A Bit of Rough

by Jackie Barbosa

  “Trust me,” she whispered.

  Under other circumstances, he might have put up more of an argument, but he could scarcely do so with the driver awaiting his answer. “47 Neal Street.”

  The driver’s face broke into a broad grin. Islington to Covent Garden would be a fine fare. “Very good, sir,” he responded, tipping the brim of his hat.

  Quashing the gentlemanly impulse to allow her to enter first, Lucas stepped into the carriage, and she clambered in after him, pulling the door shut. When they were both seated on the narrow bench, he tapped the roof twice to indicate they were ready, and the hackney lurched into motion.

  The interior of the coach was dark and small—though not as utterly black or cramped as the storage closet had been—but he was every bit as aware of the proximity of her lush, female body next to his and of her tantalizing scent as he had been in those confines.

  Lucas sternly bade his nether appendage to behave itself and asked in as even a tone as he could manage, “Why are we on the way to my address instead of yours?”

  “How will I know you made it home safely unless I see you arrive there myself?”

  “I might ask you the same question.”

  She shrugged. “Once we arrive at your address, you will give the hackney driver directions to deposit me at my destination and pay him the full fare with the promise of an additional tip at the end of the journey.”

  “So you mean to provide me with your address?”

  “Certainly. How else would you give it to the driver?”

  This got better and better, yet worse and worse. He’d given her his real name because he’d hated hearing his puerile pseudonym on her tongue. When she’d given him hers—or at least a version of it—he had known it would only be a matter of time before he discovered exactly who she was. His copy of Debrett’s Peerage might be nearly ten years old, but he did not doubt she would be in it.

  It was one thing, however, for them to know one another’s real names. Addresses represented a different problem altogether. One he could—and would—resist, of course. He had no illusions as to the sort of reception he would receive if he showed up on her doorstep. What he would not be able to resist, he felt sure, was the fantasy that she might turn up on his. The hope—and the fear—that she’d do exactly that was going to keep him awake at night. Likely with his cock firmly in his fist.

  “And you can be secure in the knowledge that I won’t do something foolish like get out of the hackney and walk the rest of the way,” she continued, oblivious to his wayward thoughts, “if for no other reason than the longer I am absent from home, the more difficult it will be for me to explain.”

  “All the more reason we should have gone directly to your residence rather than mine. I am a grown man, after all.”

  “And I am a grown woman,” she retorted with some heat.

  As if he needed to be reminded of this particular fact. “You do not look like one at the moment,” he pointed out, aiming for an equable tone.

  Her breath left her in a huff of amusement, and some of the tension drained out of the tiny space. “You are right about that. But then, none of this day could have happened if I’d gone out dressed as L—like a lady, and I should very much regret that.”

  Lucas would regret it, too, for he would have been arrested without her intervention. He doubted, however, that this was the part of the experience she was thinking of. Modest in both means and pride he might be, but Lucas knew when a woman was enjoying herself in his arms, and Miss Pearce had been an enthusiastic accomplice in that reckless kiss. If she had derived half as much pleasure from the encounter as he had, then they were both well and truly damned, for they could never, must never repeat it.

  “Nevertheless,” he said, “we must do our best to forget that today ever happened and go back to the way things were before.”

  That way involved the use of two small office spaces, which he leased under another assumed name. He received submissions and other messages from his writers at one address and sent payments and his responses to them at the other. The authors could pick up their mail directly from the second address or, if they could afford it—and Miss Pearce certainly could—have it picked up by messenger. In this manner, he was able to communicate with his contributors while maintaining his and their anonymity. Given that The Weekly Disciple was an illegal newspaper due to nonpayment of the requisite stamp taxes—which were exorbitant and made the publication of all but the most popular periodicals virtually impossible—this was the best way to ensure both he and his contributors kept their jobs.

  But in Miss Pearce’s case, this system had an added benefit. He could not lead her—or himself—further into temptation if they were never in the same room together. He just had to get through the next fifteen minutes with her. Alone. In the dark. With her tart-sweet scent teasing his nostrils and the soft, warm curves of her arm and leg pressed along the right side of his body. Gods, but it would be easy to succumb…

  To his paradoxical disappointment, she sighed and bobbed her head in agreement. “That would be the wisest course of action.”

  Except he didn’t want to be wise. His only consolation was that she didn’t sound particularly thrilled to be wise, either.

  They sat in silence for several minutes as the hackney jostled through the busy streets. Would one more kiss really be such a bad idea? Maybe the first had only been so exciting because they had both been aware of the danger of discovery. The second might well dim by comparison, and surely that would make the necessity of going their separate ways easier.

  No, of course, it would be a bad idea.

  He needed a topic of conversation to occupy his mind and pass the time before he did something incredibly foolish. “I shall have to find another printer now, I suppose,” he finally said into the pulsing silence.

  “Do you have anyone in mind?” she asked.

  “Rickert will likely recommend someone. That is how I came to him when my last printer had to cut me loose.”

  The hackney jolted as the driver failed to avoid a rut, and Miss Pearce was suddenly halfway across his lap. Longing swelled—literally—in his loins before she righted herself and settled back on the seat.

