Page 11 of A Story of Love

“Go have Mrs. Smith’s carriage brought round and then hurry back so you can escort her to it. Quickly now,” he added when she stared woozily at him.

She scrambled from the chair. “Of course, my lord.”

Fast shut the door and turned back to his guest.

“Help me with this,” Meg commanded.

This was her black satin stays, which she’d slipped on over a black silk chemise. Neither of the rather unconventional garments matched the demure gown she’d worn to the brothel, which looked a great deal like the one that Dora wore.

Regardless of the simple gown and cloak, the countess’s regal deportment made a mockery of her humble disguise. Anyone with a particle of sense would know she was a peeress and not a housemaid.

“You shouldn’t come here, Meg. It’s not safe,” he chided as he tightened the laces on her corset.

“I would not get to see you if I didn’t take the risk, Fast. You’re never at your house.”

It was because of Meg—and several other ton ladies who’d decided that Fast was their entertainment this Season—that he had stopped staying at his family’s house on Berkeley Square.

It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy indulging in affairs with mature, sensual women who knew what they wanted from a lover and didn’t develop any expectations, but he had a great deal to do and only a short time in which to do it. It was difficult to get anything done with a constant parade of well-known society matrons lined up outside his bedroom window.

Of course he could hardly say that to her.

Instead, he said, “These newspapermen have been hounding me night and day since I’ve returned. They are thickest around Grandon House, but there are a goodly number of them sniffing around The King’s Purse, too. Your reputation would be ruined if any of them saw you in this part of the city.”

That was putting it lightly. Meg might be a wealthy widow, but her brother was the Duke of Margrave and a stern stickler for convention.

If Meg embarrassed His Grace by visiting brothels, Margrave was the sort of man who’d exercise his considerable power as her closest male relative and curtail her liberty, demonstrating just how un-free she was—generous jointure, or no.

“Oh, fiddle,” Meg said as Fast helped slip her gown over her head. “You are such a celebrity that having my name linked with yours would likely increase my social credit, Fast.”

He took her shoulders and turned her to face him, staring hard at her beautiful, willful face. “Being seen entering or leaving a brothel will destroy even your sterling reputation, regardless of whether I’m here or not. Don’t come here again, Meg, or you will put me in the unpleasant position of denying you admission.”

She pulled a face. “Oh, very well. I won’t come here. But only if you promise to attend my house party.”

Fast stifled a howl of frustration. This was easily the tenth invitation he’d received to a bloody house party, an activity he had no time for. Even if he did have time, no matter which invitation he accepted, he’d be insulting somebody else if he didn’t accept their offer, as well.

He forced a smile and lied, “I shall consider it.”

“But—”

“Meg.”

Her lids lowered and she shivered. “Oh, I do love it when you employ such a stern, masterful tone. Perhaps I need a spanking to encourage me to obey?” She gave him a hopeful smile.

Fast snorted. “You must go,” he said, draping the plain gray cloak over her shoulders and tying it shut.

He’d just finished when there was a soft knock.

“Yes, come in,” he called out.

The door opened a crack and Dora hovered on the threshold. “The carriage is ready, my lord.”

He turned back to Meg, drew her hood up until only the tip of her nose was visible, and kissed said nose. “Off you go.”

“Think about my party,” she urged, and then hurried from the room.

Fast exhaled heavily once the door closed behind her, his thoughts turning back to the scream and crash. What now?

He pulled a shirt over his head, opened the door to the main corridor, and was just about to shout for Gregg when the door to the servant stairwell opened.