“A man of my stature has considerable expenses to maintain his upkeep while he seeks a new position,” he continued. “I’m merely asking for a little help.”
“I cannot secure you another position,” she said, “and my husband is unlikely to recommend a man of whom he knows nothing.”
“Perhaps I should acquaint myself with Mr. Hart to further his knowledge of me.” He smiled, revealing even white teeth, and his tongue flicked out, moistening his lower lip.
Her stomach rippled with apprehension. “Georgie, please,” she said. “He wouldn’t welcome an acquaintance.”
“Then, I must seek recompense.”
“I don’t understand.”
He let out a laugh. “My poor foolish lover, you never did understand. Yet, look at you now! I’ve worked hard to achieve my current status. All you did was prostitute yourself into a wealthy man’s bed.”
“I did no such thing!”
“I care not,” he said. “What matters is that you have the means and incentive to help me. What say you to a small stipend to keep me afloat until I no longer need it?”
She shook her head. “I can’t…”
He gripped her arm. “Yes, you can, Megs. Hart’s wealthy enough to buy half of London. His social status is rising, despite his origins. I wouldn’t think he’d relish the prospect of his wife’s whoring being made public knowledge. Is that incentive enough?”
She tried to pull free, but he tightened his grip.
“My husband knows I was with another man,” she said. “Say what you wish, and be damned!”
He let out a laugh. “There it is!” he cried. “The language of the gutter. Once a scrubby bastard, always a scrubby bastard, eh?” His smile disappeared. “Is poor, trusting Dexter familiar with the old adage that bastards beget bastards?”
“Let me go,” she said. “You’re hurting me.”
“Not until I have an answer,” he said. “Does he know that his wife bore another man’s child?”
Her stomach shriveled into a knot, and she swallowed as a wave of nausea rippled through her.
“Of course, I’ll never know whether the child was mine or not,” he said. “Who knows how many men you spread your legs for? What became of the brat? Did you sell it as your father sold you? How much does a bastard fetch these days?”
She drew her hand back to strike him, and he caught her wrist.
“Careful, lover,” he said. “My face is an asset in my profession. You wouldn’t want to incur further expense by marking it.”
Titan whined at her feet and strained on the lead. Georgie aimed a kick at the little dog, and she jerked the leash away.
“Don’t touch him!” she cried.
“Are you prepared to be reasonable?”
“What do you want?”
“A mere trifle compared to your husband’s wealth. Shall we say a thousand pounds?”
A thousand!
“Georgie, I cannot!” she cried. “I don’t have such a sum.”
“You can pay me in regular installments, say, fifty pounds a week? Surely your beloved gives you pin money?”
“Nowhere near as much.”
“Then you’d better get creative in the bedroom, my dear, and find ways to encourage his generosity. How much do you have now?”
She reached into her reticule and pulled out a sheaf of notes. “Twenty pounds.”
He snatched the notes and pocketed them. “That will have to do,” he said. “I’m prepared to remain silent if you return next week with the next installment.”
“I can’t ask my husband for fifty pounds,” she said. “He’ll wonder what I want it for.”
“That’s your problem,” he said, “and it’ll be eighty pounds, given that your first payment was thirty short. Of course, if you’re able to procure the full thousand, then I’ll consider our business concluded.”
“I say! Mrs. Hart!” a voice called. Meggie turned and saw Oliver Peyton striding along the path.
“I thought it was you,” he said. He glanced at Georgie, curiosity in his eyes. “Who’s this fellow?”
Georgie bowed. “George Hanson, at your service, sir,” he said. “I was assisting this—lady—here, in a matter concerning the training of her dog. Is that not right, Mrs. Hart?”
Meggie glanced at Oliver and felt her cheeks warm under his scrutiny.
“Yes, that’s right,” she said. “Thank you, Mr. Hanson.”
“The pleasure was all mine,” Georgie said. “I must be going. But I look forward to meeting you and your dog next week as arranged.”
He issued a bow and disappeared along the path.
“May I escort you home, Mrs. Hart?” Peyton asked. “You look unwell.”
“No, I’ll be fine, thank you,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble.”
“Nevertheless, I insist.”
Before he could protest, she picked Titan up and, cradling him in her arms, strode out of the park. Only when she arrived home and handed her dog over to Charles did her heart stop fluttering.
The prospect of meeting the man who’d ruined her, each week, was too much to be borne—and it carried the risk of her being seen. But how could she persuade her husband to part with a thousand pounds?
***
The afternoon stretched into evening, and Dexter hadn’t returned home yet. Alone, with nothing but her imagination for company, Meggie grew restless. What was Georgie planning? Would he carry out his threat if she didn’t give him the money? And would Mr. Peyton tell Dexter he’d seen her with a man?
At length, her fears got the better of her, and she made her way into Dexter’s study where he kept her pin money. She knew she only had to ask for it, but what if he asked what she wanted it for? She’d struggle to lie convincingly, especially to a man such as Dexter, whose striking blue gaze could penetrate her soul.
Her heart thudded as she slid open the top drawer of his desk. Her husband valued trust and honesty above all, and she’d pledged her honesty several times. But she quaked at the thought of him discovering that she’d borne another man’s child—he’d made his views abundantly clear on the matter.
A sheaf of notes was stacked neatly in the drawer. She picked it up and counted them. Just over ninety pounds. It wouldn’t silence Georgie for good, but it was enough to buy his silence for a week.
She spotted an envelope in the drawer with directions penned in Dexter’s bold, clear hand.
Mrs. John Farrow
London Lane
Croxleigh Green
Hertfordshire
The envelope was unsealed. With trembling fingers, she opened it. A note was inside covered in Dexter’s handwriting, together with five-pound notes.
While she suffered guilt from deceiving her husband, was he deceiving her also?
“Margaret?”
She squeaked at the voice and looked up.
Dexter stood in the doorway. He lowered his gaze to the envelope in her hand.
“That’s a private letter,” he said, his voice dangerously quiet.
“I haven’t read it.”