Chapter 3
A
fter Percy went downstairs to celebrate the sale of his house with Yates, Lucy tossed and turned for hours, bunching up her tear-stained nightgown. In a fit of pique, she tore it off her head and tossed it on the floor. Now she was as naked as God made her. She supposed He’d known what He was doing, she thought doubtfully, but sometimes she wondered why He had not quite finished the job.
Around three o’clock, with the church bells bonging melodiously throughout Mayfair, Lucy stalked out of bed and headed for the whiskey she kept in her cupboard. This night—this morning, now—required strong drink to get through. Unfortunately she’d had to water down the ‘water of life’ to make it last, but it was better than nothing. Shoveling some coals on the fire, she sat naked, drank, and grimly surveyed her future.
She might seek employment with a milliner in town—she wasn’t well-known like Harriet Wilson and her sisters and would not be recognized. Percy hadn’t wanted to be seen everywhere with her except when he ordered their clothes at their private dressmaker’s appointments—he wanted to keep a low profile and wear his corsets and clocked stockings in privacy. Of course the Janes—the other courtesans on Jane Street—would know she had spent six years of her life here, but they were famously discreet. If Sir Simon Whoeverhewas didn’t like her—and how could he, she thought, looking down in the flickering firelight at her long, angular body in disgust—she would have to make alternate plans.
She was
not
going to keep thieving.
She drank her glass, then poured another. The bells struck four. By five she’d run out of whiskey and coherent rumination, and crawled back in bed.
And that is where Sir Simon Keith found her at nine o’clock.
He knew he was unconscionably early, but he was a busy man. It was best to start the day as early as possible, because, while he had invented a great many things, he still hadn’t figured out how to add hours to the clock. He’d rapped at the front door of the little house with no result.
But Lord Ferguson had given him a key, so he used it. A gust of wind blew leaves in on this bright October day, and he bent to pick them up and put them in his pocket. He may have been raised in a hovel, but he liked things neat now. The leaves joined the collection of roller bearings which kept his hands occupied when he wanted to think.
And this house was very neat, although not as furnished as he expected it to be. Empty squares on the tastefully papered parlor walls revealed where pictures used to hang. There was a sofa, one chair, an embroidered footstool. Double doors to a dining room led to three spindle-back chairs but no table. He examined the carpet—worn—and could see the impression where once the feet of a long table had rested. He pictured himself—after buying new furniture—having jolly parties with his mistress and men of industry who needed a light evening to be cajoled into investing in his enterprises.
She would be a clever girl, pretty, diamonds sparkling at her throat, sitting at the head of the table and charming the pants off the other gents. Not literally, though. Simon had standards, and he didn’t like to share. Ferguson had said his mistress was exceptionally tall, and Simon liked a tall woman. He was such a big brute himself he’d always felt awkward covering some little dab of a girl. Lucy had been perfect for him, and he’d grown four inches and gained three stone since he ran away from her. Good food and plenty of it had that effect.
Simon sighed, running his finger along the banister. No, he didn’t run away from
her
, but the circumstances. He’d be quarrying rock in Australia if he hadn’t slipped away.
Or worse.
Where was everybody? The house was dead silent. He knew Ferguson was in dun territory, but surely there should be a maid somewhere for his mistress.
“Hallo!” he called at the bottom of the stairs, and waited.
Nothing. Maybe Miss Dellamar bunked it, not wishing to be transferred along with the deed to the Jane Street house. He could see her point. It was slightly distasteful, and he wasn’t altogether certain he’d keep her on anyway, no matter how lovely Ferguson said she was.
But if they suited each other, it would save him the bother of finding a mistress. He’d been without a woman for too long. All work and no play had made Simon a very dull boy indeed. He was entitled now to a little fun.
Each Jane Street house was a little jewel box, holding a jewel of a woman. His prospective gem might not be at home, but there was no reason not to inspect the house. He’d visited an acquaintance for a gathering down the street a few doors down—there were only twelve houses in the cul-de-sac—and the floor plans were identical.
