Beauty Tempts the Beast Read online

  Dedication

  To Lenora Bell

  For the friendship, conversations, brainstorming, and stories that keep me reading late into the night

  And to Chris Simmie

  Who gave me an appreciation for all things Scottish

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Announcement

  About the Author

  By Lorraine Heath

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  London

  Early November 1840

  The frantic knocking woke Ettie Trewlove from her first restful sleep in days. Her three lads, each only a few months old, were at various stages of teething, which made them a grumpy lot, but tonight for some inexplicable reason they were sleeping like angels.

  The rapping continued. With no hope of it stopping unless answered, she tossed back the covers and climbed out of her bed. After turning up the flame in the lamp on the bedside table, she carried it with her to light the way as she passed by her dear boys, smiling at them snuggled against each other in the small crib. They’d soon be outgrowing it, and she’d have to make other accommodations for them.

  Shuffling to the door, she opened it a crack and peered out, surprised to see a woman, a little younger than her own twenty years, standing there, a blanketed bundle cradled tightly in her arms. Until tonight, only men had made the deliveries.

  “Are you Ettie Trewlove, the woman who takes in bairns born out of wedlock and sees them well cared for?” Hope and fear wove themselves through her thick Scottish brogue.

  Ettie nodded. A baby farmer by trade, for a few pounds each, she took in by-blows no one wanted, sparing their mums the shame and challenges their presence would have brought them. “Aye.”

  “Will you take my lad? I’ve only a few shillings to leave with you, but you won’t have to keep him long.” With her wide, dark eyes, she glanced around quickly. “Just until it’s safe. And then I’ll be back for him.”

  A few shillings would see him fed for only a couple of weeks, and she had three others in need of food. Still, she set the lamp on the table beside the door, opened it wider, and held out her arms. “Aye, I’ll take him.”

  The young woman eased aside the blanket and pressed a kiss to the sleeping babe’s cheek.

  “What the devil did you do to him?” Ettie asked in dismay.

  The stranger jerked up her head, held her gaze. “Nothing. He was born this way. But he’s a good boy, will give you no trouble a’tall. Please don’t turn him away. You’re my last hope for protecting him from those who wish him harm.”

  Ettie knew some people believed children born out of wedlock were born in sin and should be denied breath.

  “I don’t blame babes for things that aren’t their fault.” If she did, she wouldn’t have found herself with three born on the wrong side of the blanket. Now four. She wiggled her fingers. “Hand him over.”

  Taking care not to wake him, the lass—the lamplight caught her fully, showing her to be more girl than grown—gently placed the lad in Ettie’s waiting arms. “Promise me you’ll love him like he was your own.”

  “’Tis the only way I know how to love a wee one.”

  With a tremulous smile, she pressed the coins into Ettie’s palm. “Thank you.”

  Turning away, she took three steps before glancing back over her shoulder, tears now glistening in her eyes. “His name is Benedict. I will come back for him.”

  The words were spoken with fierce conviction, and Ettie wasn’t certain who the lass was trying to convince: Ettie or herself.

  The young woman darted into the thick fog and quickly disappeared into the shrouded darkness.

  And Ettie Trewlove kept her promise. She raised the lad as though he were her own and loved him as only a mother could.

  Chapter 1

  Whitechapel

  December 1873

  The woman didn’t belong here.

  Not at the Mermaid and Unicorn, not serving spirits.

  Sitting at a small table near the back of his sister’s tavern, Benedict Trewlove—known throughout Whitechapel as Beast—knew that assessment to be true with absolute conviction, just as he knew he’d never planned to be a brothel owner.

  But when he was seventeen, working the docks, with fists the size of ham hocks, sixteen-year-old Sally Greene had asked him to look out for her as she plied her wares on the streets. A gang boss was extorting protection money from her. She’d decided Beast wouldn’t insist on taking most of her earnings like Three-Fingered Bill. She’d been correct.

  Beast hadn’t wanted any payment at all, but from time to time he’d found extra coins tucked here and there in his clothing. Sally was skilled not only at lifting her skirts but at picking pockets as well, often doing both at the same time. He suspected it had gone against the grain for her to be stuffing coins into pockets. But he never embarrassed her by confronting her about it. He accepted the copper and silver with grace.

  When a few of her friends asked the same of him, he’d found it easier to watch them if they were in the same spot, so he’d let a few rooms. Doing so had the added benefit of keeping them warm in winter so they seldom took ill, which in turn increased their earnings. Eventually, he was leasing an entire building for his girls. Now he owned it.

  God always rewards a man for doing good, his mum had often told him. But in his experience, rewards came when a man applied himself—even if what he applied himself to was sometimes frowned upon by those with a higher moral standard.

  The woman he now observed would no doubt do quite a bit of frowning. She looked the type. Sounded the type. Her posh, distinct diction indicated nobility born, bred, and raised.

