The Rogue You Know (Covent Garden Cubs) (10 page)

Gideon wanted to crawl into bed beside her.

He wanted to wake her with kisses and slow caresses.

He wanted… He wanted what he knew he could never have.

“Oh, Dorothea!” Lady Chesterly said as she promenaded into the Dowager Countess of Dane’s boudoir and swept the dowager into an embrace reeking of cologne. Dorothea tried to breathe shallowly so as not to be overcome by the scent of rose petals.

Finally Florentia released her and settled on the cream silk-upholstered chair beside the lavender chaise longue where Dorothea reclined.

Florentia’s small hazel eyes swept over her friend, and then she snapped her fingers at Edwards. “Tell the housekeeper we need tea sweetened with brandy right away.”

“Yes, my lady,” Edwards said.

“And some of those delicious biscuits as well.” Florentia patted Dorothea’s shoulder. “You must keep up your strength, dear.”

No matter that the biscuits were Florentia’s personal favorite. Dorothea didn’t want a biscuit. She didn’t want tea. She didn’t even want her dear friend.

She wanted her daughter.

“I came as soon as I received your note,” Florentia said. “You wrote the matter was urgent, but I must confess I did not expect to see you like this. My dear, I’m worried.”

Dorothea reflected that was because she had rarely ever felt this close to losing her composure. She hadn’t wept and railed when Erasmus had died. She had cried silent, private tears over the babes she’d lost all those many years ago. And she’d almost wept at Dane’s wedding to that horribly unsuitable Marlowe. But she’d been strong. She’d had to be strong, because there was no place in this world for a weak woman.

That’s what she’d tried to teach Susanna. And now the child was missing.

“Please tell me what ails you. Shall I call for the doctor?” Florentia asked.

“No,” Dorothea said.

Florentia peered around the small but well-appointed boudoir. It contained a small desk, two chairs and the chaise longue, and a tulipwood table on which to serve tea. The windows faced the gardens, but Dorothea had ordered the curtains shut. The light hurt her eyes this afternoon.

“Where is Susanna?” Florentia asked. “Is she not attending you?”

Dorothea pressed her lips together. “Susanna is the reason I begged you to come,” Dorothea said in a whisper. “She’s…” She could not seem to say the words aloud. She’d heard them said. Crawford had said them and then Brook had, after he’d done a cursory search. But Dorothea feared if she spoke the words, the situation would become real.

Florentia leaned close. “She’s…?”

Dorothea dug her nails into the soft flesh of her palm, willing the tears back. She swallowed, humiliated by the sound her gulp made in the back of her throat.

“She’s ill?” Florentia guessed.

“No.” Dorothea shook her head. She should speak and not force her poor, dear friend to conjecture.

“She’s engaged?”

Dorothea closed her eyes against the sting of tears. If Susanna’s disappearance became known, her daughter would never find a husband.

“She’s with child!” Florentia whispered.

“No!” Dorothea shrieked. She could not bear to think of that consequence as a result of her daughter’s foolish actions. She closed her eyes and attempted to calm herself. “She’s run away.”

Florentia gasped. “Surely not! You must be mistaken.”

Dorothea shook her head. “I’m not. I slept late this morning. The storms last night woke me, and I did not rest well.”

Florentia made a sound of agreement. “Yes, it was quite a storm. We lost a yew tree.”

Dorothea gave her friend a severe look, and Florentia pursed her lips together, chastised.

“Edwards woke me because Susanna’s maid was concerned. Susanna was not in her bedchamber, and her bed had not been slept in.”

“Was she home with you last night?” Florentia asked.

“Yes, yes.”

Brook had already asked her all of these questions.

“Oh dear,” Florentia said quietly. Her tone sent a shiver of apprehension through Dorothea. Certainly, Dorothea had imagined every possible scenario, but she could not quell the urge to ask her friend to elaborate. “Do you think it possible Susanna eloped?” Florentia asked.

“Certainly not. I have kept her safe and secure, away from any men of that sort.” Dorothea wanted to add that Susanna would never do such a thing to her devoted mother. Her daughter had to know it would break her mother’s heart. She did not add the statement though, because if Susanna cared about not breaking her mother’s heart, she would be here now.

