The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)
Grace Callaway
Prologue
1816
Easing from beneath the naked woman, Andrew Augustus Corbett left the bed. He froze, muscles bunching, as she stirred beneath the red satin sheets… still asleep—Praise Jesus. A widow twice his age, she’d put him through his paces. He had ample experience with the voracious ladies of the ton and hadn’t been surprised by her appetite, but it had made him reconsider how he charged for his services.
As he tugged on trousers and boots, belting a dressing gown over his bare torso, he mused that he ought to be compensated for satisfaction given rather than time spent in a patron’s company. After all, he’d brought the lady in question to climax a half-dozen times: no small feat by anyone’s standards. Stamina was never a problem for him—by virtue of his hot-blooded nature and his expertise in his trade—but his expenditure of energy should count for something, shouldn’t it?
He glanced at the bed: in her sleep, the widow stretched toward the place he’d vacated like a cat seeking a sunny spot. Another satisfied customer. Yes, he’d definitely talk to Kitty Barnes, his employer and lover, about upping his fees. Like any commodity, pleasure lost worth when it was sold too cheaply. At eighteen, he’d been in the business long enough to know that he had to make the most of his prime years.
And if I want to make it past my prime, he thought darkly, I’d best secure us that extra blunt.
Kitty had made some disastrous decisions in the past year. Despite his advice, she’d expanded her business with reckless abandonment. When her string of brothels failed, one after another like a line of dominoes, she’d compounded her error by betting on even riskier investments. Now she was up to her ears in debt to Bartholomew Black, a cutthroat not known for his patience.
Last week, a dove had appeared on her doorstep, a note tied to its snapped neck: Pay—or face the consequences.
His chest clenching, Andrew closed the door behind him, his booted feet striding down the empty corridor. At this early hour, guests and employees of the bawdy house were sleeping, and he welcomed the stillness. The momentary solitude in which he didn’t have to charm or cajole or be anything but what he was. A man with worries. A man who could no longer staunch his fears—for his lover, himself… and the girl in their care.
His gut knotted at the thought of Primrose. At four, the blonde tot was as bright as her namesake, her sweetness as unexpected as a flower springing up in the stew’s dirty streets. Wherever she went, her charm and sweet songs made strangers smile; hell, she’d even wound her way into his jaded heart. She was the little sister he’d never had, and he was determined to protect her innocence—in and of itself a bloody miracle, given her murky origins.
Three years ago, Kitty had brought home the infant girl, surprising Andrew—his older lover wasn’t what you’d call the maternal sort. Kitty’s brisk explanation had cleared up any confusion: some rich cove was paying her to take care of his by-blow. Personally, Andrew thought a man could do better for his daughter (even if she was a bastard) than placing her with an infamous bawd, but who was he to judge?
He knew nothing about fathers. Self-deprecation twisted his lips as he treaded up the steps to Kitty’s private suite. He’d neither met nor been acknowledged by his own putative sire; the only thing he had from the man was his middle name, which Kitty had fashioned into part of his nom de plume.
The world knew him as Augustus Longfellow. A better man might cringe at the crude moniker, but Andrew didn’t fool himself: he was no gentleman. Honor and pride were luxuries he couldn’t afford. He was a survivor, one who’d parlayed his every God-given asset—Longfellow wasn’t false advertising—to make his way up in the world.
As his departed mama had put it, If you have it, sell it.
But it would take his less obvious gift—the one between his ears—to keep his ragtag clan of three safe. Over the years, he’d stashed away some savings, gifts and the like from grateful customers. He’d kept the money a secret from Kitty for pragmatic reasons. Whilst his paramour had many talents, fiscal responsibility wasn’t one of them, and there was no use throwing good money after bad. He didn’t have enough to clear her debts, but if he invested wisely, he might be able to appease Black with regular payments.
Thus, he’d been keeping his eyes and ears open for the right opportunity…
Shattering glass pierced his reverie. For a moment, he froze, staring at the projectile that had smashed through the window. A bottle—fire spewing from its rag wick.
“Bloody fuck!”
The words exploded from him as he sprinted to the window, yanking down a curtain, using it to beat down the flames spreading over the carpet and floorboards. He whacked at the fire as it strained hungrily toward the tinder all around. He fought off the conflagration—then heard more glass breaking, followed by terrible thumps, the whoosh of air being consumed.
Heart thudding, he spun around: the corridor—littered with flaming bottles.
Everything was ablaze.
Holy hell.
“Kitty!” he shouted. “Fire!”
The door at the end of the hall flew open, revealing a night rail-clad Kitty.
“Dear God.” The inferno raged in her wild gaze. “It’s Black, he’s after us—”