The Suspect's Daughter: Regency Romance (Rogue Hearts Book 4) (31 page)

He strode to a sideboard table and poured himself a port.

Cole’s voice rang out from the foyer. “He’s here?”

Grant turned as Cole appeared wearing full evening wear and dancing shoes.

“Grant.” Cole crossed the room and poured himself a cherry brandy. Then settling in a leather armchair, he eyed Grant. “Sit.”

Grant drained his glass, refilled it, and sat. “Thank you for the use of your coach and driver.”

Cole waved it off. “I have more than one, you know. Any of them are at your disposal.”

Sinking into a chair, Grant sifted through possible ways to discuss his thoughts, casting off everything that came to mind.

“She’s gotten to you, hasn’t she?” Cole’s remarkably gentle voice drew his focus.

Grant went still.

“She’s a fine woman, Grant. And yes, love was scary and it made me feel extremely vulnerable. But it’s worth it. The more deeply you love her, the more deeply you let her in, the happier you’ll be.”

A terrifying concept, but he’d experienced a taste of what Cole said. Since Grant had started a habit of speaking openly, a sickness he hoped would cure itself soon, he voiced his deepest fear. “But what if I can’t make her happy? What if I don’t have enough to give her?”

“Give her what you can and trust her to accept you as you are. Then, the next day, give her more.”

Grant studied his hands, turning over the possibilities. Did he dare? He stood. “It’s late.”

“Can I offer you a ride home?”

Shaking his head, he said, “Walking helps me think.”

“Good night.”

Within moments, Grant collected Clark and started the walk home. Whistling, Clark trotted along next to him. As they turned a corner, someone moved in the shadows. Grant stepped in front of Clark, putting his hand out to keep the boy behind him. He reached for the pistol he’d tucked into the inside pocket of his evening coat. The shadowy figure stepped into the circle of lamplight and took on a feminine form. Maggie.

Glaring, he approached her. “I thought you said my half crown was enough that you wouldn’t have to work for a week.”

She bit her lip provocatively and smiled. “I’m waiting for you, Mr. Grant. Oooh.” She eyed his clothing. “Why Mr. Grant, yer all dressed up like a fine gentleman. Shall I pretend I’m a fine ladybird, savin’ meself for ye?”

Clark’s curiosity about the girl almost burned a hole in the side of Grant’s head, but he ignored the boy. “The offer stands. I’ll bring you to Mrs. Goodfellow’s.”

“I’m not going there.”

“Didn’t she treat you well?”

“She was kind. But I ain’t goin’ t’ work fer no rich man in ’is house.”

“Why, Maggie?”

She let out a sound of derision, and then turned it into a bitter laugh. “’Cause I jes love what I do now. And I won’t stop until I’ve had ye.” She touched his arm, stepped closely and put a hand on his chest. She lifted her chin up. “Kiss me, and I’ll give you a little taste of what I have for you.”

Wordlessly, he shook his head.

She whispered, her eye imploring, “I’ll please ye, I will.”

He whispered, “No.”

“I’ll make a special for ye, only five bob.”

He touched the side of her cheek. “I’ll give you fifty bob if you let me take you to Mrs. Goodfellow’s. And stay there until you get a job.”

“Fifty?”

Grant peered down into her young, but world-weary face. “Fifty.”

She chewed her lip.

He gripped both of her thin shoulders. “Did you used to work in a big house, Maggie?”

She nodded.

“Did the man of the house hurt you?”

Head lowered, she nodded again. Grant suppressed a savage urge to hunt down that man and tear him apart. He kept his voice as steady and gentle as possible. “So you left? And now you let other men hurt you like that?”

Defensively, she said, “I tried to find another job but I ’ad no references. I tried to work in a shop but they all turned me ’way. I got so ’ungry and I didn’t know what to do. A gentleman offered to take me ’ome and…it wasn’t so bad—better than when the master….” She trailed off, swallowed, and continued. “The gentleman, ’e fed me and gave me money so I could eat th’ next day. It’s easier than workin’ my fingers to nubs all day and getting chilblains, all the while knowin’ come nighttime, the master might…” Her face crumpled.

Fisting his hands, Grant held onto his rising temper and focused his energy on sifting through possible solutions. “What were your assignments at the big house?”

“Lots o’ stuff—washin’, cleanin’, but mostly I was the cook’s assistant. I can cook—I’m right good at it.”

