Page 33 of One Night with a Rake

In those cases, Nathaniel was thankful to be in semi-exile. Nothing was more tedious than balancing teacups and finger sandwiches on one’s knees while trying to remain awake through exhaustive conversations about the weather.

All in all, it was a satisfactory arrangement, except for the fact that he couldn’t really spend any time with Georgette. He was beginning to feel a bit like those courtly lovers she was so keen on. Like the lovesick medieval swain, he could only worship his lady from afar.

He’d much rather worship her up close. And not just to satisfy Mr. Alcock’s Machiavellian schemes, either.

Still, this hidden game of cat-and-mouse was the best he could manage at present. His minions in Yorkingham House had been scrupulously efficient in their reports to him.

So when he pushed aside the threadbare curtains on the upper story of his disreputable new acquisition in Covent Garden, he wasn’t surprised to see Georgette and Mercy making their way down Lackaday Lane.

He checked his pocket watch, then returned the gold timepiece to its place. “Right on time, Georgie.”

If he hadn’t spoken to Mercy after breaking his fast that morning, he’d have been furious with Georgette for daring this “rescue mission” without Mr. Darling at her side. But the maid had assured him that Tuesday mornings were the bully’s half day off at Madam Bouchard’s, so the physical danger to Georgette was minimal.

Just in case, he’d decided to drop in unannounced in a few moments, both to make sure Georgette was all right and to surprise her with how industrious he’d been in the last couple days. Somehow, he had to get back into her good graces and this was the only thing he could think of.

The only thing she might accept from him now.

***

Vesta was the virginal Roman goddess of fire, the embodiment of the hearth, purity, and all wifely virtues. The whore who went by the same unlikely name pulled her wrapper up over her shoulder, but not before Georgette caught sight of a purpling bruise.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, duchess,” Vesta said, “but if I was you, I’d make myself scarce before Madam wakes and catches you at it.”

“I’m no duchess.” At least not yet. Georgette moved further into the slightly shabby room. She imagined the velvet coverlet didn’t appear nearly so threadbare by candle glow. In the right light, the gilt paint on the headboard of the bed that occupied the central place in the chamber probably glinted like the real thing. “I’m a woman, just like you.”

Vesta’s lip curled as she plopped down at the foot of the bed. “You’re nothing like me.”

Georgette looked down at her lace-gloved hands. Before she renewed her acquaintance with Nathaniel Colton, she’d have agreed. Now she knew she had far more in common with Vesta than she’d suspected.

“Listen to her, Vesta,” Mercy said. “Changed my life, she did.”

The girl rolled her eyes.

Mercy went over and sat next to her friend. “I have my own room now. And no one comes into it, unless I gives ’em leave. I eat regular too, and even if I’ve spilled bootblack on the rug or ripped a bit of lace on milady’s unmentionables, no one docks my pay or makes me do without.”

So that’s what happened to the Brussels lace. Not surprised about the bootblack though, Georgette thought, but she was careful to keep her expression cautiously neutral.

Vesta narrowed her eyes at Georgette, still trying to decide whether or not to trust her.

“You don’t know me any more than I know you,” Vesta said. “Why do you care what happens to me?”

There was a time when a whole string of pious platitudes would have spilled from Georgette’s mouth. Now she weighed her words.

“How old are you, Vesta?”

“Nineteen.”

Georgette struggled to keep the surprise from her face. With the dark smudges under Vesta’s eyes and the lines that were beginning to gather around her mouth, Georgette would have put her nearer to thirty.

“I’m not so much older than you,” Georgette said. At twenty-three she would have been considered “on the shelf,” if not for the Duke of Cambridge’s interest in her. “I’m not trying to change you if you are content with your lot. But I know what it is to make choices one later regrets.”

She still wasn’t sure which she regretted more—the time she spent dallying with Nathaniel in the ballroom or the fact that she’d cut it short. But she did feel regret.

Every waking hour. And in a few of her dreaming ones as well.

“If you would like the chance to make different choices,” Georgette said, “I believe I can help.”

“How?”