Hardly a Husband Read online

  "Why shouldn't I recruit daughters of clergymen?" She pushed back her gilt chair and stood up. "I am the daughter of a country clergyman. My father was a vicar."

  "You?" Jarrod was clearly taken aback.

  Madam Theodora was a lovely, elegant, and sophisticated woman with silver blonde hair and pale blue eyes. Jarrod knew that she was older than he by a half dozen or so years, but she had the complexion and the slim, willowy figure of a young girl. She wasn't tall, but her figure gave the illusion of height, and her manner of dress and exquisite taste in clothes heightened the illusion.

  She spoke flawless French and several other languages, priding herself on greeting her foreign guests in their native tongues. She was also an accomplished musician, often entertaining her guests with her pianoforte or harp. Always graceful and gracious, Theodora had a talent for making her guests feel as if they were the most important men in the world. In bed and out of it. And she made certain that the women in her employ possessed the same ability.

  Her home on Portman Square wasn't simply a house of pleasure, it was a refuge from the pressures of everyday life, a place where men were stimulated physically and mentally.

  Having shared Theodora's bed on numerous occasions, Jarrod knew just how talented she was, but it came as something of a shock to discover that he knew next to nothing about her. "I would have guessed that you were French or the daughter of French emigres."

  "Not at all." Theodora smoothed the front of her silk dress as she considered his comment. "I'm as much a part of England as the Thames."

  "But a vicar's daughter…"

  "You would be surprised at the number of vicars' daughters employed here. And at the number who chose a life of sin to escape a life of hypocrisy. Vicars' daughters are taught to worship, please, and obey from the cradle.

  Those who embrace this life make excellent Cyprians." Theodora moved close enough to touch him on the arm. "What don't you understand, your lordship?" she asked. "That we've fallen from grace? Or that some of us have done so willingly?"

  "Did you?" he asked.

  She ignored his question and posed one of her own. "Come, your lordship, what did you think happened to those of us who were gently brought up and educated, then left without dowries or means of support?"

  "If I thought about it at all," Jarrod admitted, "I suppose I thought you eventually married someone who didn't require a dowry."

  Theodora gave an inelegant snort. "Well, I suppose you were right, Lord Shepherdston; eventually some of us do marry. But a great many of us do not. And when we don't marry, we often end up as governesses or companions or housekeepers and lose our virtue when the masters of the house decide to use us for their pleasure. Afterward, we acquire protectors who set us up in convenient little houses. But those affairs are generally of short duration. Gentlemen suffer financial reversals every day and many are very fickle in their affections. A fortunate few of us are lucky enough to keep the house when we lose our benefactors and go into business for ourselves."

  "You didn't choose this life," he said. "You're speaking from firsthand experience."

  "Perhaps." Theodora gave him a brief salute. "Perhaps my virtue was taken from me while I was employed as a governess in the household of a man who will never be granted license to darken this door." She smiled at Jarrod. "Perhaps I didn't choose this sort of life in the beginning, but I chose it at last."

  "You accepted it," Jarrod corrected. "You didn't choose it."

  "I chose to make the best of it," Theodora retorted. "I chose to create a place of beauty and brilliance and pleasure. An exclusive place where gentlemen would willingly part with exorbitant amounts of money in order to share my bed or the beds of the women I employ. I chose to become the mistress of my fate, and the beauty of maintaining an exclusive establishment with a select clientele is that I can keep out the riffraff."

  "What about the women you employ? Did you give them a choice when you lured them to your front door with the promise of safe haven? Did you offer them employment as Cyprians? Did you abuse their trust?"

  "I took them in."

  "And made them earn their keep by prostituting themselves."

  "That's the way of the world," Theodora reminded him. "Don't throw stones at me for profiting from it. I offer women an alternative, and believe me, Lord Shepherdston, it's a much better alternative than working as governesses, companions, or housekeepers, where they're paid twelve pounds or less a year and subject to having attentions forced on them several times a week by the gentleman of the house or his sons or his friends. And subject to being immediately dismissed without references when they begin breeding. My girls make ten times that amount because I allow them to keep the gifts and pocket money the gentlemen give them. As long as they follow the rules, they have a home here for as long as they want one and they're free to leave whenever they choose. They receive medical attention when they require it, and when accidents occur, I arrange homes for their children."

