. One wrong move and your entire reputation will be put into question. Never forget that. Appearances matter.

  “Thank you.” He instinctively glanced around to make sure no one he knew was about.

  “At least you have your brother for support.” Her lips settled into a flat line. “Going through loss as an only child is incredibly hard.”

  “Yes,” he muttered while blindly placing one foot in front of the other in order to keep on moving. Discussing Jack was not going to happen.

  “Are the two of you close?”

  Simon took a deep breath. His stomach was rolling over with nauseating rapidity. “Not anymore.”

  “Oh. What a shame.”

  Too agitated to comment, Simon focused on the hard click of his heels against the pavement. He was immensely glad when the building they were headed toward came into view and prevented further questioning.

  “Here we are,” he said and promptly steered Miss Strong up the front steps. Reaching inside his jacket pocket, he retrieved the necessary key and unlocked the door. “After you, if you will.”

  Chapter Three

  Ida stepped over the threshold with the same kind of trepidation she would have felt had she been entering a lion’s den. Hands balled into a pair of tight fists and with her heart lodged somewhere in her throat, she did her best to pretend being here was perfectly normal, that she would be safe in this house, and that Fielding would not betray her. The door closed with a click and she drew a sharp breath.

  “One moment,” Fielding murmured. He moved past her, gently brushing her shoulder with his as he went. Her stomach lurched, not from nervousness this time but because of some other feeling she had trouble placing.

  Light bloomed in the darkness, pushing back shadows as he adjusted the flame of the oil lamp he’d found. “This way.”

  Grabbing the banister for support, Ida followed Fielding up the long staircase that led to the second floor. From what she could tell so far, the house wasn’t large, yet even in the dim light it was clear that it had been fashioned with all the splendor one might expect from a stately manor, complete with a massive entryway mirror and gleaming marble floors.

  Once upstairs, she trailed after Fielding while shadows flickered across the walls. She noted four doors on this level, and he selected the one at the end of the hallway. With fluttering heart, she entered the room where she would be staying for the foreseeable future. Fielding, who’d crossed the floor while she lingered near the door, placed the oil lamp on top of a dresser.

  “I hope this will do,” he said and glanced around as if seeing the space for the first time. He scratched the back of his head, and it occurred to Ida that he was just as uncomfortable with this scenario as she.

  “It’s perfect,” she said in the hope of offering some reassurance.

  He spun toward her as if surprised to hear her voice, froze, and then quickly shoved his hands into his pockets. “Good.” He cleared his throat. “I’m glad.”

  Ida bit her lip and moved farther into the room. It was sparsely furnished, though with what appeared to have been very careful deliberation. Fleetingly, she wondered if he’d been in charge of the décor or if he’d allowed a servant to have the responsibility.

  And then she wondered how many women Fielding had entertained here, a question that forced her attention toward the large bed standing to her left.

  “You should find everything you need,” he said, distracting her from the brief and very unsettling image of him and a faceless woman performing some of the acts she’d witnessed during her time at Amourette’s. He crossed to the wardrobe and pulled the doors open. “You can put your clothes in here.”

  “I only have a couple of dresses.”

  He dropped his hands to his sides and gave her a sheepish glance. “We can order more. In fact, we probably should. As my ward you’ll need to look your best.”

  “I do not wish to trouble you more than I already have.”

  “Never mind that. If you are to be convincing then you’ll need to play your part.”

  “Very well,” she agreed even though the idea of letting him buy clothes for her disagreed.

  To hide her embarrassment, she went to glance out the window. She couldn’t see much in the dark, just a few trees silhouetted against the night sky. Perhaps the problem was her being here, in this bedchamber, with a man who wasn’t as unattractive as she would have wished. It heated her skin in a most uncomfortable way.

  “It’s very convenient,” she added in an attempt to pretend she was more confident than she was with the whole situation, “you not having a mistress installed.”

  “None of my mistresses ever lived here.”

  “What?” She turned to him in surprise. Why else would a bachelor have an extra house in the City if not to house the woman he bedded?

  “I had them installed in a suite of rooms I rented down near The Strand. This particular house was intended for my mother. She was meant to move in here after I married Lady Gabriella Radcliffe.” When Ida gave him a blank stare, he added, “She is now the Duchess of Huntley.”

  “I see.”

