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She nodded. “Probably best,” she agreed. “There are great risks in taking a girl like me to your townhouse. What would the servants say?” She forced herself to look impish.
“It’s of no consequence what my servants think,” he said with a touch of vinegar. “I’m master of my domain.”
Charity said nothing more, afraid that it might fuel a desire on Cyril’s part to prove himself master of her — which he no doubt was going to try to do, anyway.
When they stopped in front of a row of elegant townhouses, she raised her eyebrows as she craned her head to look at her surroundings. “What a lovely place,” she asked. “Who does it belong to?”
“It’s mine,” said Cyril. “And I’m taking you through the front door, Cathie, my love.” He rapped loudly. “Brown, my butler, will admit us. See if he betrays his true feelings when he takes our coats. If he does, I’ll get a new one.”
“A new coat?” Charity asked without thinking and he roared with laughter. “A new butler. Ah, Brown, I’m sure the fire has been built up in my room so it’s cosy and welcoming.” He turned to Charity as he led her along the corridor. “In here. Good, I see the staff are frightened enough to stay up until the small hours. Now, make yourself comfortable.”
Charity stared at the large four-poster bed at which he was pointing.
“Come on, now. Hop up. You know I can afford you — or rather, I can afford Madame’s exorbitant charges thanks to your help this evening.” He chuckled as he brandished a wad of notes from an inner pocket.
“On the…bed?” Her voice shook and she took a step back towards the door. She couldn’t do this, after all. No, she wouldn’t. What had she been thinking?
An image of Hugo’s stricken face swept away her fears for her own wellbeing. How could she do this to him?
How could she not do this for him?
Yet, how ill-equipped was she to carry out any useful investigative work when she had no idea what she was looking for. How could she appeal to Cyril’s better nature when he had none?
She was not about to sacrifice herself for any of Rosetta or Emily’s friends. What might Cyril do if he caught her snooping? Even if she asked some pertinent questions it would only take one wrong step to arouse his suspicions and matters would be even worse for Hugo — not to mention herself.
“My dear girl, are you really so naïve? Is this truly your first time?”
Charity pressed her lips together and gave the slightest of nods. Would he be kinder if that’s what he thought? But, perhaps for once in her life, she could be other than passive. The time had come, she decided, when she really must seize the next opportunity, after all, and run for her life. Her virtue.
He held out his hand as if he were coaxing a small animal closer.
Charity certainly felt as vulnerable as a small animal. In the sights of this hunter, she had nowhere to run.
Only, she could run. There was an opportunity. The door was not locked and she could reach it faster than Cyril could.
“Come, Cathie, I’ll be gentle. I promise.”
Charity drew in a shuddering breath as she clutched her hand to her chest.
“Come, my dear. Don’t be afraid.” His smug, smiling face came closer.
He touched her lips with his forefinger and it took every effort for Charity not to bite it off.
Instead, she reared back, spun on her heel and took off into the corridor, stopping a fateful second to take stock of her bearings.
Of course, he was too quick for her and when he pushed her back into the room and closed the door behind them, then locked it, Charity expected the worst. He had unfettered access to her now. And he was cruel. He’d make her pay. She’d heard of his type. Heard about him.
She’d been a fool to run. Now he’d push her against the wall and kiss her like she’d watched her mother being kissed. Could she pretend to enjoy it, as her mother had pretended? At first, Charity had thought she was willing until her mother had broken apart at Charity’s shout, weeping that the gentleman ruined her life.
Though, nevertheless, her mother had still nearly gone with him.
How confusing it had been. How confusing those memories still were.
“Good lord, I believe those tears are real.”
She didn’t expect it when Cyril dropped his hands from her shoulders, the snarl softening, his tawny eyes registering confusion rather than flashing danger. No, she’d expected to be given no quarter and was sure this was just an act.
“Of course they’re real. I’m not that good an actress,” she mumbled, crossing her hands over her chest and drawing herself up, rigidly. She sank against the curtains at the window. She was his prisoner now. He believed he was entitled to her and she had no recourse. “Do what you must to me,” she said, woodenly. “I won’t scream and rouse the servants.”