He climbed the carpeted treads. The first door at the top of the stairs led to a cozy sitting room. He entered, finding it filled with a good quantity of books piled haphazardly on rather homely furniture, the kind of stuff you might find in a country cottage, definitely not a brothel. Chintz and lace and what-not, feminine frippery. He was surprised there was no long-haired cat cluttering up the space. He picked up a book and read a few lines—bah, women’s stuff, some rubbishy novel meant to turn your mind from your troubles. Ruined castles and anguished dukes. Sheer nonsense.
A half-finished straw capote—Simon was well-versed in ladies’ hats—sat on a faceless form, strips of ribbon and hatmaker’s tools laid neatly on a round table beside it. How quaint that Percy’s mistress made her own hats, although judging from the form, her head must be enormous.
Good. He hoped she had brains. He wouldn’t want to be saddled with some empty-headed female. He was too proud of his own efforts to educate himself, late as they had come. Simon wanted someone to discuss the changing world with him after he’d fucked her, someone to tell his dreams to. He’d heard Jane Street girls were not only beautiful but brainy, the crème de la crème of courtesans.
The door to the bedroom stood ajar, and Simon looked through the opening.
Blast
. He’d presumed everyone was out of the house. But there, on the middle of the mattress was Lord Ferguson’s sylph-like mistress, Miss Dellamar—a Long Meg if he’d ever seen one. She slept—and snored—on her back, her face obscured by the corner of a pillow. Her covers and nightgown seemed to be crumpled on the floor, so he could look his fill with no obstruction to the rest of her.
Her skin was very white, as white as the sheets. She had no breasts to speak of, which did not bother him as much as it might have. His Lucy—well, there was no point in remembering what she’d looked like, but she had been small up top like this woman. Lord Ferguson’s mistress had a thatch of bright strawberry-blonde hair at her apex, about the same color as the braids that splayed on the bed. Titian red, just like in the painter’s portrait of Mary Magdalene, he reminded himself, now that he knew something about art. He supposed it was fitting that Miss Dellamar had hair like a Biblical prostitute.
Lucy’s hair had been reddish too, but in their brief time together he’d never had the luxury of seeing it loose, falling down her back. In fact he’d never really seen her naked at all—just the odd few inches of skin as they hurriedly took their pleasure in one another in back streets and doorways in the dark.
The closest they’d come to a bed was in the back room of the hat shop when her aunt had the gout and was resting right upstairs. There had been an old stuffed chair—lemon yellow, it was, and he’d put Lucy on his lap. The look on her face had been comical until she realized what she could do. They’d been quiet with difficulty, and poor Luce was a nervous wreck thinking the old battleaxe would come limping downstairs any minute with every gasp she took.
Stolen moments for the boy who stole.
He could make all the noise he wanted now in this house—it was his, or would be in six days. Simon had the signed bill of sale in his pocket. Ferguson had wanted to give his mistress a chance to make other arrangements if Simon didn’t like her, or vice versa. He wouldn’t try to charm her if she took one look at him and shuddered. He was handsome enough—no one had complained—but he was one braw Scot, big enough to frighten away half the people he met.
Once he’d wanted to scare people into them giving him their valuables without a fight. Now he just wanted to get their money as investors, and it wouldn’t do to have the ton think he was some unlettered savage.
If Miss Dellamar woke up right now, she’d probably toss the pillow at him and more besides. It wasn’t very gentlemanly of him to stare at her nakedness when they hadn’t even been introduced, even if she was a whore. He’d come back later.
Simon took one last look around the bedroom. An empty bottle of whiskey stood on a little table in front of the fireplace. Lord Ferguson had said nothing about his mistress being a tippler. If she was, she’d have to drink alone. After he learned of Lucy’s death, Simon had lost himself for a bit. He couldn’t bollix up all his business plans again. Clearheaded at all times, that’s what he needed to be. And he had to admit looking at this woman’s glorious body, his mind was becoming somewhat foggy.
