Page 15 of To Tempt Lady (Victorian Outcasts #10)

fourteen

In Lady Beaumont’s sumptuous bedroom, Marcus pocketed the banknotes she’d given him, forcing himself not to appear too eager to get the money although he was trembling with anticipation, thinking of how to spend it.

“Thank you, my lady,” he said.

Lady Beaumont tied the silk garter at her thigh, her gown still half opened on the back. “It’s always a pleasure to be with you.”

For her, certainly; for him, not so much.

“I want to see you next week as well,” she said, turning around to show him her back. “My husband is away, and I want to have fun.”

“Of course.” He buttoned her dress, already thinking about the next payment. He could pay a physician to visit Jesse, buy fresh food, and put something aside to find a better flat. “Done.”

She faced him and wrapped her arms around his neck to kiss him. His first reaction was to tense and step back, as usual. Compared to other clients, she was a stunner, young, and relatively easy to please—at least in bed—but he didn’t feel an ounce of attraction for her.

She was just a job, a necessity to survive. Once he put aside enough money to leave London and start afresh somewhere else, he would find another means to survive.

Life was just that to him—survival.

In the past years, he’d tried every sort of job, and the result had been that he’d worked hard for long hours and meagre pay.

And the job had lasted until his employers had found out that he was the son of the engineer who had killed the passengers on the Tay Bridge.

Then he’d been mocked, scorned, and eventually sacked.

The ladies paid better, but that life was taking its toll on his dignity.

He had to end that life of slavery for himself and Jesse as well. The child was his responsibility now.

Lady Beaumont released him, only to drag a hand down his half-naked chest. “How many other clients do you have?”

“A fair few.” Apparently, London brimmed with unhappy, rich ladies who had odd requests in bed, but he met only a handful of them regularly.

A crease appeared between her eyebrows. “And who are they?”

“I can’t tell you. I don’t mention you to them, so it’s only fair I keep quiet.” Just business.

“But what if I want to be your only client?” She ran a hand through his hair, making him feel her sharp nails on his scalp. “Be my secret mister?”

Tempting, in terms of income. But as long as he kept multiple clients, he had the excuse to arrange the appointments as he pleased. If he became Lady Beaumont’s mister, he would be at her beck and call all the time, completely dependent on her whims, and he wasn’t sure he liked that.

Cutting off the ties with her would be more difficult. She was already a demanding and possessive client, always asking him personal questions. He didn’t want their relationship to become deeper or more exclusive.

“It’s not possible now.” He stepped away from her, looking forward to returning home to Jesse.

She glowered. When she had that sour expression, she lost some of her beauty. “I would give you a nice flat in Mayfair or Bloomsbury, perhaps. So many artists live there.”

Why artists would be relevant for him was a mystery he didn’t care to solve. Although a flat in a nice area wouldn’t be terrible. And it would be better than seeing the ladies in their houses, less risky.

Lady Beaumont met him in a discreet flat she owned in Marylebone, but one lady met him in her main house.

The subterfuges to sneak in and out of her aristocratic house were what he hated the most. He had no idea how the lady kept her maids and footmen quiet.

Maybe she bribed them or threatened them with dismissal, but no servants blabbered about their mistress.

He had to endure their smirks and jokes though.

“Thank you, but I must decline for now.” He kissed her hand, but she didn’t soften.

“I want to see you next week, same time.”

He bowed. “Of course.”

She sat on the bed in a froth of silk. “You’re so handsome, Marcus. Those eyes, those sharp cheeks, and that jaw are stunning, and your body is a work of art. When I met you, you were a scrawny thing. Now you’re magnificent. You were too skinny, and only dogs like bones.”

He had no idea what to say to that, so he bowed again and put some distance between them, lest she grab him for another round.

“Do you want to start again?” she asked.

“I have another appointment.” It wasn’t true, but he couldn’t be honest and tell her that he’d reached his daily limit of spending time with her.

She pouted. “Go then.”

She wanted him to kiss her and tell her she was his best client, or something similar, but he’d had enough of her whims, and he was too tired to keep going.

“Good night.”

When he finally left her room, he closed his eyes and breathed in the coal-smelling air of London, just to cleanse his senses from her strong, flowery perfume. The fragrance got stuck on his skin, clothes, and hair, even if he scrubbed himself.