  "If life here is so good and everyone has chosen this way of life, why do you need to solicit new women?"

  "Because girls find protectors. Because they leave to set up competing establishments and take time off to deliver accidents." She met Jarrod's stern gaze. "And because there are always gentlemen like your friend, Lord Mayhew, who demand red-haired virgins."

  Jarrod ignored the madam's snide remark about Lord Mayhew and got to the heart of the matter. "How do you recruit them?"

  "You know how," she retorted. "I send the cards."

  "How do you know where to send your little calling cards?"

  "That's none of your business, Lord Shepherdston."

  "It became my business when someone left your calling card on the floor of my study."

  "Who left the card on your floor?" she demanded.

  "That's none of your business, Madam Theodora." He threw her words back at her. "But you will tell me how it arrived in that someone's possession."

  She shrugged her shoulders in a blase gesture, designed to capture a man's attention. "It's no great secret," she said. "I read the obituaries, Lord Shepherdston."

  "The obituaries?" He said the word as if he'd never heard it before.

  "Yes," she confirmed. "I subscribe to a number of newspapers and journals and take special note of the death notices — especially the notices of clergymen with daughters. And I listen to the gossip around me. When I hear of young women who have no place to go, I send a note and a calling card. I don't try to persuade them to come, I simply provide an option."

  "And you tell them what's expected of them when they knock on your front door and present the calling card you sent them." Jarrod's drawl was razor sharp.

  "Of course not," she protested. "I give them time to settle into the routine of the house before I introduce the subject of what's expected of them."

  "How long?" Jarrod demanded.

  "Long enough," she evaded.

  "How long?"

  "A fortnight."

  "A fortnight?" Jarrod was aghast. "You give them a fortnight to adjust to losing their virginity?" He looked at Theodora with new eyes, then turned and reached for the doorknob. "May God forgive you," he said softly.

  "I don't need God's forgiveness," Theodora snapped. "He needs mine."

  Jarrod turned in the doorway. "Then I pray you both get what you need."

  "What about you, Lord Shepherdston?" she demanded. "What do you need?"

  "A breath of fresh air," he retorted. "And I've been told that the best place to find that in Miss Jones's Home for Displaced Women is the Green Salon."

  "You won't find anything in the Green Salon that you can't have right here," she promised.

  "I'll find my friend, Lord Mayhew. You see, he didn't come here to recruit innocent bed partners. He came here because I asked him to prevent other men from doing so."

  "Why?"

  "Because it seems I've suddenly developed a taste for saving red-haired innocents."

  * * * * *

 
"You took long enough," Lord Rob complained when Jarrod entered the Green Salon. "These young ladies are better card sharps than I counted on. Luck has deserted me and Theodora is charging me by the bloody hour for each girl."

  Jarrod took one look at the scene before him and burst out laughing. Lord Rob was playing whist with three red haired young women, none of whom bore any resemblance to Sarah Eckersley. Jarrod exhaled in relief.

  "Meet Mina, Phyllis, and Joan." The girls nodded at Jarrod as Lord Mayhew introduced them. "Ladies, my godson, Lord — "

  Jarrod gave a quick shake of his head.

  "X." Mayhew grinned. "X, my boy, I've been playing whist with these ladies for the better part of an hour now and losing badly."

  "Losing?"

  Lord Rob chuckled. "Who can pay attention to cards when surrounded by all this beauty?"

  "Nothing less than a bloody saint," Jarrod retorted.

  "Touche, my boy," Mayhew acknowledged. "My point is that these young ladies refuse to take my chits and I'm running out of blunt."

  Jarrod took out his leather purse.

  "Quick!" Lord Rob exclaimed. "Save yourself! Hide your purse before these lovely ladies discover a way to part you from it."

  "No need." Jarrod removed several pound notes and handed them to Lord Rob, then showed his godfather the empty interior of his wallet. "You already have." He turned to the young women. "Ladies, he has all my cash."