Aye, he’d come back later. After noontime, when she’d slept off her drink and was dressed like a proper tart. He had plenty of things to keep him busy until then.
He reached in his pocket for the key so he could lock up and not leave her prey to someone who had less self-control than he had. His hand came upon a leaf, pale red the color of Miss Dellamar’s hair.
It was a sign, he thought. What it meant he didn’t know.
Chapter 4
L
ucy awoke with a pounding headache. She was freezing, too, her coals being long cold. There was no maid to bring her hot chocolate or hot water or hot anything. Cross, she snatched up her night rail from the floor and shoved her head through the opening, then covered herself with her warmest woolen robe. Her hair was a horror of half-braided tangles, so she twisted it all up in a kerchief and tied it under her chin. She put on two pairs of thick socks for good measure. Percy would not approve of her ensemble, but damn Percy anyhow. At least she was warm, or would be.
“Yates! Percy!” she called as she descended the stairs.
When she got down to the kitchen, the stove was cold too, and there was no sign of the lovers in Yates’s empty bedroom. Since the cook had decamped, young Yates had been splitting the cooking duties with her, and Lucy found a covered dish filled with apple tarts on the sideboard. She bit into one greedily as the clock chimed noon. Not enough cinnamon. But then, everything had been rationed here for months.
Lucy supposed this Sir Simon could supply her with plenty of cinnamon, and anything else she might want. Right now, all she wanted was to get warm. She tossed some coal into the stove and lit a match with the tinder box. Her hands were black, but she was too dispirited to wash with cold water. Huddling up against the fitful stove, she waited to defrost.
Thank heavens Sir Simon had not come calling. She was in no state to meet him, or anyone. Where were the men? It was not like Percy to rise early when he stayed the night, but she supposed it wasn’t early anymore.
Lucy left the comfort of the stove and took a closer look at Yates’s room. All signs of his personal affects were gone.
Blast
. Perhaps Percy was getting Yates settled at Portman Square. Yates would be under-butler during the day, and over-butler at night if Percy could conceal his activities from Countess Ferguson. Lucy had her doubts. The woman was a ferret and looked like one too.
Lucy really
was
alone. Percy had been so sure than she would suit Sir Simon he’d left with his lover. Lucy paced again, this time for warmth, sliding a bit on the tiled floor. She had knit the socks herself—one could only decorate so many bonnets in six years, even for two people. She really was quite domestic, she thought as she put the kettle on. By now she should have a husband and several children, but one was unlikely to meet husband material living with a cross-dressing earl as his faux mistress.
But she’d had her advantages and couldn’t fault Percy for trying to shore up the Ferguson fortune. Life was expensive and fickle.
Lucy poked a nose outside the tradesman’s door while she waited for the kettle to whistle. It was a lovely fall day—the sky was a brilliant blue, but there was a nip in the air which made her close the door in a hurry. There had been quite a few unpleasant transactions at the step the past couple of months—and at the front door too—which Yates had handled with his usual aplomb. He really was a very fine butler who never batted an eyelash when presented with an irate bill-collector or Percy in a ruffled scarlet ballgown.
The clang of the knocker at the door above broke into her solitary reverie over her tea and second apple tart.
Blast
. If it was Victorina come for her brooch, she was too late. Lucy took another sip of tea and examined her painted nails. They were chipping, another sure sign of the destitution that was to follow if she did not accept Sir Simon’s protection. If he offered it.
After three minutes of excessive banging, the ensuing silence was deafening. She waited another five minutes to make her way upstairs with a pitcher of warm water for her ablutions. A sponge bath was better than nothing.
Mindful of the sloshing water, it was not until she collided with the giant at her bedroom door that she realized her defenses had been breached. She shrieked and tossed the pitcher and its contents at her trespasser. The nerve of these dunning leeches to break into and enter her home for some trifling debt!
Well, perhaps not trifling. Percy, and she by association, really were up the River Tick.
