What Happens in Piccadilly - Chasity Bowlin Page 0,41

you.”

Averston’s smile had chilled. “We shall see about that, Charles Burney. We shall see. Tell me, how are you managing this great expense when we both know you’ve pockets to let?”

“How else? Credit, of course,” Burney admitted.

Averston clucked his tongue. “You’ve overextended yourself.”

“My father did. I inherited more debt than funds,” Burney admitted. “But that isn’t Amelia’s fault. If I can keep up appearances just long enough for her to find a husband—I just need a little time.”

“And the ability to claim a friendly connection to a powerful duke would only aid her chances. Wouldn’t it?” Averston demanded.

“It would,” Burney said. “What do you want from me? Do you want me to beg?”

Averston pulled him closer. “No. You’ve pleaded your case well enough. I’ll consider it. But I’m done talking about your sister, Charles Burney. I’ve other plans for you.”

*

It was late. The wee hours of the morning, in fact. Burney rolled over in the bed and found it not only empty but cold. Averston was long gone and had been for hours. He tried not to be disappointed, not to feel used by the other man. But he did regardless. And the truth was that he had been used. Averston wasn’t the sort for sentimental attachments. They could share pleasure, had shared it and likely would again, but it would never be more than that. It was impossible anyway. He’d stated it very clearly. The man would have to find a wife and produce an heir. Burney was in much the same boat, assuming there was anything left in the family coffers for any would-be children to inherit.

Getting up from the bed, Burney began to gather his clothes, dressing quickly and quietly in the dim light that filtered in through the colored glass panes of the window. It was as discreet a location for a molly-house as one could ever hope for. Well protected, invisible to the outside world, the rooms all sealed behind locked doors. For men of their persuasion, that kind of security was hard to come by. He wondered if perhaps he’d ever be in that room again, or if having had his fill, the Duke of Averston was now done with him.

He sincerely hoped not. Cold, yes. Enigmatic, of a certain. But there was something compelling about the duke, something he couldn’t quite resist. Wanting a memento, something to remind him of the man and the hours they’d spent together, Burney moved toward the small desk that occupied one corner of the room. It contained a small writing box. Lifting the lid, he saw that the paper was of fine quality but lacked any distinguishing marks. Disappointment filled him. It was not Averston’s personal stationery but something discreet, intended for arranging assignations and communicating with lovers without risk of discovery.

Muttering a soft curse, Burney settled back in the chair once more. His eyes drifted to that discreet stationery as he wondered how many men Averston had entertained in that room. More than he wanted to consider, certainly. And when he was rotting in debtor’s prison, someone else would most assuredly be enjoying his attentions there in that lovely bower. He had to find a way to pay off the debts quickly and getting people to invest in his cousin’s scheme was clearly not going to do the trick.

But there was always another option. The portrait in the corridor of the duke’s residence came to mind, as did Montgomery’s lovely governess. The stationery, Burney thought, glancing back at it again, was also perfect for blackmail.

Broke, with no hope of raising the funds needed on his own merit, desperation had Burney reaching for one piece of the heavy paper and the quill and ink in their elaborate stand. He wrote carefully, camouflaging his own hand as much as possible. When it was done, he scattered fine sand over the surface to prevent the ink from smudging. With it completed, he slipped it into the pocket of his coat after donning it and quickly exited the secreted apartment via the same door he’d entered through hours earlier. On the street, it was still dark but dawn approached. The lamplighters were on the tail end of their nightly tasks and were now dousing the gas lamps and rapping on windows to wake those who paid for the service.

A small boy was assisting another boy, older and harder in appearance, a boy who had clearly seen far too much during his tenure on the streets. Taking a precious coin and