Sinful. Charlotte Featherstone

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      “I would like posing for you,” she whispered. “Are you up for it tonight?”

      Christ, he was already hard and straining. The effects of the absinthe and the euphoria of getting six thousand for his painting only made the ache more unbearable. “The question is, my dear, are you up for it?”

      Her lashes fluttered, concealing eyes nearly as cynical as his. “That, my lord, depends on what you want.”

      “You. Tied up.”

      Taking the now-empty glass from him, she set it down on the arm of a chair. “That will cost extra, of course.”

      He smiled, one he knew could only be described as world weary. “It always does.”

      “I have a room upstairs. With a delightfully large bed.”

      “What of a wall?” he inquired as he trailed behind her, assessing her hips, which swayed erotically beneath the tawdry red satin. “It’s my usual preference.”

      The woman gazed back at him as she headed for the stairs. “For another ten pounds.”

      He nodded in agreement. What was ten pounds when faced with fucking in bed? It was an investment in pleasure and what little of his sanity still remained.

      “You’re an odd duck,” she said to him, her painted eyes softening in the glow of the wall sconce. “Broken, I think.”

      “Broken?” He laughed. “Madam, I am completely and unequivocally damaged beyond repair. Don’t bother to try to fix me. I’m utterly ruined and fit only for the rubbish bin. Now, where the blazes are you taking me?” he asked as the absinthe began to find its way to his brain, making his thoughts fuzzy. Maybe a bed would be all right tonight. He was drunk enough, he supposed.

      “Just a little farther up,” she whispered.

      “That’s the exit,” he barked, trying to clear his vision. “I thought you said you had a room upstairs?”

      “Well, I lied,” she snapped in a voice that turned from siren to spinster. “I’m broken, too. Now hand over your money and your jewels and be quick about it.”

      He laughed at the absurdity of her trying to rob him, then snarled as someone came from the dark shadows and shoved him out of the club and into the alley. “Now, guv,” came the cockney accent, followed by a thick arm around his throat and the stench of foul breath and rotten teeth. “Give us the goods and we’ll let you live.”

      “Oh, what a treat,” he drawled. “Another morning. A new, mundane day. You do know how to depress a man, don’t you?”

      He felt the man turn to glance at the woman, no doubt silently questioning Matthew’s mental state.

      “I don’t know,” his would-be assignation spat. “He’s as mad as a hatter but rich as Croesus.”

      “Right and wrong, love. Mad, indeed. Rich? ’Fraid not.”

      The man holding him paused and loosened his hold a fraction, allowing Matthew to get in his surprise left hook.

      “Ow! ’E broke me nose,” the man cried, stumbling back. Matthew was on him, using the skills he’d honed over the years studying pugilism. He was as big as an ox with the stamina of a stallion—the frail cockney indigent would be no match for his fists.

      “Afraid you chose the wrong target, mate. I’m no weak guvnor. I’ve boxed for the past ten years.”

      There was an angry cry from the depths of the alley, followed by three more ruffians who emerged through the darkness. Fists flying, legs kicking, Matthew fought them off even through his drunken haze.

      Wait till he got his hands on that bitch, he thought savagely as he landed a jab into the throat of one of the thieves.

      He was about ready to dispatch the last by planting his fist in his face when a glimmer of white whisked past his right eye. In a blinding whirl, he felt something crash against his temple. The last thing he felt was the slime-covered cobbles of the alley as his cheek cracked against them.

      “Pick him clean,” the woman ordered. “I saw the winning bidder come up to him. I’m certain he passed him some money. Once you’ve found it, make it so he won’t be identifying me.”

      Chapter Two

      The stench of the wards was always a little overpowering at the beginning of the shift. But tonight it was particularly putrid. The scent of excrement, vomitus, death and disease was literally breath stealing.

      Two full pails of water and a pair of mops were placed at her feet—the water too clean to have been put to any use.

      “Have you washed the beds and walls yet?” Jane asked the two petulant nurses standing before her.

      “Whot fer? They only piss on them again.”

      Jane glared at the one, a brunette with a comely face and sinfully curved body. She’d come from the workhouse after being arrested for prostitution. It was clear that the idea of nursing the ill and dying was less appealing than that of selling her body for coin. But for Jane Rankin, a woman of suspect birth, an opportunity to have any sort of respectable job was her idea of heaven.

      “When you arrived here, I explained your duties thoroughly. At the beginning of the night you’re to clean the beds and walls before you begin your rounds.”

      “And what’s it yer doing, Miss Hoity-Toity, when we’re breaking our backs cleaning?”

      Jane straightened her spine. Illegitimate or not, she still had a measure of her aristocratic father’s arrogance. “I am head sister of the ward. Your superior,” Jane stated, prickled by the woman’s insolence. “I take this profession very seriously. If you have no respect for it, then you may leave.”

      The new nurse seemed to settle her ire, although anger still flashed occasionally in her eyes. “I like the pay. I ’ate the work. Besides, it’s nothin’ but worn-out whores and old washerwomen doing this work. It’s not like yer an archangel saving lives. More dies in ’ere than lives.” She snorted with amusement. “And alls the men want a tup with their sponge bath. Don’t see ’ow this is any more respectable than whoring.”

      “Stop that talk,” Jane commanded. “If we’re to make a go of this, then we must adhere to a strict code of morality and respect. If we want others to see nurses as something other than worn-out women, then we must first believe in the profession ourselves.”

      The pair of them snorted. “And whot would the likes of ye know about bein’ on the outs, earnin’ yer coin by spreadin’ yer thighs?”

      Jane softened a bit. “I know enough. My mother was a working girl.”

      “Yeah? Well it’s not the same as when it’s you gettin’ pawed for a pence.”

      “I am well aware of that. And here is your chance to make your life better. You’ll see, in a few years nurses will be respected. As much as a governess, or a…a tutor. Now, go on and see to your duties.”

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