“Lucy Dalhousie!”
For the longest minute she just stared at the giant, her brown eyes wide. She hadn’t heard her own name in six years, and had been perfectly content to let Percy change it—what her parents had been thinking of she had no idea. Dellamar was so much more musical, so refined. When she found her voice, she croaked, “Simon
Grant
?”
“Sir Simon Keith now. The name Grant was too hot back then, so I enlisted in the army under my mother’s maiden name. I—I thought you were dead. Your aunt said—well, it doesn’t matter! I canna believe my eyes!” He was grinning rather idiotically, the babbling bounder, even as he drew out an expensive handkerchief and mopped the water away from his incredibly broad chest. “What are you doing here?”
“I l-live here.”
“Are you Miss Dellamar’s maid, then? I never pictured you in service, Luce. You were always such a fiery, spirited little thing.”
Little
? Lucy now knew the true meaning of tongue-tied. She believed hers was in a French knot. She unraveled the knot just slightly.
“
You
are Sir Simon? The Sir Simon Percy—I mean Lord Ferguson has sold his house to?”
“The very same! I’ve risen up in the world quite a bit, Lucy. I came to tell you five years ago, but that aunt of yours told me you’d passed away. Did you run off? No one could blame you—she was a wicked old bit-bat.”
“I—” Lucy looked around the doorframe wildly. Tiny black spots floated in front of her eyes, quite distorting Simon’s handsome face. His bright blue eyes—the color of the sky she’d just observed a short while ago—his firm jaw, his white smile—he was grinning at her like a looby!—his broad shoulders clad in dark blue superfine—she slid to the floor in a faint. It seemed like the right thing to do while she gathered her far-flung wits about her.
Simon was alive.
Not in prison.
He had come for her five years ago.
He was a knight.
Impossible.
He was looking to set up a mistress.
Her!
“Come now, lass! I know it’s a shock, running into me like this.” His laughter boomed. “And you did run into me, no mistake. I’m sorry I scared you, love. Wake up, now.”
Lucy was not going to wake up. She wondered how long she could lie on the floor with her head in Simon’s lap before he called for a doctor.
He was loosening the belt on her robe, palming her forehead, pulling off the kerchief. Suddenly her head clunked on the floor.
“What’s this?” he growled. “Lucy Dalhousie, your hair!”
Lucy cracked open one eye. The man was standing over her, twirling a leaf in his hand.
“Uhhh,” she groaned. Her head truly did hurt, from the whiskey and the careless way Simon had stopped tending to her and dropped her.
That was just like him. Here today, gone tomorrow.
Gone for seven years with no word.
Staring at her as if she was a dead silkworm on a mulberry leaf.
She struggled to sit up. “I’m sorry my hair isn’t tidier. I wasna expecting company, especially you after
thirteen
years.”
“Surely Lord Ferguson told you I was coming.” His tone was icy now, and that dazzling smile had disappeared.
Lucy lifted her chin. “I cannot recall.”
“Oh, really? You cannot recall you had an appointment with the new man who was going to offer you another
carte blanche
?” His French accent was atrocious.
“Percy says a great deal of nonsense.”
“Percy, is it? You are not the maid here, are you, Lucy? No wonder your aunt said you were dead. Och! The shame of it!”
Lucy sprang to her feet and punched Sir Simon
Keith
in the chest, the third time she’d hit a man in the same spot in less than twenty-four hours. “Don’t you dare talk to me of shame! You were a thief! A liar! A seducer of innocents! I’ve only done what I had to do to survive.”
“Fuck that fop? Really, Lucy, I would think you’d have better taste than Lord Ferguson. There’s something off about him.”
Lucy bit her tongue and counted to ten. The nerve of him to accuse her of what she hadn’t been doing after all he’d done and planned to do! “The only thing ‘off’ about him is his inability to make wise investments! And now he’s given you this house in exchange for some pie-in-the-sky venture of yours. Did you tire of robbing people the old-fashioned way?”
