CHAPTER
ONE
LONDON, 1812
James Stevens entered his office and closed the door with a soft click. He didn’t bother to lock it. His staff was well trained, and none would dare enter while he conducted the coming interview. Not because they feared his wrath if they interrupted, but because not a single one of them could bear to witness what they uneasily called the pleading session that he was about to endure. The meetings were always distasteful, but he’d learned early on that the encounters were just one of the more unpleasant facets to owning a gambling establishment.
The woman waiting for him in the small room hadn’t bothered to sit or help herself to the tea tray his servant had left for her. As with nearly all the others who had come before her, she was too distracted to enjoy the comfort offered by food or drink. She had remained by the window, staring out at the busy, cobbled street, her eyes looking at, but not really seeing, the multitudes of people and carriages passing by. The stiff set of her shoulders gave evidence of her resolve.
The dreary March rain drummed softly against the window, the gray sky shadowing her figure in interesting ways. Upon arriving, she’d relinquished her cloak, so he was able to study her openly, his eyes taking in every curve and valley accented by the cut of her expensive dark blue gown. It was a simple dress—one that she had probably spent hours selecting before deciding it was befitting of the occasion—but the excellent tailoring told him she led a life of incomprehensible affluence and privilege.
She was short, the top of her head just reaching his shoulders, and she was more thin than he typically liked his women to be. But, very likely, stress over her current life circumstance had caused a recent loss of weight. Her waist was tiny; he probably could have fit his hands around it, so tightly laced was her corset. The rest of her shapely torso was hidden by the curve of her skirt, but he’d always had a vivid imagination. With ease, he could visualize the flare of her hips, her long, long legs, her dainty feet.
Narrowing his eyes, he studied the back of her head, wondering as to the color of her hair. Most of it was hidden by her hat, but one perfect ringlet dangled free. It was blond, which made him think her eyes would be blue. A hint of bare skin about her neck showed it to be pale and creamy, the kind possessed by only the richest ladies who could afford the expensive creams and powders necessary to keep it smooth and young-looking. A delicate rosescented perfume, French from the smell of it, wafted across the room and tickled his male senses.
From the feather in her hat, to the fabric of her gown, to the soft leather slippers on her feet, she was the absolute picture of English wealth and nobility.
Her gloved fingers distractedly worked her reticule, hideous scenes, no doubt, playing through her mind. Scenes of ruin, of poverty, of disgrace. Of no roof over her head, and no food for her children. Of the loss of her entire way of life.
She had to be terribly frightened, but as with all the other English ladies whom he’d met over the years, she was simply too well bred to display any sign of the strong emotion that had to be lingering just below the surface. Besides, if he’d learned anything from these heart-wrenching dialogues, it was that the women with whom he spoke had barely an inkling of what was truly coming. Her lack of agitation was presumably caused by her inability to rationally grasp the seriousness of her situation.
Invariably, she could foresee all sorts of horrors lurking just around the next bend, but the fates over which she postulated were still just possibilities. Her fear wasn’t evident, because she still refused to believe that the worst could truly happen. In her world, bad things never did.
He could hardly blame her; he could hardly blame any of them. They were all positively certain that, whatever ghastly sin their wayward husbands had committed, it could be absolved by rational discussion, and if not by talking, then by other means. Nauseating as it sounded, he almost enjoyed seeing to what lengths his visitors would go to safeguard their domains.
All manner of bribes had been flashed before his eyes: cash, jewelry, the family silver, priceless works of art. Whatever the women possessed, they were prepared to offer in exchange for keeping their existences secure. Those who were most frantic always ended up offering themselves. When the meetings fell to that level, he wished he’d taken his father’s advice and bought himself a commission in the army.
How desperate was the woman standing across the room? Who was her husband and what had he gambled away? Their estate? All their funds? Their children’s inheritances? What would it be worth to her to stave off the future that was winging toward her like a runaway carriage? What humiliating act would she be willing to perform in her misguided attempts to save herself and her family?