  The girls giggled.

  Lord Rob laid his cards facedown on the table and looked up at Jarrod. "Did you find your little visitor?"

  "No," Jarrod answered.

  "So" — Lord Rob rubbed his palms together — "what's next?"

  "Are these the only…"

  Lord Mayhew nodded. "Mina, Phyllis, and Joan are the most recent red-haired residents. As to whether or not they're true… " He shrugged. "I've no way of determining without…"

  Jarrod turned to look at the young women. "Are you here of your own free will?" The women nodded in unison.

  "And do you understand what sort of establishment this is?" Jarrod asked.

  "We didn't at first," Phyllis answered. "But we do now."

  "Oh?" Jarrod lifted his eyebrow.

  "We thought it was a home for displaced women," Joan told him, "but it's really a house of pleasure for men."

  "Do any of you want to stay?"

  "I do," Mina announced. "I like it here. It's better than where I was before and I don't mind giving some gentleman my virtue." She shrugged. "If the truth be told, my uncle took it years ago. When I was little."

  She was still little and didn't look to be a day over three and ten, but she was adamant about what she wanted. The other two girls weren't so sure.

  "If you want to come home with me," Lord Rob offered, "I'm more than willing to pay your debt to Madam Theodora and help you find suitable employment."

  "In return for what?" they asked.

  "Another rubber of whist," Lord Rob answered. "And a chance to recoup my fortune."

  * * *

  Chapter Ten

  Contents - Prev | Next

  Even God lends a hand to honest boldness.

  — Mernander, c.342-2923 B.C.

  "Sarah, what is going on?" Lady Dunbridge asked.

  "Blister it!" Sarah jabbed the embroidery needle into her tender flesh and dropped the sampler she was pretending to embroider. She sucked the drop of blood from her puncture wound and looked up as her aunt spoke. "Nothing, Aunt Etta."

  "Language, dear," Lady Dunbridge admonished.

  "Sorry." Sarah mumbled an apology.

  "Your mumbled apology is acceptable." Henrietta Dunbridge frowned at her niece. "Your answer is not." At the sound of Lady Dunbridge's voice, Precious woke up from her nap in her basket on the floor beside Sarah's feet and eyed her mistress warily.

  "Pardon?"

  "I may be getting old, but I'm far from my dotage and far from blind." Aunt Etta took immediate exception to Sarah's attempt to evade her question. "I've known you all your life and you've never had much patience for needlework. Today appears to be no exception." Lady Dunbridge pursed her lips. "You've barely spared a moment for Precious and none for Budgie, whose cage you forgot to uncover this morning." She walked over to the window and removed the cloth from the budgie's cage. "You're making a mess of your sampler and you've been as fidgety as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Do you want to tell me what this is all about or shall I open the note from Lord Shepherdston and read it for myself?" She waved a folded piece of paper at Sarah.

  "Jays sent a note?" Sarah reached for the piece of paper.

  "Indeed, he did," Aunt Henrietta confirmed, holding it just out of Sarah's reach. "It's addressed to Lady Dunbridge and Miss Eckersley and it was delivered with our chocolate and toast."

  Sarah frowned. "I don't recall seeing it."

  "That's because it was on the tray and I got to it first." Lady Dunbridge smiled. "I found it rather queer that I should receive a note from a young man I haven't seen in ages and one who could not have known that I was in town."

  "What does it say?" Sarah asked.

  "I haven't read it yet," Lady Dunbridge replied. "And I don't intend to read it until I get an explanation from you."

  Sarah took a deep breath. "I don't know where to begin," she hedged.

  "Start where you slipped out of the hotel last night," Lady Dunbridge suggested dryly.

  Sarah was wide-eyed with surprise.

  "I woke up and your side of the bed was empty," Lady Dunbridge offered. "At first, I thought you'd made a trip to the privy, but when you failed to return within a reasonable amount of time, I supposed you slipped out to meet a gentleman."

  Sarah gasped. "Aunt Etta!"

  Her aunt shrugged. "Perhaps I hoped you'd slipped out to meet a gentleman when I looked out the window and saw Mr. Birdwell returning from somewhere with our coach."