“What does Sir Brook say?” Florentia inquired. “Surely, he will have her home at any moment.”

“I would have thought so, but he has been gone for hours,” Dorothea said, her voice beginning to shake. “He found no sign of forced entry or violence. In fact, the only missing article is a candlestick.”

“One candlestick?”

Dorothea nodded.

“Odd. What does Sir Brook make of it?”

Dorothea dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. “You know Brook. He never speculates. So here I sit and wait. My darling Susanna could be in trouble, and I can do nothing to help her.”

“Calm yourself, my dear Dorrie.” Florentia patted her shoulder. It did nothing but irritate Dorothea, and she regretted asking the woman to come. She did not want to be patted. Florentia continued to pat away.

“You should not blame yourself.”

Dorothea jumped to her feet, grabbing the edge of the chaise longue for support. “Why on earth would I blame myself?”

Florentia hunched her shoulders, looking very much like a turtle that wanted to disappear into its shell. “You should not. I misspoke.”

“No, you didn’t. You think this is my fault. Don’t you?” She pointed an accusatory finger at Florentia. “Don’t you?”

Florentia made a show of peering at the door behind Dorothea. “Is that the tea?”

“Damn the tea.”

Florentia’s small eyes widened.

“You think I protect her too much.”

“She is your daughter. Of course you must protect her.”

But Dorothea knew when she was being appeased. “But you think I protect her too much.”

Florentia slumped and creased the material of her gown between two fingers. “I think you love her very dearly. After the losses you suffered, how could you not?”

Dorothea sank onto the chaise longue. All the air in her lungs seemed to whoosh out. “Exactly.”

“But…”

Dorothea’s chin jerked up.

“She might not have understood your motivations. Children sometimes rebel against being held too tightly.”

“And you would know this because of your vast parenting experience?”

Florentia’s cheeks reddened, and Dorothea immediately felt ashamed of her outburst.

“I am not helping.” Florentia rose. “I should go.”

“Wait.” Dorothea held out a hand, and Florentia took it reluctantly.

“Perhaps I have been a bit strict with her. I didn’t want her to make the same mistakes I did.”

“Of course you didn’t.”

“I was too hard on her. I should have been more loving. I should have showed her more affection. God knows Erasmus could hardly bear to look at her.”

“Do you think he knew?”

“He was no fool. I don’t think he would have blamed me, if it hadn’t been for Susanna.” Dorothea buried her head in her hands. “And now,” she said, her voice muffled, “she asks me to take her to Vauxhall Gardens. The girl has no notion what she asks of me.”

“Surely you would be safe going now.”

Dorothea shook her head. She refused to raise it. She would not be seen crying. “I will never be safe there.”

She would never be safe anywhere. For all her efforts to keep her daughter safe, Susanna was lost to her. She might never see the girl again. And she hadn’t even told her that she loved her.

And now it was too late.

“My lady?” The butler tapped on the door.

Dorothea wiped her eyes and straightened her shoulders. “Yes, Crawford. Come in.”

He entered, his lips pinched with strain. He nodded at Lady Chesterly and presented a polished silver salver, perched on top of his white-gloved hands. A yellowed, crumpled playbill lay in the center.

“A woman and a child arrived at the servants’ entrance just now, my lady. I would have sent them away, but the woman produced this…” He eyed the dirty paper, seeming uncertain how to describe it. “This playbill.”

“I fail to see how this concerns me. We do not feed beggars. Send her on her way.”

“The woman, a Mrs. Castle, claims Lady Susanna wrote a message on the back.”

“Susanna?” Dorothea snatched the dirty paper off the tray and turned it over. Indeed, on the back in what looked to be marking pencil, was a short note in Susanna’s handwriting.

Dear Mama,

Bess Castle is an exceptional seamstress who has shown me great kindness. I would be most grateful if you would ask Crawford to employ her and her daughter at Derring House. You are always saying a good seamstress is invaluable.

Your daughter,

Susanna

A postscript had been added, the words squeezed together.

I will be home soon.

“She will be home soon!” Dorothea thundered. “She will be home soon! Does she think she is on holiday? Where is this woman, Crawford? I want to speak with her. I want to know where she last saw my daughter.”

