Page 71 of Scandalous

His face twitched at the memory of the night in question. Who knew the entirety of what he had said while in his cups? She did, apparently.

“I shall tell you what I did not tell you that night. I, too, was sold into this life.” She nodded at his startled look. “Yes, the English not only sell Africans into slavery, but their own kind, as well. The market for young girls and boys always flourishes, a fact my three sisters and I learned to our detriment.” She paused, her expression unreadable.

“My point in telling you this is to let you know that I do understand you. Better than anyone. You and I think we know what the world is, but we only know one dark corner of it. Your missionary isn’t from our corner. Perhaps she is what you need. Or maybe you will tire of her once you finally possess her.” Venetia shrugged, her outlook on the subject as practical as it would be on the matter of purchasing a joint of meat or a flagon of wine. “In either case, it ill behooves you to hide here, avoiding the situation. We might be whores, Captain, but we are neither of us cowards.”

Martín was too stunned to speak. Kicked out of a brothel by a madam. Who would have thought it possible? He looked at the decanter of brandy and then set down his glass without finishing what remained.

“Can you recommend a comfortable hotel?”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Sarah stared at her reflection in the glass as her maid applied the finishing touches to her hair. She wore the sky blue ball gown Lady Ramsay had insisted on buying for her. The heavenly hue made her freckled, sun-browned skin glow and turned her mousy hair a golden honey brown.

The neckline was rather lower than she liked, but she knew it was modest compared to those of the dresses her contemporaries wore. She felt that her uncles, both somewhat conservative, would not approve of many of the necklines she had seen.

Sarah smiled at the thought of her uncles. Who would have believed such dry countenances could conceal such generous hearts? The two old bachelors had never found time to marry. As a result, they took a close interest in their nieces and nephews, and Sarah was no exception.

Sarah had learned much about her father in the few weeks she’d lived with his older brothers. Michael Fisher had been born late in his parents’ lives, the youngest of six children.

“We all indulged him horribly, I’m afraid,” her uncle Septimus admitted.

“Our parents allowed him to pursue his medical studies even though they believed it no better than barbering. But they drew a line at his interest in Nonconformism and hoped Michael would grow away from such beliefs if given enough time,” her uncle Barnabus explained, describing the family schism.

“He might have if he hadn’t met your mother,” Septimus added.

The three of them were discussing the matter after dinner one night in her uncles’ vast house on Charles Street.

“Your mother strengthened his resolve. As a parson’s daughter she had the courage of her convictions, and it was just the motivation Michael needed.”

It was plain to see how much the two old men had cared for her father. Sarah also saw how much they blamed her mother for leading Michael Fisher into missionary work. She didn’t have the heart to tell her uncles she was of the same mind as her parents.

She could not live in England.

At first, she’d been afraid she would become so enamored of the sparkle and glamor of London that she’d forget all about the promises she’d made to her parents. But it had taken only a few weeks for her to see this was not the life she wanted.

Although it had felt treasonous toward her uncles, who’d welcomed her so warmly into their lives, she’d not been able to resist meeting with the head of the missionary society that had funded her parents so long ago.

She’d explained who she was and what had transpired in her village and had then presented her idea of returning to Africa and resuming her parents’ work.

The elderly man had looked at her with scorn on his haughty face before thoroughly rejecting both Sarah and her plans.

“I’m afraid we cannot help you, Miss Fisher. It is my opinion you’d do better to apply your misguided enthusiasm to some more suitable cause, like acquiring a husband and children.”

Another four meetings with different organizations had yielded similar outcomes.

If Sarah was to get back to Africa, it would not be with the assistance of a missionary society.

“There you are, miss.” Cooper’s voice pulled Sarah’s thoughts from her failed ventures.

Sarah smiled at her maid in the mirror. “Thank you, Cooper, you are a miracle worker.” She adjusted her gauzy wrap and collected her reticule, wishing she viewed her first ball with more anticipation. It was no use lying about the reason for her lack of interest. It was six feet of stubborn male beauty that went by the name of Martín Bouchard.

She arrived downstairs to find her Aunt Anna—the oldest of her father’s sisters—waiting for her.

“You look lovely, Sarah,” her aunt said, and then commenced to chatter on about the evening ahead. Her aunt had already married off her own daughters and had gladly accepted the role of chaperone, no matter how foolish that might be given the fact that Sarah had been on her own for several years. Still, it made her uncles happy, so Sarah accepted her aunt’s offer, even though Anna was a rather frivolous woman and they had little in common.

Her uncles’ carriage waited to take them to Exley House, the town house of the Marquess of Exley. A footman helped them into the luxurious vehicle, and she relaxed against the squabs while her aunt conducted a conversation that required no responses from Sarah. Tonight was not only her first ball; it was also going to be the first time she danced in public. That was if anyone asked her.

Although Daphne would have rather spent her days reading, she’d been unflagging in her support of bringing Sarah into society, even going so far as to teach Sarah to dance.