A Dangerous Liaison (The Dangerous Series Book 3) Read online

  A Dangerous Liaison

  Volume 1-3

  By L.R. Olson

  Copyright 2019 L.R. Olson

  www.LROlson.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy or each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Other Books by L.R. Olson:

  Historical Romance:

  A Dangerous Temptation

  A Dangerous Deception

  A Dangerous Liaison

  New Adult Books:

  The St. Clare Series:

  Seduction: Prequel, Free

  Redemption: Book 1

  The Terminal Series:

  Terminal 19

  Adult Contemporary:

  The Southern Gents Series:

  For Hire: Book 1

  Cover by Beverley Kendall

  A Dangerous Liaison

  Volume One

  Chapter 1

  Ginny

  “Mr. Fought. Mr. Fought, do slow down!”

  “No time, Ms. Smith. No time.”

  I gritted my teeth to keep from cursing the old man to hell and back. Blimey bastard. He was doing his best to leave me behind, darting around crates like a rat scurrying after a morsel. And like a rodent, he knew the best places to hide.

  I twirled around a weaving machine, waving aside the white fluff in the air, and finally caught him near the double doors. Not one person glanced our way to cheer on the antics, they were too worried about losing a finger to the machines.

  “What do ye want, lass?” he growled, barely audible over the whirl of wheels. “I’m a busy man.”

  I gripped the money in hand and held it high in outrage. “Mr. Fought, why am I short?”

  He flung the doors wide, a bitterly cold breeze sweeping inside, tearing at my skirts, and giving short reprieve to those hard at work. “You know why, Miss Smith.”

  He raced outside onto the loading platform, trying to escape. As if he could escape me. One had to be fast when they lived in the slums. Pickpockets, drunks, even murderers. He wouldn’t get away. “No. I don’t know.”

  Realizing I wasn’t going to give up, he spun around and pointed his pudgy finger at me. The action caused him to stumble back, slipping on ice, and teetering dangerously close to the edge of the dock. Just what I needed…to be accused of murder. “Monday, ye were late.”

  I reached for his sleeve and jerked him back to safety. Late? By five minutes? The greedy arse. Would be my right to push him down the steps he was currently maneuvering. I’d been working here a year and was a prime employee.

  Well, perhaps not prime, but good.

  Damnation, very well, decent enough. I raced down the steps after him. “I need that money.”

  Freddie stood outside, half-hidden behind a pile of crates as he snuck a smoke. Mr. McKinnon would be furious if he caught him. Seeing me, he grabbed himself. “I has a way you can make some coins.”

  “Sod off,” I muttered. “If I ever take a man, it will be one who bathes more than twice a year, and has more than a farthing to his name.”

  With a glare, he bit his thumb.

  The men here were all the same: they’d bed anyone who would have them, whether it be a girl not quite sixteen, or Mrs. McNare down the lane who was eighty if she was a day, and missing all but two teeth. Tupping and drinking were the only two pleasures for those who lived in this wretched hell. That, and the occasional bout of fisticuffs.

  “He’s getting away, Ginny,” someone called out.

  Sure enough, Mr. Fought hopped down the last step. I lifted my skirts and raced after him, ignoring Freddie’s hoot of delight. The idiot. “Mr. Fought, I am rarely ever…”

  He somehow managed to dive around the corner of the massive brick factory before I could catch hold of him. I’d never seen the lazy man move so quickly. No doubt he’d pocketed my lost wages and didn’t want to get caught in the fib.

  “See here, Mr. Fought.” Determined, I raced around the corner after him. “I will not tolerate…”

  The sudden appearance of Mr. McKinnon drew me up short. Sucking in a sharp breath, I froze only a few steps from him. It was as if he’d appeared like magic from the bowels of this hell. The devil himself. A handsome devil. I swallowed hard and dared to peek up at him. Even the scar that crossed his left cheek only added to his appeal.

  He was more than intimidating with his hard eyes, void of emotion. The only thing human about him was the spicy, manly scent that clung to his pressed suit, bringing heady relief from the noxious odor of unwashed bodies that pervaded the factory floor.

  “Is there a problem?” His voice was deep, smooth. Even his questions were demands, not truly worthy of response. “Miss Ginny?”

  Heat rushed to my face. He knew my name? Why? How? I shifted, uneasy, and hid the money behind my back. He had hundreds of workers, surely he didn’t memorize all their names. It made me feel uneasy, to say the least.

  Of course, I couldn’t tell him the truth about my lost wages, and then he’d know I’d been late last week. Mr. Fought had probably raced this way on purpose, realizing the owner would be making his rounds. “No, Mr. McKinnon…Sir.”

  He had the soulless gaze of a man who would do anything for success, and probably had. A man amongst a sea of boys. He couldn’t have been more than five and twenty, but he had the look in his eyes of someone who had lived a long, long time. The sort of man who had done unthinkable things to survive.

