Slag bowed with some style of his own. “Lady Juliana, how kind of you to take time from your busy morning to see me.”
He hadn’t given her much choice, but she merely smiled and took the seat across from the one he’d occupied. “I’m afraid I am not at leisure to chat this morning, sir. My cook has given her notice, and as you no doubt can hear, I have hungry boys to feed.”
“Ah. No wonder you look”—his eyes traveled down her dress, lingering a bit too long on her breasts, all but on display in the ball gown—“out of sorts. May I be of some assistance?”
“Do you cook?” she asked.
He gave her a look of appalled shock.
“Then I’m afraid not.”
“What I meant, my lady, is that maybe I could find you a new cook. I’m well connected, I am. Maybe I’ll hire a maid for you too.” He didn’t look at the dust covering the table near him, but Julia knew he’d seen it nevertheless.
“I thank you kindly, Mr. Slag, but I have a maid”—though she only came once a week—“and I already have another cook in mind.” This was a blatant lie, but she knew that without a doubt it would be a mistake to put herself in Mr. Slag’s debt. She’d made that mistake once before, and she would not repeat it.
“Then maybe I could make a donation to the orphanage. I know what hardships these boys face.”
Julia raised her hand. “That is far too generous of you, Mr. Slag. I couldn’t possibly accept any more of your charity.”
He moved closer. “Then maybe you’ve given some consideration to my other proposal?”
The other proposal.
The proposal of… It hadn’t exactly been marriage. Lord, she’d hoped he had forgotten about that. When he’d propositioned her last week, she’d pretended she hadn’t understood what he meant.
Perhaps that tactic would work again. “I cannot recall another proposal at the moment, Mr. Slag, but I am ever so distressed this morning.” She rose. “If you could call another time—”
His hand came down hard on her shoulder, and she flinched from the feel of his leather gloves on her bare skin. “Allow me to remind you, Lady Juliana. I offered you my protection.”
“Thank you very much.” She slid out of his grip. “Now, if you will excuse—”
“Stop playing games. I am a man of business, and you are not a stupid woman. There are dangerous men about, and you and the children who live here need a protector.”
Julia didn’t need to translate his words. He was the dangerous man.
“I am offering you my protection for a small fee.”
Small fee? “I do believe you mentioned one thousand pounds, Mr. Slag. That is no small fee.”
“Your father is an earl.”
“Yes, and most of his money is tied up in lands.”
“There is another option.” He moved closer, his round belly brushing against her dress. “You can pay the fee by offering me a place in your bed. You’re an attractive woman.” His gaze slid to her breasts, making her skin itch. “And even the gentry like a bit of slap and tickle. What do you say, Julia?”
Though abhorrent to her, he made the proposal in earnest. He probably thought it more than fair, and if she had been another woman, she might have agreed without blinking an eye. Her father had tried to marry her off to men ranging from elderly to lecherous. What did Slag propose but a similar arrangement without the permanence of the vows?
But Julia had not come to Spitalfields to end up some man’s plaything. She could have stayed home in Mayfair and become a kept woman. Which meant her answer to Slag was an unqualified Never. No! Not ever.
But one did not say such things to Mr. Slag and walk away with one’s brains intact. Julia liked her head round, not smashed flat on the carpet. And so she smiled and chose one of the many phrases she knew and had used in the past on the sons of dukes and viscounts and lowly barons. “Sir, you flatter me with your proposal, but this is all so sudden.”
“Then maybe you just need a bit of persuading.” He reached for her, and she took a step back. Dear God. She dearly hoped this would not turn into him chasing her about the parlor. And why hadn’t she seen this coming? The problem was that she spent only part of the week within the walls of the St. Dismas Home for Wayward Youth—er, rather Sunnybrooke Home for Boys, as she had renamed it. And during that time, she was so absorbed with the problems of the boys and running the orphanage, she had no time to consider how to deal with Mr. Slag. And when she might have snatched a moment to deal with the problem, she had to return to Mayfair to be thrust into the world of the ton, and then Slag and Sunnybrooke seemed so far away.
But Slag was not far away now. He was far too near and her strategy of ignoring him and hoping he’d go away would not work this time.
She took another step back, and he followed, but she was saved from running behind her desk when someone tapped on the parlor door.
“Come in!” she yelled. “Please!”
The door opened to reveal Mr. Goring.
“Sorry to interrupt, my lady.”
“Not at all, Mr. Goring. Come in.” She crossed to him and pulled him inside. “You should join us.”
He frowned at her as though the ways of the upper classes were foreign and mysterious to him. “You have another caller, my lady.”
Julia frowned. Another caller? Who on earth would be calling on her here? Her friends had been forbidden to visit her here, and her father did not rise from his bed this early, and when she did see him, he preferred she go to him at their town house in Mayfair. It occurred to her that this caller might be one of Slag’s men. In which case, she would be in worse straits than at present. “Do you know the caller?”
“No, my lady. He says it’s a matter of—what was the word?—urgency.”
He? Then the thought struck her. It was a representative from the bank. Perhaps the board had made good on its threat not to pay the mortgage and the bank had come to close her down.
“Tell him to come back later,” Slag ordered.
“No!” Bank representative or no, whoever it was would be an improvement on Slag. “Show him in, Mr. Goring.”
Goring looked from her to Slag.
“Go on, Mr. Goring,” she said as forcefully as she could. “Show him in.”
“Maybe I should come back at a more opportune time,” Slag said.
“Please do, Mr. Slag. I am so sorry we were interrupted.”
“May I call on you tonight?”
“Tonight? No. I’m very, very busy tonight.”
He lifted his stick, then crossed to her and took her hand. At some point during their little dance, he’d removed his gloves, and as she’d removed hers in the kitchen, the press of his bare fingers on hers made her throat tighten.
“You can’t put me off forever, Lady Juliana,” he said softly. “Lest you forget, I’m a man who gets what I want. And the longer you make me wait, the more I want.”
With that, he strolled out of the room, jostling the man entering. The two stopped, looked each other up and down, and then with a warning glare, Slag went on his way.
The other man watched him, then strode into the room. “Friend of yours?” he asked.
Julia let out a breath, then caught it again. She blinked at the man before her, but she had not dreamed him. He was better than any dream her mind might have conjured. It was as though he had just stepped out of a painting depicting a god or an angel. He was tall but not so tall she had to crane her neck to look up at him, and he had olive skin with a touch of gold. His thickly lashed eyes were the most beautiful shade of blue she had ever seen. She had never been to the Mediterranean Sea, but this was what she imagined the waters would look like. His hair brushed his collar, the thick waves falling about his face. With a cupped hand, he brushed them back in what must have been a habitual gesture, then, seeming to remember his manners, bowed to her.