‘Not sensible enough to avoid being tricked by a brothel keeper,’ Jessica said bitterly. She was not flattered to be told she was sensible. She knew she was, it was her chief virtue and stock in trade and, try as she might, she could not sound anything else.
‘Well, you will not be caught a second time. If my solution is not to your liking, what would you like me to do with you?’
Have your wicked way with me? she thought wildly, then caught herself up with a effort. She was exhausted, frightened and completely out of her depth, but that was no excuse for hysteria.
‘Would you lend me some money, my lord? Then I can go to a respectable inn tonight and seek employment from an agency in the morning. I am a governess.’
‘Go to an inn dressed like that? I am afraid all the shops are shut and I do not carry ladies’ clothing on my person.’
‘Oh. No, of course you do not.’ He must think her completely buffle-headed.
‘However, I do have some available.’ He let the sentence hang. ‘At my house.’
‘You mean your wife will lend me something?’ she enquired sweetly. How she knew it Jessica could not say, but this man was quite definitely not married. The clothing in question was doubtless the silks and laces of some past or present mistress.
‘I am not married.’ She had the impression that she had slightly unsettled him. ‘If I were married, I would not be patronising establishments such as the one we have just left.’
‘You have no need to explain yourself to me, my lord.’ And having a wife at home made no difference to whether a lord kept a mistress or frequented the muslin company.
‘No,’ he agreed with the calm that appeared to be natural to him. ‘I was explaining it to myself. A tawdry place—there is little excuse for its existence.’
‘Other than that gentlemen patronise it.’ She thought sadly of Moll, grateful to be employed in a brothel because there she had regular food and nobody blacked her eyes. She hoped someone had found her by now and released her from the clothes press.
The hackney cab drew up with a lurch. ‘My town house,’ Lord Standon said, getting up and opening the door. He held out his hands to help her down and Jessica paused in the doorway, seeing him for the first time in the light of the torchères either side of the wide black front door.
He was big. She already knew that. His hair was dark and she could not make out the exact colour, but what held her was the power of his face. No one would ever call Gareth Morant handsome, but no one would ever be able to call him less than impressive. Someone—she could not imagine who, unless it was a blacksmith with a hammer—had managed to break a large nose that had not been particularly distinguished to start with. His jaw was strong and determined, in contrast to the peaceable tone he seemed to habitually employ. His eyes, which she already knew were grey, were shadowed below dark brows and his mouth, which she could see all too clearly, was wide, sensual with a lurking smile.
He was waiting with patience for her to move and to alight from the hackney. Jessica thought frantically. Had she any option other than to enter this man’s house? No, she had not. ‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said as placidly as she knew how, and allowed him to take her hand as she jumped down to the pavement.
Doubtless she should embrace death rather than dis-honour, but that seemed both unpleasant and disproportionate under the circumstances. Like mother, like daughter. The thought flickered through her brain and was instantly banished. Mama…Mama had been different. And beside any other considerations, Miss Jessica Gifford believed strongly that one honoured one’s obligations. Up to now that had sometimes been onerous, but never quite so frightening to contemplate.
She stood and waited while he paid the driver, her stockinged feet cold and damp on the flags, her ridiculous hat pulled down over her face, then allowed him to take her arm and guide her towards the shallow steps. Despite the hour a butler materialised as Lord Standon closed the door behind him.
‘Ah, Jordan. Is Mrs Childe still up?’
‘No, my lord, she retired an hour ago, as have all the maids. Would you wish me to rouse one of them?’ His very lack of interest in the bizarrely clad figure shivering beside his master revealed the superiority of an upper servant, but Jessica would have been grateful for a look of surprise—she was beginning to feel invisible.
‘No, there is no need to disturb them. This young lady has had an unpleasant experience and requires a bedchamber, some supper and some suitable clothing. A fire in the room, please, Jordan.’
‘Yes, my lord. Would the young lady care to come into the library to eat while her room is prepared? There is a fire there as usual.’
‘Yes, that would be best.’ The earl turned and regarded Jessica, who stared back from under the brim of her hat. Her feet were beginning to grow numb on the cold marble. ‘Clothes first, though. Come along, Miss Gifford, we should find something in the Chinese bedchamber.’
He led the way to the sweep of stone stairs rising from the chequerboard marble. Jessica grabbed her trailing coat and struggled up after him, clutching the elegant wrought-iron handrail with her free hand. The position gave her an unrivalled opportunity to study long well-shaped legs, narrow hips and broad athletic shoulders. Having run into him at speed, she did not make the mistake of imagining that Lord Standon’s figure owed anything to his tailor, who must give thanks daily for a customer who did so much credit to his creations.
On the other hand, she thought critically as she reached the landing and he turned to make sure she was following, he definitely was not a handsome man. The good light showed that her impression outside on the pavement had been correct. At least, she corrected herself, as she plodded along in his wake, trying to lift her tired feet up out of the thick carpet, he was not a classically handsome man. Neither Lord Byron’s romantically tumbled locks, nor Mr Brummell’s much-vaunted beauty need fear competition from the Earl of Standon. On the other hand, he was unmistakably a very virile, masculine creature and she knew perfectly well that his size was provoking a thoroughly unwise desire to cast herself upon his broad chest and beg to be looked after.
Jessica reminded herself that she was not a woman who could afford to succumb to romantic notions, but one who lived by her intelligence and common sense, and that what she was striving for in life was respectable, dull, safe security. Men played no part in that ambition and aristocrats who frequented brothels, however kind they seemed, and however much one wanted to wrap one’s arms around as much of them as possible, were the shortest way to the primrose path that led inexorably downwards to shame and degradation. Look at Mama.
Well, possibly shame and degradation were rather strong words for it in Mama’s case, but it had certainly led to her being cut off without a penny, shunned by her family and living the sort of life that Jessica had sworn, at the age of fourteen, that she would never, ever, risk. Mama had thought the world well lost for love; then, when that love itself had gone, she had lived on her wits, her beauty and her charm.
As far as Jessica was concerned, falling in love ranked somewhat below wagering one’s entire substance on a lottery ticket as a sensible way of carrying on for a woman.
Sensation novels promised true love would find you if you only waited long enough and the Old Testament was littered with prophets being sustained entirely by faith and passing ravens, but a good education and hard work seemed more positive routes to security, food on the table and a roof over her head to Jessica than prayer and patience.
Lord Standon stopped and Jessica walked into the back of him. ‘Sorry. It is this hat.’
‘I believe you might safely remove it now, Miss Gifford.’ He opened the door and she stepped inside, pulling off the tall-crowned hat as she did so. There was no point in being a ninny about this.