  "You're incorrigible," Sarah accused.

  "You can't blame an old lady for wanting to see her only niece happily wedded and bedded." Lady Dunbridge winked.

  "There is nothing old about you, Aunt Etta," Sarah told her. "You'll always be young."

  "Thank you, darling, but don't change the subject. Tell me what happened after I fell asleep and you sneaked out of the hotel."

  "I paid a call on Lord Shepherdston."

  "Thank goodness!" Lady Dunbridge breathed a sigh of relief. "I hoped you'd slipped out to meet a gentleman, but I was afraid you had taken it into your head to pay a call on my nephew by marriage to try to change his mind about tossing us out of the rectory."

  "I would never willingly pay a call on Lord Dunbridge," Sarah assured her aunt. "And never at night."

  "I'm thrilled to hear it," Lady Dunbridge replied. "Especially if you intend to continue paying late-night calls alone and in nothing more than your nightgown."

  "I didn't take the time to dress because I didn't want to wake you."

  "Try again," Lady Dunbridge said.

  Sarah frowned. Aunt Etta had always had the ability to see through her. She had always known when Sarah attempted to tell anything except the entire truth. "I didn't take the time to dress because I didn't want to wake you and because I wanted to be able to slip back into the hotel and into bed without anyone knowing — including you." Sarah met her aunt's gaze. "And because I thought I might have a better chance of persuading Lord Shepherdston to help me if I had something to offer."

  "What were you offering?" Lady Dunbridge narrowed her gaze at her niece. "And what did you want Lord Shepherdston to help you do?"

  "I was offering myself," Sarah whispered. "Because I wanted Lord Shepherdston to help me become a courtesan."

  Lady Dunbridge coughed. "I had no idea your ambitions ran in that direction." She stared at her niece. "I would have sworn that you were the wife and mother sort."

  "That's what he said," Sarah admitted.

  "Who?"

  "Ja — I mean, Lord Shepherdston," Sarah continued, "said there was no getting aroun
d it, I was meant to be a wife. He said I was meant to be married and meant to have a husband and children."

  "So," Lady Dunbridge sighed, "you haven't outgrown it." Sarah had been chasing after Jarrod Shepherdston since she was five.

  "Outgrow it?" Sarah was stunned by the concept.

  Lady Dunbridge shrugged her shoulders. "It happens, my dear. People grow out of love every day."

  "Did you outgrow what you felt for Uncle Cal?"

  "Yes, I did." Lady Dunbridge surprised Sarah with her frankness. "And it only took me four years."

  Sarah could hardly believe her ears. "What happened?"

  "I couldn't continue to love him once I realized the rumors were true."

  "What rumors?" Sarah had always believed Aunt Etta had been madly in love with her handsome lord.

  "The rumors that he'd only married me to secure an heir. His first wife was barren, you know. I couldn't believe my good fortune when he began paying court to me. He was older and incredibly handsome and a viscount and I was the daughter of a baronet. I fell madly, passionately in love with him and believed he felt the same way about me. He was a tender, ardent lover and I thought I was the most fortunate of wives. But I failed to produce an heir or any child after two years of marriage and Calvin blamed me. He grew increasingly distant. When he began spending less time with me and more time in London, I began to pay attention to the whispers that Calvin had a mistress. It was true and, what's more, he had loved her for years."

  Sarah stared at her aunt. "What did you do?"

  "What could I do?" Lady Dunbridge replied. "We were married. I had to make the best of it. So I told myself that being a viscountess was enough. But it wasn't. It might have been foolish, but I had romantic dreams. I knew the way of the world, but I wanted to be loved and I wanted my husband to be the person who loved me. Since that wasn't likely to happen, I told myself that I would not love a man who didn't love me. I told myself that I would learn not to love him and, after two years of being rejected and neglected, I succeeded." She met Sarah's gaze. "I was married for ten years and for six of those years, I pretended to be happy. I pretended not to mind staying alone in London or spending longer periods of time on my own in the country. Until one day, I no longer had to pretend. I was living in Helford Green when I received word that Calvin had died in his mistress's arms in London."