Simon looked suitably impressed. "And how did you accomplish that remarkable feat?"
Hesitantly Noelle began to tell Simon of her early days. He listened intently, totally absorbed in her narrative. Before she knew it, she was speaking of her times with Sweeney Pope and of his tragic death. Although she hardly spoke of Daisy, from the few remarks she did make, Simon was able to obtain a fairly accurate picture of her relationship with her mother. He was most interested to learn that Daisy had been a demimonde, not an old street crone as he had first imagined, for the germ of an idea was beginning to take root in his mind.
"When I was twelve, I knew I couldn't pass as a boy much longer, so I had to find another trade."
Simon leaned slightly forward in his chair. There was a tenseness about his handsome mouth; he found himself unexpectedly reluctant to hear what he knew she was going to tell him. It suddenly mattered to him very much that this spirited young girl was supporting herself as a prostitute. But the story Simon heard was not the one he expected.
Instead, Noelle told him how she had become a pickpocket, describing the old coat she had hung above her head in the tiny corner where she slept. She spoke of her hours of practice while the others who shared her cramped quarters were asleep-pulling a handkerchief out of various pockets, trying not to move the coat. For weeks she had repeated the movements until she was finally satisfied. Then she had substituted a smaller piece of cloth. Finally a stone that lay deeper in the pocket.
Noelle's forehead puckered as she remembered the months of practice. "That was a long time ago," she said, her tone dry. "Since then I've established a reputation for myself." Looking him squarely in the eye, she challenged, "Some say I'm the best pickpocket in Soho."
Simon swallowed hard at this. She seemed to have no conscience, no sense of having done anything wrong. My God, was she as proud of being a prostitute as she was of her times as a pickpocket?
Noelle defied his silent censure. "I didn't have any other choice, you know. It was picking pockets or being a whore, and nothing could ever make me be a whore." A shadow crossed her face. "Nothing, that is, until your son came along."
"My son!" Simon exclaimed. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I understand what you just told me." His eyes took in her costume. "Are you saying, then, that you are not a…a prostitute?"
"Mr. Copeland," she said softly, "until last night, I was a virgin. I only dress like this to distract the men so I can pick their pockets."
Simon was incredulous. What had Quinn done to this child? Although he barely knew her, he did not doubt her, for he knew his son too well. Somehow she had become entangled in Quinn's net of revenge, an unwilling victim who had been deeply injured.
He got up from his chair and settled himself beside her on the sofa. "Tell me what happened, Noelle."
Noelle looked into his handsome face. She did not want his pity, but he deserved to know what kind of man his son was.
She told her story ferociously, as if the telling alone would ease her anguish; it poured from her. As she repeated the conversation she had overheard between Thomas and Quinn, Simon's face set into hard, chiseled planes, and she was once again struck by the resemblance between father and son, especially as she saw a ruthlessness in the older man's face that had been absent before.
When Noelle described pulling a knife on his son, Simon felt a brief moment of regret that she had not found her mark. My God, he'd like to kill Quinn himself for this! Noelle had a good memory and could accurately repeat most of Quinn's discussion with Thomas about marrying her. Simon appreciated what Noelle did not really understand-the stunning perfection of Quinn's revenge.
Was it so wrong for a man to take pride in his name? Simon wondered. To want that name to be respected? What was so absurd about asking Quinn to marry a woman of grace and breeding who would bear proud sons to carry on the Copeland name? God damn it! Quinn had made Simon's honest aspirations seem foolish and pretentious.
The idea that had been only the faintest impulse before began to take shape in his mind. If this was the kind of game Quinn was going to play, he would soon find out that he had badly underestimated his opponent.
Noelle's voice faltered as she began to speak of her arrival at Quinn's lodgings.
"You don't have to tell me about this if it's too painful." Simon spoke more gruffly than he had intended, but he did not want to hear any more.
"I have to tell you. You're his father." Noelle looked at him levelly, but not accusingly. "Whatever happened between the two of you has spilled over and poisoned me."
Again, her voice faltered, catching in her throat, but she was going to tell him, make him understand. She would speak about this ugliness she had kept hidden for so long. Only then could he really understand what had happened to her last night. She clenched her fists and dug her torn fingernails into her palms.
"After a while, Daisy's mind… She wasn't right in her head. She'd bring men back to our room. Lie with them. And they'd hurt her. They'd hit her and… and do things to her. She'd sometimes beg and cry. Other times, she wouldn't even make a sound, just lie there. I knew then that I'd never let a man touch me. That's why I carried my knife." Her eyes bored into Simon's. "I want you to know that I would have killed him and laughed when he died."
Simon made no visible reaction to her savage pronouncement. "Go on," he said. Now he wanted to hear it all, know the truth of what his son had done. He wanted to hear the worst so he could justify the revenge he knew he was going to take.
Noelle would not meet his eyes. She stared past him and continued her story. "He ripped off my clothes and told me to take a bath. I've dreamed of a bath like that as long as I can remember. Hot water with the steam coming up from it, soap that smelled so good, you almost wanted to taste it." She laughed, but there was no merriment in the sound.
"I was unlucky enough to have my dream come true. I had my bath all right, but with him sitting there, watching me with eyes like the devil. He had his legs stretched out in front of him and was sipping his brandy as though he didn't have a care in the world. Just watching me as if I weren't even a real person, as though I had no feelings.
"Then he got up and turned out the light. He picked up the towel, threw it across the room out of my reach, and pulled me out of the tub. I tried to back away from him, to tell him I wasn't what he thought, but he wouldn't listen. I fought him, but he held my hands, pushed me onto the bed. Then he was all over me, ripping me apart." Her eyes were hard and bitter as she turned to face Simon. "Mr. Copeland, I know now that I'll die before I ever let any man touch me like that again."
Now it was Simon who would not look at her. He stood and walked to the book cases that stretched the width of the library. Running his index finger down the spine of one of the leather- bound volumes, he finally spoke, his voice filled with emotion.
"Noelle, what happened with you and my son was ugly and twisted. It was an animal coupling, the act of a stallion mounting an unwilling mare only by virtue of his superior strength. But lovemaking between a man and a woman does not have to be like that. It can be beautiful and full of tenderness."
He turned toward her, but he no longer saw her; another face swam before him. He saw warm dark eyes and hair like rippling black silk. "Some will say that only men enjoy the act of love." His voice rose with the depth of his conviction. "But that's a lie. I have seen such joy on the face of a woman that I knew it shone from her heart. It was magical, something to be treasured forever."
Simon had revealed himself much more fully than he had intended, but it was all for nothing. He saw by Noelle's closed expression that it was useless to try to explain further. Her bitterness formed an unbreachable wall that encircled her. Once again he became businesslike as he crossed to her, his hands clasped behind his back.