Grant glanced at Clark who stared at him with open-mouthed shock. “Cook for me, Maggie. I usually eat at a pub, but there is a small kitchen in my rooms. I’ll hire you. But no more whoring, do you understand? I’ll dismiss you if you do.”

She opened and closed her mouth. Then, seemed to draw herself up. “Yes. I understand. I will serve only you—not other men, too.”

Firmly, Grant said, “I am only asking you to cook for me. Nothing else.”

She studied him warily but nodded. “Sure, sure.” She shrugged. “I already offered meself to you anyway so if you change your mind, I’ve no right to complain.”

“I won’t change my mind. You’re safe with me. Come.” He tugged her elbow and started walking.

She went willingly with him. Every few steps, she turned a searching gaze his way. Moments later, she said, “I thankyee.”

He shook his head at the absurdity of fate. “First pickpockets, now prostitutes.”

“Sir?”

He gestured to Clark who followed, smiling. “This is Clark. He works for me, too. Clark, Maggie—our new cook.” He looked Clark in the eye sternly. “Don’t even think about touching her.”

“I understand.” Clark gave Maggie a toothy smile.

She nodded in return. Grant went home with his ragtag entourage. He couldn’t save them all, but he’d saved these two. For now.

They stopped by Maggie’s room, which she shared with two other girls, so she could get her personal items. Grant gave her an advance on her salary so she could pay her share of the rent for the rest of the month and give her former roommates more money to pay for medicine, not that it would matter. No doubt her friend ailed with the kind of fatal disease that often claimed women of their profession. Grant waited outside the room while she gathered her things and said goodbye to her friends.

When they arrived at Grant’s apartments, Maggie gazed around in open-mouthed appreciation. “Ye really are a fine gentleman, ain’t ye?”

Grant glanced around his rooms, sparse by Amesbury standards, certainly small and plain compared to the house in Cornwall he’d bought when he’d first returned to England, but luxurious to someone like Maggie. “Don’t tell anyone.”

She nodded. “Is your name really Mr. Grant?”

“Grant Amesbury.”

“I always knew there was more to ye than you let on, Mr. Grant Amesbury.”

With Clark’s help, he got Maggie settled in a nook behind the kitchen. What would Jocelyn think if she knew he’d just brought home a prostitute to be his cook? He almost smiled. Actually, she’d probably approve, considering the help he’d seen her give to the downtrodden.

As Grant stripped off his clothes to prepare for bed, Clark entered. “Message for you. Urgent. From Jackson.”

Jackson’s surprisingly elegant handwriting penned a brief note:

Suspect found. Will interrogate tonight at Fairley’s.

J

Jackson was not going to do it alone, not after what happened to Connolly. Without hesitating, Grant donned his usual garb for prowling the streets, including a few lengths of cord, a pair of handcuffs, two loaded handguns, and three knives. As he strode through the main room, Maggie peeked out. Her hair was down and recently brushed giving her an innocent, childlike appearance.

He paused at the door. “Don’t mind me, Maggie. I come and at go at all hours.”

She nodded as she perused his change of attire. “Yes, sir.”

“If you need anything, call Clark. Keep the door locked and don’t leave these rooms.”

“Yes, sir.”

He left his apartments and headed to Mayfair. To Fairley’s house. Where Jocelyn would be. The thought of seeing her again sent fissions of excitement and dread straight to his heart where they swirled like a hurricane. With any luck, she’d be asleep in her bed, unaware of Grant and the ever increasing difficulty of resisting her. And the embarrassment of having bared his soul.

Jocelyn tossed and turned in her bed, alternating hot, then cold, then simply uncomfortable. Her bed seemed too lumpy, her pillow too full, the fire too bright. Wind in the eaves howled like ghosts. Images of Grant haunted her. She visualized him as a young officer, his silvery eyes bright with hope and love, in the arms of a beautiful siren who’d seduced him only to crush his heart before delivering him to torturers.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, wetting her pillow. How he must have suffered, knowing the woman he loved—probably the only women he’d ever loved—had used him, lied to him, betrayed him.

Finally, Jocelyn tossed back the counterpane and got out of bed. She fell to her knees at her bedside and prayed. She had begun praying more since her mother’s death, seeking and finding comfort. But tonight she poured out her desires as never before, asking that Grant’s wounded heart would be healed and that he would find peace. Most of all, she asked for guidance in knowing how to help him and reach him and love him in a way he could accept.