“I thought you might, my lady. In fact, I have taken the liberty of sending Nathaniel to fetch Sir Brook and bring him here.”

“Very good, Crawford,” Florentia said.

“And I inquired of Mrs. Castle from whence she hailed.”

Dorothea leaned forward. “And?”

“The address she gave me is in St. Giles, my lady. Seven Dials, to be precise.”

Dorothea sank to the chaise.

Seven Dials. Her dear, sweet daughter had been in Seven Dials. Dorothea would kill her.

If she wasn’t already dead.

Susanna jolted awake, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar sounds of a hoarse woman hawking meat pies and a group of men arguing about someone called Sir John Barleycorn. Opening her eyes did not reassure her. The room was unfamiliar, and it took her seven fast, hard heartbeats to remember where she was.

Unfortunately, those were followed by four or five painful clenches in her chest when she felt the warm, solid figure beside her. The curtains on the windows in the room were so thin she could see through them, and Gideon’s dark hair on the pillow beside her gleamed in the filtered sunlight. Strands of light brown and gold were woven among the darker hair.

His arms were wrapped around his chest in a protective gesture. Either that or he wanted to touch her as little as possible. She could have spent hours studying his long, nimble fingers or his lean, powerful frame.

But her gaze drifted immediately to his face. That aspect of him she could not freely examine any other time. His eyelids hid his beautiful green eyes, and his mouth was slack with sleep. He looked quite young without his lips twisted in a mocking grin.

His head was angled in such a way she could easily scrutinize his scar. It must have been red at one time, but age had faded it to white. It started at his temple, just at the hairline, and slashed across an inch of skin to bisect his dark eyebrow. He was fortunate he hadn’t lost an eye.

“Are you done gawking at me?”

Susanna squealed and jumped back. The bed was not wide enough to accommodate her startled movement, and she would have fallen had Gideon not reacted quickly. His hand wrapped around her wrist, and he yanked her back.

He yanked a bit too hard though. She ended up sprawled on top of his chest. When she tried to lever herself up and away, he held her in place with his hands pressed against her back.

“Take a good look,” he said. “It’s repulsive and yet strangely fascinating.”

Susanna shook her head. “It’s not repulsive.”

His eyes narrowed, and he seemed to study her for a long moment. He’d said she was a terrible liar. Could he see that she did not lie now?

Could he see she didn’t find anything about him repulsive in the least?

Quite the opposite, in fact.

Gideon shoved her aside. Sitting, he ran a hand through his hair, disheveling it further. “You want to know how I got it, don’t you?”

“I don’t mean to pry.”

He laughed without humor. “No. You want to stare at me while I sleep, but you don’t want to pry.”

She looked down and noted the bodice of the dress Brenna had given her dipped rather low. Susanna tugged it up. “You are correct. My behavior was unpardonable. It won’t happen again.”

He stared at her with a look of complete bewilderment on his face. “You really mean it, don’t you?” He stroked a finger down her cheek, and she tried very hard not to shy away from his touch. “You’re so prim and proper.” His hand dipped lower to the hollow of her throat. “Makes me want to corrupt you.”

His finger trailed the neckline of the bodice she’d just yanked up.

“What if I don’t want to be corrupted?” She grasped his finger in her hands and drew it away from her chest.

“What if you do?”

She tried to pull her hand away, but he had managed to twist his wrist. Now he held
her
hand captive.

“All I want is for you to act as my guide to Vauxhall Gardens. Nothing more.”

“Nothing?”

When his eyes met hers, her throat tightened. She couldn’t speak, and shook her head feebly.

“Not even a kiss?”

“No!” she choked out.

“Huh.” He nodded as though her answer surprised him. “I’ll tell you how I received my scar.”

“You will?”

“If you tell me why it’s so important for you to go to Vauxhall.”

She ought to have known. He was a thief, after all. Nothing was free.

“Then again, it’s your choice. You don’t have to tell me,” he said, finally releasing her hand. His green eyes cut to the thinly veiled window. “If you do, I might be more willing to risk my neck when night falls.”

“Can’t we go now? My mother must be out of her head with worry, and my brother is most certainly searching for me.”