He hated smelling her perfume on him, too. Her perfume on his body made him feel as if she’d marked him and branded him as hers.

It was a job. Nothing more.

He’d been doing it for a year now, and it was easier than stealing.

He was terrible at picking locks, and lifting wallets had never been his forte. He’d been caught by his supposed victims more times than he cared to admit. Instead, the ladies paid well.

He made more in a single night with one of his ladies than in a month of stealing. Although angry husbands weren’t less dangerous than underpaid and overworked police constables.

He pulled up the lapels of his coat to fend off the chill from the Thames. The worn fabric didn’t hold his warmth though, and cold drafts sneaked through his clothes to bite his skin.

He sped up, not wanting to spend precious money on a cab, and walking would keep him warm. As he left the wealthy area for more unsavoury streets, the smell changed from coal to desperation.

The dark alleyway in Seven Dials where he’d found a place to stay was slippery with fresh rain, and he lost his balance in his hurry to get home. He hit the wall hard and winced, but the pain passed soon because he was familiar with feeling it.

Lady Beaumont had a point. Before starting to work for her and other women, years of scarce food and unhealthy places to sleep had nearly broken his body. Every time he’d hurt himself, he’d felt every possible ounce of pain multiplied by ten.

Thanks to her generous pay and the food he could buy with it, he’d recovered his strength. Most importantly, he’d recently extinguished all the debts he’d accumulated after Father’s death.

There were still days when the food was scarce, and the gangs in Seven Dials demanded protection money regularly.

He barely saved any coins, also because there were days when he couldn’t force himself to be with one of his ladies, no matter how hungry he was.

But his current situation was better than last year, and now that he’d finished paying off his creditors, he would save more.

Thanks to Father’s solicitor, Marcus had avoided languishing in prison for debts.

He opened the door to his flat, wincing again as it screeched on its hinges.

“Marcus?” Jesse said from the bedroom.

Less than a bedroom, it was a large cupboard, barely wide enough to fit the bed, but better than nothing.

“It’s me.” He lit a candle.

Not even in the semidarkness did the flat pass as half decent. The smell of humidity would kill an elephant, and a chill lingered in the air, no matter how many logs he burned in the stove.

“How do you feel?” He put a hand on Jesse’s clammy forehead.

“I’m so much better.” Jesse coughed, shaking from head to toe. “I think I’m completely healed. You don’t need to worry any—” A violent coughing fit shook his thin body.

“Your fever has lowered, but you’re far from healed, and you’re sweaty again.” Marcus tucked the blankets around Jesse. “I’ll find a physician to visit you tomorrow and buy some chicken to make a soup.”

“Chicken.” Jesse eased back on the pillow. “Do chickens still exist? I thought they were gone. I can hardly remember their taste.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. We had chicken two weeks ago.”

Jesse coughed again. “It seems I’ve been in this bed for years.”

He caressed Jesse’s head. “You’ll get better. I promise.”

Perhaps he should accept Lady Beaumont’s offer only for the sake of Jesse. He would wait for the physician’s opinion on the boy’s health before deciding.

“How was work?” Jesse asked, snuggling under the covers.

“We don’t talk about that.” He brewed a fresh pot of tea.

“I didn’t ask you to tell me—” Jesse coughed again. “Which work you were doing, but how it was.”

“It was good money.” He showed Jesse the banknotes.

Jesse’s brown eyes widened. “Bloody hell!”

“I told you. I’ll find a physician tomorrow, and you’ll get better.”

Jesse turned serious, too serious for an eleven-year-old boy. “You don’t kill, do you?”

He poured the tea into two chipped mugs. “I’m not a killer.”

“My father did that,” Jesse whispered, accepting the mug. “He worked for a gang at the dock. He said it was honest work because he killed bad people.”

“Bad or good, I don’t kill anyone. I promise.” He only killed tiny pieces of his soul.

Jesse put down the mug and hugged him. His weak arms barely squeezed Marcus.

“Thank you.” Jesse shivered. “I would be dead without you.”

“You’re welcome.” He kissed the boy’s head.

He would be dead without Jesse, too.