How he hated this!
When the encounters ended, he was always so upset that his brother, Michael, insisted he should stop seeing the women who came begging for help. But James couldn’t turn them away without letting them say their piece. Although he’d never been an admirer of the type of gently reared females who called, he couldn’t help appreciating the bit of pluck they exhibited by daring all in a futile attempt to fix their predicaments.
It took such courage for them to come, in their anonymous rented hansom cabs. They knocked softly at the servants’ entrance, dressed in their discreet clothing, their veiled hats, as they made their polite requests for an audience. Just showing up unescorted in his neighborhood, where a lady of Quality had no business being, was evidence of their determination. He felt an obligation to talk with them, and he’d managed to convince himself that he was doing them a service.
Few of them had an accurate understanding of the realities of their situations. Typically, they had no control over their lives. They’d been so sheltered by fathers, brothers, and spouses that they had no idea about the value of money, where it came from, where it went. They truly believed that they could repair the damage done by their male relatives.
If nothing else of substance occurred during the heart-wrenching discussions, he was usually able to open their eyes to the true state of their dilemmas. While not an intentionally cruel person, he nevertheless exhibited a ruthless bearing in dealing with his guests. He was not kind, he was not patient, but he couldn’t afford to be. There was nothing he could do for any of them, and they needed to realize that fact. Because of his behavior at times such as these, he’d earned a reputation as a brutal, hard man.
He wasn’t, but he couldn’t show any weakness, lest the despairing women go away mistakenly believing that rescue was feasible. They all had to begin preparing for the approaching calamity. If he scared them into confronting their dire plights, then he’d succeeded in his efforts.
“Good afternoon, madam,” he said. He didn’t intend to ask her name. At this stage, they rarely gave it truthfully. Obviously, she wasn’t aware that he’d entered, and she swung around at hearing his greeting. “I am James Stevens. I was told you would like to speak with me.”
“Hello, Mr. Stevens. Thank you for agreeing.”
Her voice sounded low and husky, intimate, as though she’d just whispered something deliciously erotic. Its timbre conjured intense images of a hot room, sweat-soaked torsos, stained sheets, the smell of sex heavy in the air.
His attention was immediately captured by her breasts; he couldn’t help noticing. Even though her dress was modestly designed, the neckline was cut low in the current fashion, her corset raising and pushing, until he was presented with an arresting view of tempting flesh. The flawless mounds were full and rounded, and strained against her bodice as though wanting to spill themselves out for his perusal. He could imagine them filling his hands, her skin warm against his own, her rose-colored nipples hard and elongated and pressing against his palms.
The unlikely prospect caused him to chuckle inwardly.
What would this troubled creature think if she could read his mind at the moment? She was here on a wretched mission, hoping to protect her family; while he could merely envision her naked, stretched out beneath him, and servicing his carnal needs.
But such was life. He’d sat through too many of these appointments, knew how it would end—badly—and he would much rather concentrate on more interesting topics. Such as the fabulous swell of her bosom. The cleavage she exhibited was dreadfully enticing.
Her face was shielded from view by the netting woven into her hat. All that remained visible was her mouth, the lips lush, moist, and crimson as a ripe cherry. It was the kind of mouth that made a man lose his concentration. Just by staring at it, he began to conjure the varied uses to which it could be put. Quite distinctly, he could conceive of her kneeling down, taking him far inside, giving him frightful pleasure.
Nervously, she ran her tongue across her bottom lip, the pink tip just visible as she wet it delicately. As he watched, he felt a keen stab of desire that took him far beyond fantasizing and into the realm of potentialities. To his great consternation, he could picture himself partaking of what she would eventually suggest once she realized that words would do her no good. The discovery was an extraordinary one.
In the decade that he’d owned the gaming house, he’d never taken advantage of any of the overtures the distressed women made. Not to say he hadn’t been tempted, because he had been. Many of them were incredible beauties, and denying their proposals—to become his mistress, to provide regular sexual favors in exchange for promissory notes, to...