No inspiration came to her but at least her mind quieted. She sat staring at the red coals.

He’d been so quiet after he’d told her about Isabel. And he’d left immediately. Did he still wrestle with the painful memories of the past? Or did he regret sharing such a personal part of himself with her?

She dried her tears. It was late and she needed to sleep, but despite her weariness of soul, sleep remained far away. Perhaps tea would help. Normally, she’d ring for her maid, but it was the middle of the night. No one deserved to be dragged out of bed at that hour.

For modesty’s sake, she donned a dressing gown over her shift. Taking up a candle, she stepped into slippers and stole downstairs. The pale candlelight illuminated a lone footman dozing in a chair. He started at her approach and scrambled to his feet but she waved him off.

Inside the kitchen, a stove sat cold, but a few embers still glowed in the hearth. Within minutes, she’d stirred the fire and nestled a cup of water amid the tiny flames. She settled at a wooden table in a corner of the kitchen to wait for the water to heat.

A step outside caught her attention. The kitchen door swung open and a figure entered, closing the door softly behind.

“Who’s there?” Jocelyn called out softly.

A feminine yelp broke the stillness. “Oi! You scared me.”

Jocelyn stood and held her candle aloft to see better. One of the parlor maids, Emma, stood with her hands crossed over her chest and gasping.

The pretty girl stared back at her with wide eyes. “Miss Fairley?”

“Emma? What are you doing out at this hour?”

The girl cast a frantic glance behind her. “I…I was jes…ah…”

“The truth now, and be quick about it.”

For a second, so quickly that she might have imagined it, pure loathing crossed the girl’s features. Then her expression dissolved into true fear. “Oh, please, miss, don’t sack me. I was out…er…visiting a friend.”

“A friend. In the middle of the night.”

The girl wrung her hands together. “Yes, miss.”

Jocelyn wrapped her dressing gown more tightly around herself and folded her arms. “A man,” she guessed. “A lover, then.”

“Yes, miss.” She took a few steps toward Jocelyn, her gaze pleading and her hands clasped together. “Please, please. I need the work. He wants to marry me, but we don’t have the money. Soon, though. We’ve both been trying ever so hard to save what we can. Please don’t send me away in disgrace.”

The butler and the head housekeeper had no qualms about dismissing servants caught engaging in unseemly behavior. Yet Jocelyn couldn’t bring herself to do it. To create a moment to think, she gestured to the other chair. “Please sit.”

The maid obeyed and sat with her head lowered. With a cloth, Jocelyn fished her tin cup out of the burning embers and added loose tea leaves, sugar and milk.

As she set her cup on a table and took her seat, Jocelyn asked. “What is his name?”

The maid hesitated. “Peter.”

“How do you know Peter loves you, really loves you?”

The girl raised her head. “He tells me. And sometimes he brings me little gifts, not much, mind you, but now and again a flower, a bit of sweets, a ribbon for my hair—little tokens that tell me he thinks of me. He took me to the country to meet his ma. But most of all, I feel it in his touch, in his kiss.”

Jocelyn absently stirred her tea. Grant never brought her anything, never spoke words of love. However, he protected her from a cutthroat and saved her from a fall. He touched her tenderly. He’d even opened up to her about deeply personal hurts. His kiss…well, if that wasn’t an outpouring of something very close to love, she couldn’t imagine what it was. But it wasn’t enough. He didn’t want her in his life. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

“I envy you,” she whispered.

“Me? You have everything.”

Jocelyn’s vision blurred and cleared and blurred again. “I would give it all—if only he loved me.” If only he cared enough to love her, enough to want her as his wife.

The truth of her words shot through her. She wanted to be his wife. She longed to share his life with him, to be at his side for all he would face, his joys and sorrows, and all that tormented him. If only he would allow her in. But tonight he’d shared a very personal part of himself with her. He’d taken a huge step. That was a good sign, right?

Emma murmured, “Love is all I’d ’oped it would be, but it don’t fill an empty belly.”

The girl’s frankness took Jocelyn by surprise. She countered, “Food doesn’t fill an empty heart.”

“No, I s’pose not.” Emma’s mouth worked. “Am I sacked?”

“No, you may keep your job. I won’t say anything as long as you continue to be discreet.”