  A shiver raced down my spine. If I was going to find a protector, I would sleep with a man like him. A man who would pay well, but keep his distance. At times it was tempting…so damn tempting, to forget the misery of life in a kiss. To lay in bed with a warm, clean male. To have enough money to fill my belly and forget the cramps of hunger. And I only had to sell my innocence. Not that he’d asked…

  “Good.” He turned and swept away, like a storm cloud off the harbor. How very peculiar he was. Then again, the rich could afford to be odd. Even the rich who had clawed their way up from the Dublin slums, or so the rumor went.

  Bemused, I searched for Mr. Fought. The courtyard of ice and crates stood empty. The world outside quieted as the next shift started. The bastard had managed to escape. A soft rain began to fall. The sort of mist that always seemed to hover near St. Giles, making icy puddles and mold.

  I clutched the money in my hand, growling in annoyance. As Aunt Helen used to say, what was done was done, no use in crying about it. I would survive, as I had before. I left the factory courtyard, under the arch of the brick fence that kept us here like glorified prisoners, and headed down the lane.

  “No problem,” I muttered to myself, shoving the money into my bodice where it would be safe. “I’ll merely not eat this week.”

  Avoiding a pile of frozen horse manure, I found the footpath and headed toward home. Fishmongers stood at the corner, trying to sell their wares before the fish went bad, or the rain turned to sleet. The entire lane smelled of the sea and rubbish. Thinking back to the quaint two bedrooms I shared with Aunt Helen was almost too much to bear. It had been small, but cozy and clean. She’d always made sure we had enough to eat, my gowns were pressed, and my face washed. But that was in the past.

  Bleedin short with my wages. If only…

  “Ginny, Ginny!” a golden-haired moppet pounced around the corner. “Mummy is ill again.”

  “Franny, I told you not to jump out at people! Gah, you’re likely to get a knife to the gut one of these days.” She stared up at me with wide, unblinking eyes. Too pretty for her own good. She was only twelve, but I’d already noticed men glancing her way.

  She clutched at her belly, her arms thin and smudged with dirt. “She’s ill, Ginny, and we’re ever so hungry.”

  I sighed. Ill? More like bleedin drunk. Wastrel. “Did you try waking her?”

  Two men stood on the street corner, watching us. I sent them a glare, before gripping Franny’s arm and escorting her into the small alley that led to our rooms. “Aye, I tried waking her. She just mutters. It’s been two days, Ginny, since we’ve eaten.”

  As if she’d willed it on purpose, her stomach growled. I slipped my hand into my bodice and dropped a couple coins into her dirty palm. “Go then, run to the bakery and grab a couple buns.”

  She grinned, her eyes alight with life and anticipation. “Thank you.”

  “Mind you, get the day-old buns and you can buy more. And no talking to anyone!” She raced around me, her hungry stomach urging her on. “Go directly there and back.”

 
“Yes, Ginny.”

  She scurried off, disappearing around the corner, leaving me in the dark alley, where the buildings were too tall and the dreariness too thick to allow much sunlight. Not that anyone truly wanted to see what lurked in the corners. The squeak of a rat scurrying through a pile of rotten food startled me from my reverie.

  “You’re too kind, gurl,” an old crone in rags muttered. She’d been huddled there the last few days but had rarely spoken a word. I’d thought her mute. “Can’t be kind here.”

  I tugged the handkerchief from my head, letting the evening breeze cool my sweaty neck. “I don’t know. My auntie said that kindness is all we have here. We certainly don’t have anything else. We have to look out for each other.”

  The old woman snorted.

  I smiled, not taking her response personally. Everyone had an opinion, and it was quickly and easily given. But I’d always made up my own mind. I dropped a couple coins in her lap. What did it matter? I didn’t have enough for our lodgings anyway. “Enjoy a warm meal.”

  The woman lifted her surprised gray eyes to me, a face lined with the cracks and creases of age. What had she seen? What had she gone through in such a long, long life? I swallowed hard. Before I knew it, I would be her. No family. No money. No home. Too old to do anything but beg. It was a bleak, bleak future.

  “I won’t thank ye. Didn’t ask fer it.”

  I had to bite back my laugh. “I don’t mind.”

  Dismissing her from my thoughts, I reached for the door. The scent of unwashed bodies and washed clothing hung in the air of the building. I glanced up. Four floors, and we were at the top. The view was best up in our garret room, and in the summer when we opened the windows a cool breeze swept inside. I’d hate giving it up. But on days like today, when my legs ached from exhaustion, I wished I didn’t have to climb so many stairs.

  Gripping the battered railing, I moved up the steps, dreading each floor closer to the room I shared with Violet. The wooden boards creaked and groaned, threatening to give under my weight. Dirty, infested, smelly, but this was home. Had been for five years now.

  “You fucked her, you bleedin bastard!”

  Mr. and Mrs. Miller were fighting again. The walls were paper thin. At times I thought if I pressed my hand too hard to the plaster it would break through. Their argument was a familiar sound, almost like a lullaby for a babe. A hacking cough pierced the walls of the next room. Mrs. Welling had been feverish for a week. When one person in the building was sick, we all got ill.

