The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)(7)
He’d ended the relationship with his on-again, off-again lover two years ago, and the only thing he regretted about that decision was that he hadn’t done it sooner. Still, it had left him at loose ends when it came to his physical needs. He didn’t relish the notion of paying for sex—yes, the height of irony—and while more than one of the wenches had offered their services gratis, he refused to take advantage of an employee. It also took more effort than he was willing to put forth to find a lover who was interested only in casual tupping when either of them felt the itch.
Besides, work was a demanding mistress and kept him busy.
Now there’s an excuse, he thought with wry humor. Next thing you know you’ll be pleading a megrim, you bastard.
The plain truth was that sex didn’t hold the shine it once did for him. Perhaps it was because of his profession, the fact that he spent most of his waking hours surrounded by carnality. Perhaps it was because he’d been fucking since he was fourteen, and sex had lost its capacity to surprise or titillate. Or perhaps he was just getting older: at six-and-thirty, the idea of yet another meaningless encounter roused not excitement, but a strange and unwelcome malaise.
Still, it wasn’t healthy to ignore his needs—especially when it led to unacceptable thoughts about the girl he’d once considered his younger sibling. He might not be a gentleman, but his motives toward Primrose were honorable and always had been. In fact, he wouldn’t have shown himself last night, but her reckless actions had given him no choice but to personally intervene.
At least Primrose hadn’t remembered him; for that, he was grateful. He had no business being around a lady like her. But he needed to keep her safe, to make up for the way he’d failed her all those years ago…
“Is my report boring you?”
Fanny’s brusque words cut through his reverie. It wasn’t the annoyed set of her features but the hurt in her eyes that gave him pause. If the bawd had one chink in her armor, it was that she hated when others underestimated her ability. He understood that—perhaps better than most.
“My apologies. Your work is of the highest caliber. My mind’s just on other matters.”
Looking slightly mollified, she said, “Care to talk about it—or, more precisely, her?”
He didn’t bother to deny it. There was no point with Fanny.
“It’s not what you think,” he said.
Fanny smirked. “When it comes to treacle tarts, dearie,” she drawled, reverting to their native Cockney slang, the marrow-deep language that no amount of elocution lessons could ever eradicate, “it ain’t ever is.”
“She’s not my sweetheart,” he said curtly.
“Surely you’re not distracted by mere bed sport?”
“She’s not that either.”
Fanny’s brows formed thin arches. “Pray tell, what is she, then?”
“She’s none of your concern.” Andrew rose to signal the end of that conversation. Striding over to the fireplace, he drummed his fingers on the mantel. “Now tell me of the progress with the Nursery House.”
Genuine excitement entered the bawd’s gaze. “Everything’s on schedule,” she said with clear satisfaction. “We’ll be moving the girls in by week’s end.”
With Fanny’s help, he was launching an initiative to deal with one of his trade’s biggest liabilities: pregnancy. Despite certain precautions he’d instituted at his clubs—vinegar sponges and rinses for his employees and, if the customer was willing, French letters provided on the house—conception was an unavoidable risk.
Being the bastard son of a whore, he ought to know.
Most pimps dealt with the matter by giving the wench a choice: get rid of the brat or be shown the door. It was a philosophy Andrew could not agree with—if for no other reason than that he valued his own existence. He couldn’t call Maria Corbett an exceptional mother, but she’d given him life, and he’d loved her for it.
Of course, her decision hadn’t been entirely selfless: she’d thought that she could exact payment for her bastard’s care from her royal patron. But, as she’d recounted to Andrew bitterly whenever she got into her cups, the Prince Regent had never been one to pay his debts.
Andrew didn’t know if his blood ran blue, but the rumor of his origins had given him a boost at the beginning of his career. High-kick ladies had enjoyed the novelty of bedding a blue-blooded gigolo. Aye, he’d fared better than most offspring of whores, a fact that had inspired him to build the Nursery House.
Located in nearby St. Giles, it was a place where his pregnant employees could pass their confinement and, afterward, where their children could be looked after if they chose to return to work. The Nursery House would provide lodging, food, and medical care for mother and child until they were ready to strike out on their own. As far as he was concerned, it would be a beneficial arrangement for all.
“The wenches are ready to move in?” he said.
“You can say that again. Sally Loverly’s as big as a house.” Fanny paused. “Says she plans to name the babe after you, if he’s a boy.”
“Tell her that is unnecessary. She’s a favorite amongst the patrons,” he said in brusque tones, “and I’ll be glad not to lose her.”
Three knocks preempted Fanny’s reply. Horace Grier, Andrew’s right-hand man and the club’s factotum, entered. A former seaman built like a warship, the gruff Scot kept Corbett’s in shipshape and didn’t suffer fools lightly.