“Vauxhall isn’t open during the day.” Gideon stood and stretched, exposing a flat swath of bronzed skin at his waist. “Furthermore, Sir Brook can go to the devil. He may be the best investigator in the country. He may have found people no one else could find. But he doesn’t know the rookeries like I do. He won’t catch me unless I want to be caught.”

“And Beezle?”

“He’s another reason we wait until dark. You’re too conspicuous in the daylight.” His gaze settled on her, and Susanna felt heat rise in her cheeks. She notched her bodice higher again, which caused him to grin.

“Me? What have I to do with this Beezle?”

“You’ve been seen with me.”

“Would that I could undo that.”

He grinned, unapologetic. “I warned you.”

Since he had indeed warned her, and she’d taken no heed, she ignored his statement. “So we wait until dark and then travel to Vauxhall.”

“That’s the plan.” He sank down on the bed, and she tilted toward him before regaining her balance.

“And what do we do all day?”

Something crashed on the ground floor, and Brenna’s giggle floated up to them.

“I can think of a few ideas.” Another wicked grin. The man had an unlimited supply.

“Won’t your friend want his room back?”

Another crash and another giggle.

“I think they’re doing quite well without it.”

Susanna ducked her head before he could see her cheeks. She feared they’d changed from pink with embarrassment to red with mortification. She heard more giggling and then a soft moan.

The heat from her face traveled down through her body and settled in her lower belly, causing an unfamiliar and somewhat urgent ache.

Oh dear. A distraction. That was it. She needed a distraction.

“You were about to tell me how you acquired your scar,” she said loudly to cover the noise from below.

“Was I?” The undamaged brow rose. “Then you agree to my terms?”

Another moan.

“Yes, yes. I agree. Go on then.”

“Are you feeling ill, Strawberry? Your face looks a bit flushed.”

“I’m fine,” she hissed, turning her face away from him. “It’s warm in here.”

“I hadn’t noticed.” He rose and went to the window, parting the curtains slightly and peering down. Susanna couldn’t resist studying him while he stood with his back to her. He wore a coarse shirt that had once been white, and faded black trousers. His coat had been abandoned on a chair. Despite the shabbiness of his attire, he wore it well. He stood tall and straight, looking almost regal. He might have been a deposed monarch attempting to adjust to life as a commoner.

What if that was part of the story behind the scar? What if he was actually the lost son of a duke or a baron who’d gambled away his fortune?

Or what if he was exactly what he appeared to be, and she was trying to make him into something he was not because…

Because she liked him.

Because despite everything—or perhaps
because
of
some things—she liked him. And just now she’d been imagining herself married to him. Which was ridiculous. She could never marry a man of his station, and she was a foolish, naive girl to pretend he was anything other than what he appeared to be.

But how could she be anything other than foolish and naive when she had no experience of the world? Gideon Harrow was the first man who’d touched her bare skin. The first man she’d spoken to about any topic not prescribed by her mother. The first man who’d made her belly flutter and her heart gallop when he looked at her for a moment longer than was appropriate.

Susanna knew all of this when she considered the matter logically. Unfortunately, whenever those bold green eyes focused on her, she forgot all about logic.

As though he knew what she was thinking, he turned and caught her staring. If he was annoyed by her blatant perusal, he didn’t show it. His expression remained both bemused and smug.

“You won’t believe this, but I wasn’t born a thief.” He pulled the ineffective curtains closed and strolled back to the bed, standing at the foot and looking down at her.

“On the contrary, I find that very easy to believe.”

Now was the moment he’d tell her he was actually a viscount in disguise. Hadn’t Brook gained his current reputation for finding the lost brother of some viscount or other in an opium den? It was not impossible.

“My parents weren’t wealthy.”

She sagged with disappointment. When he didn’t continue, she glanced at his face and caught the bewildered expression. No doubt he wondered what had disheartened her.

“Sure you want to hear this?” he asked.

“Yes. Please, go on. Your family was not wealthy.”

“No, but we had a home, and I didn’t go to bed hungry. There wasn’t any money for school, but my grandmother taught me to read and write.”

“Oh.” She hadn’t meant to show him her surprise, but when he’d said he could read, she’d thought he lied. She hadn’t expected him to be educated. She supposed she should have expected it. He spoke better than most of his ilk, though his lower-class accent crept in once in a while. But then men like he were always tricksters and cheats. They could imitate their betters.