  Keep the conversation going, man. It’s your only hope. “So, how did you go from writing children’s stories to political essays? Mary Weather and Polly Dicax seem worlds apart.”

  “Have you read any of the Mary Weather books?” Her tone was arch.

  “Actually, I haven’t,” he admitted. “But I know they were very popular. For several years, I couldn’t pass a bookshop window without seeing a display of them. They looked quite charming.”

  She laughed drily. “Yes, they did. But we did that purposely, to make them look harmless. Those stories are every bit as subversive and biting as anything I’ve written as Polly Dicax; people just think they’re sweet and wholesome because they are about animals instead of humans and are adorably illustrated. Catching flies with honey instead of vinegar, you know.”

  “In that case, I cannot understand why you gave up writing those books in favor of incendiary social commentaries that can only be published in dissident newspapers. Especially when those books were so successful. Writing for publishers like me must be quite a step down in terms of income.”

  She shrugged. “You would think so, but I had to split the earnings from the Mary Weather books with my cousin, Annabelle, who illustrated them, and she deserved every farthing and more because her drawings were what sold them. But the truth is that I got tired of writing for children and of having to conceal my opinions beneath a sugary shell. I much prefer the direct approach, even if it makes me less money and alienates some readers.” Miss Pearce sighed and added, “I do wonder if anything I write makes any difference at all, though. The world does not seem to be getting appreciably kinder or fairer despite my efforts.”

  Lucas let out his own sigh in commiseration. “It does seem a rather pointless undertaking at times, doesn’t it? But
if it is any consolation, I once believed I could make the world a better place by practicing law, only to discover that justice and the law have very little relationship to one another. On the whole, I’ve found writing to be considerably more gratifying and possibly more effective.”

  Although not more lucrative. It occurred to him that if he had become a barrister as he had originally planned, the chasm between their social stations would be considerably reduced. Especially had he been as successful as the man to whom he had been apprenticed. If he were a barrister earning several hundred pounds a year instead of a writer and publisher of an illegal periodical who scraped by on thirty shillings a week and lived under the constant threat of arrest and prosecution, there might be future for him and Miss Pearce. Though he rather suspected that even then, her parents would not embrace a man of his birth and blood as a son-in-law. No, it was foolish to even consider the possibility.

  “I should have known you had studied law. Your essays on legal matters are always so detailed and erudite. I suppose you also write all of the articles covering important cases and trials that have come before the courts, though you don’t put your name on them.”

  “Guilty as charged,” he admitted, but he warmed at the compliment. “I even sell some of those articles to the more respectable dailies, since they are often hardly newsworthy by the time the Disciple comes out.”

  “Then I suppose you will not be overly disappointed to learn that I too write for the occasional reputable publication.” In the dim illumination from a passing street lamp, he could make out the wry twitch of her lips. Her very kissable lips. “Though not as Polly Dicax, of course. None of them would never print the ‘scurrilous nonsense’ she writes.”

  The hackney drew to a halt and a glance out the window told Lucas they had reached the intersection of Drury Lane and Oxford Street, which put them within a few minutes of arriving at his address. To his annoyance, he discovered he now wished the ride did not have to end so soon.

  As the vehicle lurched into motion again and turned left, Miss Pearce said softly, “I wish we had more time together.” Likely, she had also recognized their location and how close they were to parting. Forever.

  Before he was aware of what he was doing, he had reached for and taken her hand in his. Her fingers were warm and very soft. Like the rest of her. He wished… Gods, he wished a thousand things. “I would court you, you know, if things were different.” If she were an entirely different person. Or if he were. And in any case, he had no business courting any woman when he was an outlaw and constantly on the brink of arrest and imprisonment, let alone marrying.

  Shaking her head, she interleaved her fingers with his. “Then I am rather glad things are not different, for I would have to reject your suit under any circumstances.”

  He frowned. “Are you promised elsewhere? Or soon to be?”

  “Heavens, no! It is only that I would sooner wind up in a poorhouse than get married. At least there, a woman can be assured that the fruits of her labor will be rewarded with a roof over her head and food on the table. If she marries, she can earn as much through her efforts as Croesus himself and still go homeless and hungry if her husband is a spendthrift.”

  This observation was completely accurate from the point of view of the law, and he should have anticipated her attitude toward marriage. Polly Dicax had written a number of editorials excoriating the legal fiction that treated husband and wife as one person while bestowing all the power on the man. Lucas himself had witnessed and decried the harmful effects of this particular facet of English jurisprudence, for many women and their children lived in squalor because their husbands drank their wages and, if the woman tried to earn her own income to better the family’s lot, that money too belonged to her husband and went down his gullet just as rapidly.

  Surely this could hardly be considered a problem amongst the upper classes, though. Men with incomes of hundreds or even thousands of pounds a year might squander fortunes at the gambling tables or on other vices, but they were unlikely to be so bankrupt that they could not afford the basic necessities. A lady like Miss Peace who married a propertied gentleman could be all but assured of a comfortable life with no need to earn an income at all, much less that her husband would pilfer her pockets for extra coin.