  “I very much doubt it.” He scrubbed one hand across his jaw and looked askance. “There’s a washstand over there. One of my maids stops by to clean once a week, so there should be fresh water in the jug from yesterday. Towels can be found in the dresser.” There was a pause before he inquired, “Is there anything else you require, besides servants?”

  It was strange to see a man of his status be made uncomfortable. There was something oddly attractive about it – a chink in the armor that lent a degree of vulnerability to his otherwise confident demeanor.

  “Nothing comes to mind,” Ida said. “And as far as the servants and chaperone are concerned, there’s really no need. I know how to cook, no one will know I’m here on my own since I shan’t be accepting callers, and the clothes I’ve brought with me are practical in nature. I do not need help getting dressed or…”

  Undressed.

  Her gaze flittered away from his on account of the sudden heat sweeping her skin. She studied the wall beyond his left shoulder.

  “I really must insist.” The firm tone of his voice snapped her attention back to him.

  “And I would rather you don’t.” When he gave her a stubborn look, she said, “I’ve only just agreed to trust you. If you fill this house with other people, the likelihood of my secrets being discovered before I am ready will only increase.”

  “Miss Strong, it is my duty to—”

  “My lord.” She spoke as tersely as she knew how. “I have lost my father. Two attempts have since been made on my life. Involving you in my problems is bad enough. I’ll be damned if I’ll risk anyone else’s safety.”

  He puffed out a breath, muttered a curse, and glared at her as if she were the biggest nuisance he’d ever encountered. “All right.”

  Ida forced back a smile. “Thank you, my lord.”

  A hint of indecision followed, until he cleared his throat and said, “I’ll return tomorrow, Miss Strong. We’ll talk at greater length then.”

  “You’re not staying?”

  “No. I need to return home, but you mustn’t worry. The street was deserted when we arrived. I checked.”

  She gave a small nod. It wasn’t the threat of an intruder that dampened her spirits but rather the prospect of losing the earl’s company. After four years in hiding, she’d enjoyed conversing with someone to whom she was closer in station. For although she was fond of Philipa and the rest of the women at Amourette’s, Ida had little in common with them, which made for a rather lonely existence.

  She managed a smile. “All right.”

  He hesitated briefly, then reached inside his pocket and withdrew a pistol. “Take this. Just in case.”

  She stared at the weapon. “Do you always carry that with you?”

  “When I know there’s
a chance I won’t get home until after dark, yes.” When she said nothing further, he asked, “Do you know how to use it?”

  Her gaze met his. “Guthrie showed me.”

  “Good.” Stepping forward, he placed the pistol in her hand. His fingers brushed hers and there was a moment – a spark so swift she scarcely had time to acknowledge it before he stepped away again, adding distance. He went to the door and gripped the handle. “You’ve had an eventful day. I suggest you get some rest.”

  Upon which he left her.

  “Bloody hell,” Simon muttered while heading for home with long strides. Located in St. James’s Square, Fielding House wasn’t far. He’d arrive within fifteen minutes at most. Giving a shake of his head, he quickened his pace. If only Hawthorne and Yates could see him now. If it weren’t for the danger Miss Strong was in, the situation would be amusing. Somehow, within less than twenty four hours, he’d gone from being a stuffy bore, skipped straight past potential rogue, and become a swashbuckling hero.

  Well. All right. Maybe that was exaggerating matters a bit. After all, there hadn’t been a swordfight. But, he reminded himself, he had saved a damsel in distress and was now prepared to champion her cause. That had to count for something.

  Of course it did, he decided with some satisfaction. He just wished he’d refrained from mentioning Gabriella since doing so could make him look like the sort of man women chose not to pick in the end.

  Not that it made any difference.

  Miss Strong was a demimondaine, beneath him in every regard, so what did it matter what she thought of him? It shouldn’t. Except it did. God help him but he wanted her to like him.

  “Bollocks.”

  If she’d been anyone else, he wouldn’t be in this situation, worrying over the opinion of a St. Giles whore.

  He halted momentarily and frowned. Miss Strong had referred to her very own aunt using that word, but it didn’t quite fit the lovely, quick-witted young woman with whom he’d been conversing for the past couple of hours. Somehow the connotation lent a lowly grubbiness to it that she decidedly lacked. Courtesan had a more upper crust ring he decided and recommenced walking, satisfied he’d at least found an acceptable descriptive for her.