But perhaps Gideon hadn’t been imitating.

“My grandmother had come down in the world. Her father had been a gentleman, but she was his only offspring. When he died, the property went to a distant cousin.”

“It was entailed.”

He pointed to her. “That’s the word. When her husband died, her son—my father—had to learn a trade. He worked for a printing press and kept me supplied with plenty of reading material.”

“What did the press print?”

“Religious pamphlets, political literature. Anything a man was willing to pay to have printed. My mother was a seamstress. She sewed all my clothing.”

“You were well dressed and well-read.” She pulled her legs to her chest and wrapped her arms around her knees. She would have never guessed any of this about him. It fascinated her to think of this man as a boy with parents and a grandmother. He seemed so alone now, so self-sufficient. He didn’t seem to need anyone.

“It sounds as though your parents loved you a great deal.”

He let out a short laugh and stared at a spot on the wall. “It does, don’t it?”

The silence settled in, and thankfully there really was silence, as whatever Brenna and Des had been doing was over, and she waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, she lowered her hands and rose to her knees.

“They didn’t love you?” she prodded.

“They died.” His gaze cut to her again, and for an instant she saw the boy he’d been. The hard, green eyes had been softened, and the arrogant set of his mouth replaced by a genuine smile.

But now the hardened thief was back.

“How?” she whispered.

“Fever. Took my grandmother and my mother.” He shrugged as though he didn’t care, even though she knew recalling their deaths must have been painful. “Took a lot of people that winter.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmured and reached out to touch his arm, to offer comfort.

He stepped back. “So was I, but I was even sorrier when my father started drinking.”

Susanna could see where the story would go now. Why had she asked him to tell her this?

“Did he give you that scar?” she asked.

Gideon shook his head. “No. He gave me others. The drink made him mean. And then one night he didn’t come home. I was an orphan at seven.”

Susanna put her arms around herself because she knew he wouldn’t let her hold him. He wasn’t that little boy any longer, and yet she wished she could hold that child and soothe his fears.

“You want to know who Beezle is? He’s the arch rogue of the Covent Garden Cubs. That’s my gang—or was. Satin started the gang and brought me in when I was about ten or eleven. Beezle came later and proved himself just as ruthless as Satin. Now Satin’s in the stone pitcher, thanks to our friend Marlowe, and Beezle’s the new Prince Prig.”

Susanna gestured to his temple. “And Satin did this to you?”

He touched it absently, almost as though he’d forgotten it. “In a manner of speaking. I fought with a cub from a rival gang over a trifle—a silk wipe maybe. He pulled a knife and did this.” He traced the white scar with his tanned fingers. “Almost took my eye out.”

“You were lucky,” she said.

“Right. That’s what I keep telling myself. I’m lucky.”

He hadn’t told her everything, and she was afraid to ask questions. How would she feel if she knew more about his life? Would she like him more? Hate him?

She was afraid she’d admire him, and she didn’t want to care about him, to want to hold him, to wish she could save him.

She couldn’t save him.

She couldn’t even save herself.

Besides, he didn’t need her to save him. He’d been doing quite well on his own, until she’d taken him from his path and forced him onto hers. “I’ll make you a promise,” she said. “As soon as you take me home from Vauxhall, I’ll give you the necklace back. I won’t break my word.”

“No, you won’t.” His eyes hardened. “And now fair is fair,” he said, resting one knee on the bed. It was so small that even that slight weight pushed her forward and all but into him. “I received my scar in a fight with another cub. Your turn.”

He took her hand and pulled her up on her knees until she was facing him. The other hand slid around her back and drew her closer.

“What are you about?” she demanded.

Unconcerned, he settled her inside the leg braced on the bed, his chest almost touching hers, and his heat making her skin tingle.

“Taking my payment.”

“I was to tell you why I want to go to Vauxhall.”

“And you will.” He released her hand and sank his fingers into her hair. A gentle tug and her neck ached until she looked him in the eye. “You agreed to my terms. You didn’t ask what they were.”

“I assumed—”

“That was your third mistake. Your first was asking me to be your guide, and your second”—he lowered his head until their faces were inches apart—“was telling me you’d never been kissed.”