Page 1 of Doxy for the Ton (Misfits of the Ton #7)

Brighton, June 1813

T he clock on the mantelshelf issued a cascade of chimes, descending like a waterfall, until it settled on a single long note, ten times.

He’s late.

Jemima’s stomach fluttered with apprehension.

He was never late.

She always admired his promptness—and how he kept his promises.

Which made him unique among men.

She lifted her left hand and her gaze fell on the emerald ring—the mark of his promise. She could hardly bring herself to look at the ring—it was far too grand for her, a penniless orphan.

Of course, he would never permit her to voice such an opinion. So, she contented herself with gazing into the stone’s depths, marveling at the hues of blue and green that pulsed in unison with her heartbeat, almost as if it were alive.

And it is alive, my love. This stone embodies my heart, which beats for none but you.

A pretty enough speech—one that, no doubt, was used by men over the years to coax women into bed. But he had no need to waste his breath on fine words for one such as her.

One such as I…

Mistress. Whore. Such words had long since ceased to wound her heart. The wounds had, over the years, hardened into scars with each insult, each cut direct, and each disapproving look.

How would the world react when forced to utter a different word altogether?

Wife.

Or rather—Lady Mayhew.

Lady Mayhew…

It was almost too perfect.

His acquaintances would disapprove. But the value they placed on titles and lineage would prevent them from insulting her openly. She smiled to herself at the notion of being introduced to Society, where she would outrank almost every snobbish creature she encountered.

And her children…

She placed a hand over her already thickening belly.

For any woman, the onset of a child signaled the ending of one chapter and the beginning of another. But for women in Jemima’s position, a pregnancy usually required her to be hastily removed from her home—and either tucked away in obscurity, lest her disgrace taint her protector’s reputation, or tossed out onto the street with a coin or two for her trouble. No man wanted to be saddled with his mistress’s child.

Except Walter…

Jemima’s heart swelled as she recalled the love in his eyes when she announced her condition—the joy at the prospect of a child, and his shame when he realized she’d expected him to abandon her.

She lifted her gaze to the dressing table mirror. The woman who smiled back looked contented, and filled with hope—the bloom on her cheeks that of a prospective wife and mother.

Her heart swelled as she heard the clatter of hooves on the road, and she approached the window, lifted the sash, and leaned out, inhaling the fresh, salty air. Seagulls circled overhead, screeching at each other in perpetual irritation. One stood on the ledge of the adjacent window, a single, baleful yellow eye staring at her.

“I’ve nothing for you,” she said.

The bird continued to stare. Doubtless it, and its acquaintances, knew that the occupants of this house doled out bounty to the needy—both human and feathered.

A carriage came into view at the end of the street. The gull turned its head, then opened its wings and launched off the ledge, its ungainly body tumbling toward the ground. Then its wings caught the air and it soared upward, screeching in celebration of its freedom.

A freedom you’ll never have.

Jemima flinched as her conscience whispered in her mind. Freedom—true freedom—was not the province of her sex. But the adoration of a man she loved as a dear friend, together with her status as his wife, was the next best thing. And it was the best she could hope for.

The carriage drew to a halt, and she caught sight of the Mayhew crest emblazoned on the side. The door opened and the carriage tilted to one side as its occupant climbed out. Jemima withdrew into her chamber, plucked a bottle of cologne from the dressing table, and placed a dab on her neck and the inside of each wrist. The scent was Walter’s favorite, and it helped to stem the nausea that had been plaguing her.

She descended the stairs and entered the parlor. Shortly after, a footman appeared.

“You have a visitor, Miss King.”

“So formal, Timothy?” Jemima said. “Please send Lord Mayhew in, then have Mrs. Riley bring tea.”

The footman colored and lowered his gaze.

“Timothy, is anything amiss?”

“Miss, I…”

“Out of my way—you!” a voice interrupted.

The newcomer pushed the footman aside and strode into the room, tapping his silver-topped cane on the floor.

It wasn’t Walter.

Swallowing the apprehension rising in her stomach, Jemima dipped into a curtsey and addressed her fiancé’s son and heir—Ralph Mayhew, Viscount Purley.

“Viscount Purley,” she said, “to what do I owe the pleasure of—”

“Spare me the niceties, madam,” he said. “We both know you take no pleasure from my company.” He ran his fingertips along a table, then inspected them for dust, curling his lip into a sneer.

“You’ll find it perfectly clean,” Jemima said, allowing herself a moment’s irritation at the man who, though a similar age to her, would soon be her stepson.

“So I see,” he replied. “But then, considering the pater’s generosity toward his whore, I’d be disappointed if your”—he cast another glance about the parlor, wrinkling his nose—“your premises lacked the necessary hygiene to enable you to carry out your business.”

Jemima curled her hands into fists, tempering the rising indignation. But he was within his rights to be affronted at the news that she was to become his stepmother.

Give the boy time, Jemmy my love—he’ll come round.

Dear Walter had such faith in others. He believed everyone was inherently good, even the profligate son he’d often despaired over while he lay in Jemima’s arms, seeking the love he’d never found within his own family.

Mayhew turned to the footman. “Go. I’ll not be wanting tea.”

The footman bowed then exited the parlor.

“I understand your disapproval of me, Viscount Purley,” Jemima said, “but I hope, for your father’s sake, we can be civil to one another.”

Mayhew fixed his pale-gray gaze on her and curled his lip into a smile, triumph glittering in his eyes.

“How wrong you are, Miss King,” he said.

A ripple of nausea clawed at her as he flicked his tongue out and moistened his lips.

“Surely a little civility…” she began, but he raised his hand.