  Her clothing, as well. The fabric, cut, and workmanship of her simple gray frock was exquisite, although he’d wager that she’d lost a little weight since it had been purchased. While the other serving maids bared a good bit of their cleavage in hopes the customers would leave a few extra coins, she was done up as tight as a drum, buttoned up to her chin, down to her wrists. Her hair, pale as moonbeams, gathered up in a rather untidy knot that had failed to keep several strands secure, so they now teased her delicate cheekbones, was the only thing about her that appeared inelegant. Her posture was perfect, her stride graceful as she made her way back to his table after asking what she could bring him a few minutes earlier.

  Parting her lips slightly, releasing a quick gust of air that sent the rebellious strands of her hair flying, she set the tumbler in front of him. “Here you are, sir. The bartender indicated there’ll be no charge.”

  While his sister wasn’t here tonight, seldom worked within these walls any longer after becoming a duchess, Gillie didn’t expect him to pay for food or drin
k, just as he didn’t expect her to pay him for the transport on his ships of alcohol she’d purchased from beyond England’s shores. Trewloves didn’t charge Trewloves, nor did they keep an accounting of favors done.

  The barmaid started to turn—

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  She swung back around, a tiny pleat forming between her delicate dark blond brows that framed the most unusual blue eyes he’d ever seen. A deep blue with the tiniest streaks of gray. “Bringing you your scotch.”

  Shaking his head, he waved his hand in an easy manner to encompass their surroundings. “I mean in Whitechapel, working, specifically in this tavern. Every aspect of you screams Mayfair.”

  “None o’ yer bleedin’ biz’ness,” she retorted in perfect Cockney. “Is that better?” Perfect Mayfair.

  Presenting him with her back, she marched off. Admiring the view as well as her huff of indignation, he took a long, slow swallow of scotch. She had spunk, he’d give her that. She was also correct. She was none of his business. Still, he was intrigued. She was too refined for the coarseness of this place. She’d look more at home in a ballroom, a garden, a stately manor house. She should be waited upon, not be the one doing the serving.

  He liked for things to make sense. She didn’t make sense. Until she did, he was going to be tempted to uncover, unravel, and solve the mystery of her.

  Althea Stanwick knew he was watching her, could feel the touch of his gaze as though he was walking beside her with his hand pressed against the small of her back.

  She’d noticed him the moment he strode into the tavern. It was as though every molecule of air had shifted to accommodate not only his considerable height and the breadth of his shoulders, but his confidence and bearing as well. The man prowled about as though he feared nothing, possessed the power to topple empires at a whim.

  She’d been both enthralled and unsettled. Then he’d taken a chair at a table near the back that was her responsibility, and she’d felt as though someone had given a hard yank on the lacings of her corset, crushing her ribs until she could barely breathe.

  Servicing other customers, she’d put off approaching him as long as she could. Finally, she’d made her way to him, knowing he was taking in every aspect of her as she was him. His thick black hair brushed past his collar—lighting upon those broad shoulders as though the strands wished to eternally caress them—and was styled in such a way that a portion of the right side of his face was covered, which made him appear more mysterious, a man who possessed secrets and was extremely skilled at keeping them.

  Something about him seemed familiar but she couldn’t quite place how she might have come to know him. Perhaps she’d passed him on these streets that after three long months were finally becoming familiar, or he’d come in another night and not sat at her table. Although she couldn’t imagine forgetting him if she’d ever seen him at the Mermaid. “What may I bring you, good sir?”

  A barely perceptible widening of those onyx eyes that had steadfastly been studying her with an appreciation that had caused her to sound a bit breathy. “Scotch.”

  His voice had been a deep rumble that had shimmied through the entire length of her, like the warm and comforting sensations she experienced when she came in from the bitter cold and approached a blazing fire. She’d been disappointed that he’d uttered only a single word. But then when she’d returned with his drink, he’d shown an interest in her past, which was a secret she was skilled at keeping because if anyone learned the truth—

  It did not bear thinking about.

  As she now wended her way among the tables after leaving him, she decided he did not bear thinking about.

  An arm suddenly whipped out, wrapped around her waist, and rudely jerked her off her feet so she landed hard on a sturdy lap comprised of thick thighs. His other hand going to places on her person it most certainly should not, pinching what she’d given him no permission to pinch, the young man grinned broadly, his eyes filled with mischief. “What ’ave we ’ere? Who ye be, me lovely?”

  Reaching back, she grabbed a nearly full tankard resting near the hand of one of his mates and proceeded to dump its contents over his ginger head. With a curse and a yell, he abruptly released her. In all due haste, she scrambled off his lap and beyond his reach. “Pardon my clumsiness. I’ll get you another.”