“I am not a thief. Not anymore. I learned I could do something else with my hands besides pick pockets.”
“Bully for you,” Lucy grumbled. “I expect you’ll want me to clear out at once. Get out of my way so I can pack.”
He grabbed her arm. “Not so fast.” He gazed down at her, his blue eyes assessing. Lucy really wished she was not wearing her lumpy socks on her feet. Or had coal dust on her hands. Or whiskey on her breath.
“Where will you go?”
“Oh, what do you care? You left me once. Now I’m leaving you.”
He inched closer and Lucy stopped breathing. “Did you want to see me hang, Luce?”
“The world would no doubt be a much better place,” she replied tartly.
“I trust Napoleon agrees with you.”
“Napoleon! What does he have to do with all this?”
“I’ll tell you about it some time. In bed.”
Lucy stumbled backward. “I am not going to bed with you!”
“Just once. It might be nice to have you in an actual bed. For old times’ sake.”
“You are mad!”
Simon loomed over her. “A kiss then.”
“I have not brushed my teeth!” She swept her tongue over her teeth, dislodging a chunk of apple. She was not dressed for seduction. She did not smell like seduction. And if she knew anything about Simon Whateverhecalledhimselfnow, he would not settle for a single kiss. “Absolutely not! Unhand me, sirrah!”
“Och, you’ve been reading silly things, Luce. You sound like a heroine from a gothic novel.”
“What would someone as ignorant as you know about books?” she asked spitefully.
“You’d be surprised, lass, verra surprised. I’m a changed man, I am.”
“Hah,” Lucy snorted. But she had no chance to say anything else, because Simon chose that moment to silence her with a kiss.
Not just any kiss.
A kiss that shook her down to her nubby socks.
His mouth captured hers. His lips were warm, dry, and his tongue tasted of spearmint. He wielded that tongue like a weapon designed to vanquish her and anyone else who got in the way of what he wanted. Any thought she had of denying him entrance evaporated—the searing heat of his hands at her shoulders held her in place. Flames licked from his fingertips down her spine to the emptiness between her legs.
Lucy forgot about brushing her teeth or washing or tidying her hair. She stood rooted in her doorway, standing on the wet carpet, her breasts pressed against his damp waistcoat as he kissed and kissed and kissed her.
There might be another word for it, but Lucy couldn’t think. She could only
do
. She explored his mouth, shivering with cold and desire, her hands brushing against his tailored coat. He was so much bigger than he’d been—taller, heavier, stronger than the scrawny scarecrow boy she’d loved so. And his kiss was taller, heavier and stronger, too. He had been practicing.
Lucy found her courage and stomped on his boot with a wet-stockinged foot.
He pulled away, his face neatly arranged as if they’d done nothing more than shake hands. Lucy was sure her cheeks were on fire.
“You’ve improved some, I see,” he drawled.
“I was thinking the same of you, you rat.”
“I thought you were dead, Luce. What’s your excuse? Fell for the first rich lord who came by? Or is Ferguson just the latest of many?”
Lucy was so furious she couldn’t speak. And that was just as well. She’d promised Percy not to share his secret, and she had nothing to prove to Sir Simon Keith after what he’d put her through.
Revenge
. She wanted it, a great, heaping portion of it. With cinnamon.
“Tell me, Simon, are you still a wanted man? I imagine the authorities in Edinburgh would like to get their hands on you, even after all these years, no matter what you call yourself now. You made fools out of all of them.”
He scowled down at her, and for a moment Lucy felt a frisson of fear.
“What are you saying, Lucy?”
“I’ll accept your
carte blanche
,” she said, mispronouncing it as he had. “I’ll live in this house and wear your clothes and entertain your friends and keep my mouth shut about your past. But you’ll not have me in your bed again, Simon, for all the money in the world. I’ll need some time to make other arrangements—three months should be sufficient.” She lifted her chin again and stared him straight into his narrowed blue eyes.