  I ducked under the clothes that were half-frozen, hanging on a rope to dry in the hall, and made it to the room I shared with Violet. I could hear her humming inside. She’d come from the country over a year ago, a sweet and dreamy lass. I’d found her being pickpocketed in Covent Garden. She’d lost her entire, meager savings.

  Normally, I would have continued on my way, but something about her purity pulled, reminding me of a time when I’d been almost as innocent. I’d taken her in and gotten her a job in the factory. She was optimistic despite our circumstances. She kept me laughing, sane and full of hope when it should have been dashed away years ago. But even Violet had her limits, and being tossed onto the streets would no doubt break her heart.

  A rat darted across the step. They didn’t make me jump anymore, although Vi still screeched like a stuck pig when she saw them. Taking in a deep breath, I opened the door. She stood by the windows, gazing out at the moon attempting to make its appearance through the fog. “Vi, I have something…”

  She spun to face me, her curly red hair twirling around her like ribbons on a maypole. “I got us a new position.”

  Delighted, she skipped to the middle of the room, her hands clasped tightly together, her face full of happiness and anticipation. Lord, she was the very definition of an innocent country lass. What would she do without me? I closed the door and rubbed the back of my neck. Damnation, the room was cold, and it would only get worse the closer to Christmas.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, unbraiding my hair and heading toward the window. “I didn’t know we were looking.”

  She danced around me. “In a fancy house, Ginny.”

  I stiffened as I stuffed my handkerchief into the hole under the window, trying to keep out the piercing breeze. She’d always been so sure we would escape this place, but up until now I hadn’t bothered to believe in her impossible dreams. “As servants?”

  She flushed, emboldening the few freckles across the bridge of her nose, and I felt the utter brat for letting my pride dampen her joy. “Well, yes, but better than getting our fingers torn off from the machines! Or developing bad lungs!”

  “Vi, I won’t…” I hesitated, my arrogance warring with my practicality. The wind whistled through the cracks, a high-pitched, eerie sound that reminded me of the ghost stories Vi and I told when the nights were too cold to sleep. I’d sworn I would never be a servant to anyone. But truth of the matter was we hadn’t paid last month’s rent, and now we couldn’t pay this month. We’d be kicked out onto the streets for sure. It was either become a servant, or a whore. “I dare say the pay is lower than at the factory.”

  She sighed. “A little. But Ginny, we’ll live in a fancy house. Not have to worry about room or food, no fleas, no lice…so as I figure, we’ll actually be able to save some.”

  Unfortunately, she had a point. A good one. “Go on then. You say?”

  She grinned her wonderful smile, so full of laughter and mischief, and I couldn’t help but smile back. “Clean bed. No bugs. Fancy, warm home. Good food. Bellies always full. And just think, maybe we’ll catch the eye of some handsome gent who will sweep us off our feet.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Vi, that’s something only in books.”

  “Gah.” She started to unbutton her bodice. “I’m not expecting a duke, but no reason a baron or such wouldn’t take a fancy to us. Surely you, at least.”

  “Yes, perhaps he’ll take a fancy to us…to be his next paramour, not his wife. Besides, I’d rather find a way to support myself and not rely upon any man.”

  She shrugged off her dress, standing in her shift. She’d lost so much weight since she’d arrived over a year ago, not that she ever complained. “You’re no fun.”

  “And you’re too romantic. Besides, I thought you were interested in Mr. McKinnon,” I teased.

  My jest, however, had the opposite effect. Violet went pale, her eyes shaded. “Don’t be silly.”

  “’Twas merely a jest.”

  She turned her back to me and shuffled together the few pieces of scrap paper she’d found to write her stories on. Sometimes at night, she read her stories out loud before bed. Lovely tales of dashing heroes and brave heroines. Romantic stories of true love. She moved to her small cot on the floor. Most of the women would have given their right arm for a chance at Mr. McKinnon.

  “Did he try something, Vi?” I snapped. Rich gent or not, I’d kill the bastard with my own fingers. “Did he—”

  “Nay. Of course not,” she muttered, sliding under her thin blanket. “It’s merely obvious he only has interest in one woman at the factory.”

  I found her comment odd, but didn’t have the patience to pursue it. I merely wanted to see her smiling again. “Right. Say I’m interested in this position you procured.” She rolled toward me as I settled on her bedding, her grin back in place. “Scoot over, it’s too bloody cold to sleep alone. What’s the catch?”

  She moved over as much as her small mat would allow, and I curled up against her. “No catch. We work hard, listen well, and be obedient.”

  “Oh dear,” I sighed. “As we both know, that might be a problem for me.”

  ****

  Gabriel

  “Get your lazy arse out of bed.”

  The words did not stir him. Christopher merely continued to lay there snoring; a naked woman curled up on each side. Oblivious. Idiot. My restraint was near to breaking. If he wasn’t my brother, I would have tossed him exposed into the winter for all of London to see.