  She’d have rather conked him on the side of the head with the tankard but knew she was going to be in enough trouble as it was. The Mermaid prided itself on how well it treated its patrons, regardless of how many or how few coins lined their pockets. Striding quickly, she made her way to the bar and slammed the pewter tankard down on the polished woodgrain. “Guinness.”

  The bartender, who also managed the place, sighed as though she was the bane of his existence, probably because she was. “I’ve told you before, you can’t be dumping beer over heads.”

  It was the third time she’d done it since she started working here ten days earlier. She considered defending her actions but had done so twice before already and received no sympathy whatsoever from him, just a stare that hardened with each word spoken, so she merely nodded in acknowledgment of the undeserved scolding. Until recently, an admonishment had never been directed her way. She didn’t much like being treated with so little consideration or having her opinion carry no weight, but then there was a good bit about her new life that she didn’t favor. As a matter of fact, there was nothing at all about it that she did.

  “I’ll have to take this pint out of your weekly earnings.”

  Striving to reflect contrition so she wouldn’t find herself dismissed, she nodded again. At this rate, she was going to have no weekly earnings.

  “Jimmy pinched her bum, Mac,” Polly, another one of the serving girls, said. “I saw it.”

  “How could you have seen it, Polly? You were standing right there.”

  “I’ve got good eyes.”

  “Not that good.” He turned away and began filling the tankard.

  Polly looked at her sympathetically. “They was just having a bit o’ fun.”

  “But it’s not any fun at all, is it?” She was certain Polly of the ample cleavage had endured her share of being dragged onto laps. Although she might not have minded. She was forever laughing and flirting with the chaps, seeming to have a grand time doing something that Althea disliked with every fiber of her being.

  She was disappointed to see the large fellow she’d only just served leaning down to say something to the cackling Jimmy. Probably wanted to ask what her bottom felt like. But then Jimmy abruptly stopped laughing. She’d heard of people turning as white as a ghost but had never seen anyone actually do it. Until now. Jimmy looked as though the man had effectively and quickly leeched all the blood from his veins.

  “Jimmy won’t be touching you no more,” Polly said with a bit of triumph, “now that Beast has had a quiet word with him.”

  “Beast?”

  Polly looked surprised but nodded. “Yeah. The big bloke.”

  The big bloke who didn’t even look back as he strode out through the door. She wondered how he’d come to have that moniker because to her eye he was anything but beastly. Devil would have served him better as he was devilishly handsome, his features strong and bold.

  “Who is he when he’s at home?” Althea asked.

  Polly gave her a pointed look. “Someone you don’t want to cross if you know what’s good for you.”

  Althea rather wished she’d had that bit of advice before she’d had her previous encounter with him. She was relatively certain he hadn’t been happy about her response to his question, so she doubted whatever had caused Jimmy to blanch had anything to do with her. Perhaps he owed the man money.

  Mac placed the tankard on the counter. “Polly, why don’t you take Jimmy his brew?”

  “Would be better if Althea did.”

  She’d wanted to kiss Mac when he’d passed the task off to Polly, wanted to scowl at Polly for refusing, but knew it was unfair f
or the other barmaid to have to take on her chores. After picking up the tankard, she edged her way between the tables until she reached Jimmy’s. He and his mates were staring at the surface as though they’d never seen wood before and were striving to decipher how it had come to be. Without uttering a word, she set down the tankard.

  “I’m sorry,” Jimmy blurted.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  With eyes big, wide, and fearful, he looked up at her. “I’m sorry. Shouldn’t ’ave done it. Won’t do it again.”

  She tried not to let her surprise show. “I very much appreciate that and your apology.”

  “You’ll tell Beast, right, the next time ’e comes in, right, you’ll tell ’im I said I was sorry, a’right. Don’t need me fingers broke.” His words tumbled out, one after another, no breath or pause between.

  She suspected she had no success at all hiding her astonishment this time. He’d threatened to break the man’s fingers? His chums were still not looking at her, had hunched their shoulders in an attempt to make themselves smaller, possibly hoping to avoid her scrutiny. “Yes, I’ll let him know.”

  “Jolly good.” Taking the tankard, he began gulping the contents.

  She wasn’t certain she blamed him. Nor was she certain why the stranger had stood up for her, but couldn’t deny taking a great deal of pleasure in his efforts at being her champion. It had been far too long since anyone, other than her brothers, had taken a stand to defend her.

  She made her way to the large gent’s table to retrieve his empty glass. When she reached it, she saw the sovereign resting there. Picking up the glass, she started to walk away.

  “That’s for you.”

  She glanced back at Rob, who was wiping down a nearby table. Usually, the tall, slender young man collected everything off the tables and gave them a thorough wiping down, but since the customer hadn’t been there long enough to make a mess, she’d thought to spare him the trouble. “I’m certain he meant it for you, for cleaning up after him.” A more than generous donation for the service.