  And Miss Pearce was far too vibrant and responsive for him to imagine that she would be happy living out her days without the emotional and physical companionship of a partner.

  “But there is more to life than financial security,” he objected. “What about love? What about passion?”

  A gust of wry laughter escaped her. “Until today, Mr. Delgado, I would have told you that such things did not interest me.”

  She shifted on the narrow seat so she was more or less facing him and reached up with one hand to cup his jaw. With her thumb, she stroked his beard from just below his cheek to the indentation between his lower lip and his chin. It was all he could do to suppress the groan of longing that threatened to erupt from his throat.

  “Until you,” she whispered, leaning closer, her sweet breath fanning his cheek. He bent his head toward hers, their lips inches apart. Almost…

  The hackney slowed and began pull to the side of the road. They had reached his lodgings. With a frown, she settled back against the seat back.

  The interlude was over, and with it, his last opportunity to kiss her. He would never see her again.

  Chapter Five

  “The stamp duty is naught but a tax on knowledge which exists solely to prevent the enlightenment and empowerment of the working classes. Breaking the law is preferable to making information too costly for the average man to afford.” – Luke Evangelista

  “What is troubling you, my brother?”

  Lucas looked up from his empty coffee cup with a guilty start. Rahul Joshi, Lucas’s best friend for better than fifteen years, peered across the table over the rim of his own cup, from which a plume of steam still rose. Rahul must have poured himself another helping from the pot while Lucas had been gathering wool.

  The two of them met every Wednesday morning without fail at this café near Russell Square. They’d begun the tradition several years earlier, when Rahul had taken his current position as an accounting clerk with William Cubitt & Co., the contractor responsible for building the newly completed Covent Garden Market hall. They’d chosen the café for its location, equidistant between Rahul’s offices on Grays Inn Road and Lucas’s lodgings, but as luck would have it, the proprietress brewed some of the best coffee in all London.

  Lucas frowned, trying to decide how much of his current ennui to share with his friend. Rahul would never reveal the details to another soul—not even to Magdalene, the opera singer with whom he was currently living in sin—but Lucas hadn’t intended to think about her at all, let alone talk about her. He had, in fact, been determined to put her out of his mind from the moment he’d cracked open his 1822 copy of Debrett’s Peerage and discovered her true identity.

  And if intentions were horses, beggars would ride.

  Because he hadn’t been able to stop going over and over his memories of yesterday’s events. The moment Rickert had shoved the two of them into the hidey-hole and shut the door. The instant her scent had reached his nostrils and he’d realized she was no messenger boy. The plush softness of her lips and the sweet-tart flavor of her mouth on his tongue. The click of connection, of recognition, of rightness.

  The rightness, of course, was a lie. There could not be a less suitable woman on earth for the likes of Lucas Delgado Guerrero.

  “Ah,” Rahul said into the silence, which had already stretched a little too long. “A woman.”

  This was the problem with lifelong chums, Lucas thought with some irritation. There was no hiding anything from the rascals. “A Lady,” he corrected, placing enough emphasis on the last word to imply the capital letter.

  His friend waggled his eyebrows. “I thought you were off aristocrats these days.”

  Lucas glowered
at the double entendre. “I am. But it’s not like that. She isn’t like that.”

  Rahul’s eyes rolled heavenward, and he emitted a snort. “That’s what you said the last time.”

  Was it? Lucas did not recall having said any such thing about the last lady who’d graced his bed—or, more accurately, whose bed he had disgraced. But then, it had been nearly four years ago. He had likely forgot a great many things he’s said and felt about that particular woman. Lady Anne May had been the wife of the man whose acquittal had convinced Lucas he could not practice law and live with himself. Also, she had played him like a well-tuned pianoforte, convincing him her marriage was a loveless farce while subtly pumping him for information about the case against her husband. It was unlikely that anything she’d gleaned from Lucas had affected the outcome of the trial—the fact that the defendant was both rich and titled had sealed the verdict before the jury had even been seated—but the alacrity with which she had booted him from her bed once the judgment had been handed down had been…illuminating.

  Gods, he’d been such a fool.

  Nonetheless, he felt compelled to point out that, in this case, the lady was different, and so he blurted out the whole story, though of course he omitted the more intimate details. He also withheld both her pen name and her real name from the account, not that it did any good on the first score.

  Rahul let out a low whistle. “Are you telling me Polly Dicax is a nob?”

  Lucas should have expected it. His friend read The Weekly Disciple as well as numerous other similar publications religiously, after all.

  But at least he could keep Rahul from learning the rest. From finding out, as Lucas had last night, that the woman he’d had the misfortune to discover was otherwise his perfect match was not only a member of the aristocracy, but the daughter of an earl, the niece of a viscount, and the niece of a respected diplomat in the Foreign Office with whom Lucas’s own father routinely worked.

  Lady Honora Amelia Francesca Langston Pearce was as inaccessible to a man of Lucas’s means and station as the surface of the moon to the boots of humanity. If she had been a widow or unhappily married after producing the requisite heir and spare, she might consider a man like him for a few tumbles in the proverbial hay, but never for anything deeper or more permanent. But given that she had committed herself to spinsterhood, even a brief dalliance would be out of the question.