without the attendant scandal. Duels, my friend, do not fit our code of discretion. You need to get out of town and let the rumours settle. You know how London is this time of year. There will be another scandal within the fortnight to retire this one, but not if you’re here reminding everyone with your presence. Until then, I have no wish to see you on the receiving end of a jealous husband’s pistol.’
‘Nothing will come of it, I promise,’ Nicholas protested. ‘Burroughs has no proof.’ It had been a near-run thing though, getting out the window in time. ‘He couldn’t have seen more than a shadow.’
Channing played with a letter opener. ‘Yes, well, what he’d like to do to that shadow is all over London. Was anything left behind? A shirt stud? A boot? Anything that could link you to the scene?’
‘Nothing,’ Nicholas replied vehemently. ‘I never leave anything behind. It was a clean getaway, I swear.’ A getaway that involved kissing the dowager countess. Still, it had been clean in the end and that was all that mattered.
Channing gave a short laugh. ‘You and I have somewhat different interpretations of “clean getaway”.’
Nicholas put a dramatic hand to his heart in mock play. ‘You wound me.’ In truth, he was a bit insulted Channing even had to ask. He was one of the best Channing had when it came to the more carnal pursuits of their organisation. Not every woman came to them looking for physical pleasure—some came simply looking to make a splash in society, perhaps raise a little decent notoriety for themselves to win back a husband who had strayed too far or taken them for granted too long. But there were those who did come looking for the intimate pleasures that had eluded them thus far in life. That’s where he came in. Nick hoped Channing would overlook that aspect of the letter.
‘The potential scandal notwithstanding, I’d still send you.’ Channing set down the letter opener and fixed with him a stern blue-eyed stare. ‘The woman in question is looking for physical fulfilment and that is indeed your speciality.’ So much for overlooking it.
‘But not in the country,’ Nicholas argued. He was losing this fight and he knew it. He could feel his grounds for refusal slipping away. ‘It’s a poor time for me to be gone from the league.’ He gestured to the date on the letter. ‘Almost a whole week in the middle of June? That’s the height of the Season. We already have more requests than we can handle.’ It would absolutely kill him to miss the entertainments: the Marlborough Ball, the midsummer masquerade at Lady Hyde’s Richmond mansion, which was that week, to say nothing of the summer nights at Vauxhall with its fireworks.
Channing remained unfazed by his line of reasoning. ‘We’ll manage.’
Nicholas pressed onwards, running roughshod over the implied refusal. ‘You could send someone else. Jocelyn or Grahame? Miles or Amery? Didn’t DeHart say he enjoyed the country? He was an absolute hit at the last house party you sent him to.’ He was not going to the country. He avoided the country like a saint avoided sin.
‘Everyone is busy,’ Channing said with finality. ‘It has to be you.’ He gave a winning smile, the one that charmed men and women alike into doing whatever it was Channing required of them. ‘Don’t worry, Nicholas, the city will still be here when you get back.’
What could he say to that without saying too much? There were things about his life even Channing didn’t know. Nicholas drew a breath. ‘The letter says she’ll pay handsomely. How much?’ He knew the question signalled his concurrence. Still, better to retreat the field with polite acquiescence than to be routed from it with a direct order.
‘A thousand pounds,’ Channing announced quietly.
Nicholas gave a wry smile. He’d do just about anything for a thousand pounds. Even face his demons. There was no question of not going and they both knew it. That kind of money ensured his acceptance from the start. ‘Well, I guess that settles it.’ In a moment of insight, he appreciated Channing’s effort to at least let him think he could argue the situation.
‘I expect it does. Now, go pack your bags, I’ve arranged a post chaise for you. It leaves at eleven. You’ll be there in time for tea.’
Lovely, Nick thought with inward sarcasm, but he could see Channing was set on this. There’d be no getting out of it, so he played that old mental game: it could always be worse, although he wasn’t sure how it could be. Well, he supposed it could have been for longer, it could have been for the entire month.
Chapter Two
Sussex, England
Annorah Price-Ellis had a month to live. Really live. She could feel it in her bones and it wasn’t the first time. She’d been feeling it creep up on her since April and here at the last she was powerless to stop it. The inevitable was going to happen although for years she’d been in denial. Now it—even at this late point she couldn’t call it by its rightful name—stared her in the face, a big red date on her mental calendar.
Of course, she’d sought help. The experts she’d consulted all concurred with the same diagnosis. There was nothing left for her to do but accept it. Such news had forced her to make concessions and, along with concessions, preparations as well, which was why she sat in her sunny drawing room at Hartshaven on this beautiful June afternoon, prettily dressed in a fashionable new gown of jonquil muslin, looking her best and waiting, an odd occupation for someone for whom time was running out.
Annorah glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was nearly four. He would arrive any minute and her nerves were entirely on edge. She’d never done anything as daring or as final as this. As that damnable red date approached, she’d thought long and hard about what her final acts would be, what pleasures she wanted one last time. She was rich. She had piles of money. She could afford anything she desired: Paris, the Continent, beautiful clothes. In the end, all that wealth wouldn’t save her. She couldn’t take it with her without condemning her soul to a certain hell. So the question had loomed. What did she want? In her heart, it hadn’t been that difficult a question to answer.
She was thirty-two, at least for another two weeks, and past her prime by at least a decade. She didn’t feel it. She hoped she didn’t look it. She had very little to show for the last ten years, at least not when it came to the things a woman should have at her age—a husband and children. She’d been close a few times. Once, she’d managed to get her heart broken and another time she’d cried off, unwilling to risk a second heartbreak, or maybe it had been the lack of such a risk. After that, she’d retreated to Hartshaven, withdrawing from society a little more each year until it had been ages since she’d set foot in London and longer still since she’d taken an interest in anyone or anyone in her.
It was a lonely way to live. What she did have, however, was a beautiful estate in the country and piles of money to keep her company. What she lacked in social currency, she more than made up for financially. In terms of creature comforts, she had everything a woman could want, except a man. That was about to change. In a few moments, a man was going to come down the drive. She’d ordered him from London much as one orders a gown, and if she had misgivings about such a process it was too late now.
Annorah mentally went over the carefully drafted letter she’d sent one last time, every word committed to memory.
Dear Sirs,
I am looking for a discreet association with a man of breeding and manners. Must be clean and well-kept, an informed conversationalist—in other words, educated—and enjoy the quiet of the countryside. Will pay handsomely for five nights of companionship.
She’d