“I meant in your address,” he said, “not your pathetic attempt at cordiality.”

“Viscount Purley, I—”

“Viscount no more ,” he said, stepping toward her, his teeth gleaming in the sunlight, and Jemima’s gut twisted with fear. “You address me as Earl Mayhew.”

Earl Mayhew…

“B-but that means…”

Her voice trailed off as her corset grew overly tight. The world slipped out of focus, and her legs began to shake. She stepped back, reaching for the back of the sofa to steady herself.

“Wh-when…?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Last week. The funeral was yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” she cried. “You didn’t think to—”

“To what?” he snarled. “Invite my father’s whore to flaunt herself at his graveside? What sort of a fool do you think I am?”

A wave of nausea crashed through her body and she bent forward, drawing in a lungful of air. Her legs gave way and she crumpled to the floor, closing her eyes against the pain and loss. But the pain remained—filling her heart with blackness.

Then she opened her eyes to see Mayhew’s booted feet on the rug, while he stood, looking down at her, a predatory smile on his lips.

Walter…

Hot tears threatened to spill, but she kept them at bay. Her tears were for Walter—not his profligate son.

Mayhew leaned forward and extended his hand. For a moment, Jemima stared at him, then she took the proffered hand and he hauled her to her feet.

“Th-thank you.”

She tried to withdraw, but he pulled her close, and her nausea increased at the acrid stench of brandy and sour wine.

“Unhand me, sir,” she said.

“Only if you address me properly.”

Jemima swallowed her dislike. “Unhand me if you please, Lord Mayhew.”

“ There’s a good girl.”

He lowered his gaze to her décolletage and his eyes flared with lust. Jemima lifted her hand to cover her neckline, and he let out a huff of derision.

“Don’t play the coquette with me ,” he said. “You earned your keep spreading your legs for my father. You can hardly admonish me for wanting to inspect the goods, given the price he paid.”

He reached forward and placed his hand on her throat. Then he curled his finger around her necklace and pain sliced through the back of her neck as he gave a sharp tug. Her necklace broke and pearls clattered onto the floor.

“Stop!” she cried. “That’s my necklace.”

“Bought and paid for with my money,” he sneered. “Just like your body.”

She shuddered as he dipped a finger below her neckline, brushing his fingertip across the top of her breasts. His eyes darkened with fury as his gaze fell on her left hand. He took her wrist, then grasped the ring on her third finger and pulled it off.

“Old fool!” he muttered. “Did he really think he could give my mother’s ring to a slut? Do you have any idea how much it’s worth?” He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “ Nobody’s that good at riding cock, surely?”

Jemima cringed at the hatred in his voice.

“Please,” she said, “Ralph…I mean, Earl—”

“Spare me the mewling!” He gestured about the parlor. “This is my house. You took advantage of my father by parting those fat thighs of yours. But the day of reckoning has come, and it’s time for you to go.”

A sharp pain stabbed at Jemima’s stomach and she caught her breath. “Please…”

“Now, now—no histrionics,” he said. Then he arched an eyebrow, his gaze settling once more on her neckline. “Unless…”

A glimmer of hope swelled inside her. “Unless what?”

“Unless you’d like to continue to earn your keep. If you were willing to stiffen that old man’s cock, you might relish the prospect of servicing mine.”

Nausea swelled as another stab of pain ignited in her stomach. “How can you say such things?”

“Quite easily,” he said. “It’s how a slut earns her keep, is it not?”

She gestured to the ring. “Your father and I were—”

“My father was a fool if he thought his family would ever accept a whore!” he snarled. “To think—a grubby slut polluting Purley Manor!” He turned his head toward the door. “My man—come here!”

The door opened—a little too quickly—to reveal the red-faced footman.

“Ma’am, is everything—” he began, but Mayhew interrupted.

“Do not address her thus, unless you wish to be dismissed!” he barked. “You’re under my employ.”

“But sir…”

“Was anything I said unclear?”

The footman colored. “No, sir, but…”

“Timothy, it’s all right,” Jemima said. Her fate was already sealed—it would do no good to have Timothy share it.

“Remove this doxy from my house,” Mayhew said. “Immediately.”

“But my belongings,” Jemima said, “they’re—”

“They’re mine now,” he sneered. “Count yourself fortunate I’m letting you keep the clothes on your back.”

“B-but—where will I go?”

“I care not, as long as I don’t have to see your sniveling face,” he replied. “Footman—must I ask a second time? Get rid of her!”

“Sorry about this, miss,” the footman said as he took Jemima’s wrist.

“The back entrance, if you please,” Mayhew added. “I’ve a reputation to uphold. I don’t want my neighbors thinking this a bawdy house.”

As the footman led Jemima to the door, Mayhew called after them.

“Thomas, I’ve changed my mind.”

Jemima turned to face him, a flicker of hope in her heart.

“I will take tea after all,” he said. “Bring it after you’ve discarded the rubbish.”

A sob swelled in Jemima’s throat as Thomas pushed her out of the parlor.

“Ever so sorry, miss,” he whispered. “But don’t worry, I’ll take you to the kitchen and have Mrs. Riley set you up before you go on your way.”

“I can’t…”

“Yes, you can,” he said. “You’ve been good to us, looked after those in need hereabouts. Now it’s our turn to look after you.”

She clung to him as he led her to the stairs that descended toward the kitchen. Another wave of nausea gripped her and a sharp pain sliced through her stomach. She reached for the handrail, but slipped and somersaulted down the stairs. The stone floor at the bottom rushed toward her, then with an explosion of agony in her head, she plunged into oblivion.