The resentment boiled anew and he tamped it down. He didn’t want to contemplate that if his father had farmed him out to another woman, he might not be here now; he might be rotting in the soil instead.
His father. He needed another word for the man who’d sired him. Devil’s spawn perhaps.
The carriage came to a halt in front of a rather modest town house. Mick had been surprised the first time he’d seen it. Kipwick and Lady Aslyn would live here, he supposed. Eventually. When they married. If they married.
He leaped out of the carriage, then reached back in to drag out his half brother. Another word that didn’t quite fit the meaning. He had brothers—none of whom carried the same blood as he did, but he’d die for each of them without remorse, regret, or hesitation. This one, though, this one to whom he actually had a familial bond—
He handed him over to the waiting footman. “Take care with him.”
He wanted to bite his tongue at the words. What did it matter to him if the earl was handled gently or roughly?
“Give you a ride somewhere, sir?” the coachman asked.
“No, thanks. I’ll walk.” He was familiar with the neighborhood, had been strolling through it quite a bit of late.
Not even an hour later, he was standing outside Hedley Hall. His thoughts should have been turned toward the duke. Instead, he focused on the one room with a light shining in the window on the upper floor, and he wondered if that chamber belonged to Lady Aslyn. More, he wondered what she might be doing. Reading, embroidering, penning a love letter to Kipwick. The latter didn’t sit well with him. Did she know her precious earl was prone to abusing spirits, to signing away portions of his inheritance for a few more minutes at the gaming tables?
He wondered if in ruining her, he might actually be saving her.
His laughter echoing around him, he turned on his heel and began striding down the lane. Mick Trewlove had never saved a soul in his life. He certainly wasn’t going to start with her.
Chapter 5
Three afternoons later, two footmen and two maids followed Aslyn as she made her way toward the milliner’s after finishing with her final dress fitting. It was an unseasonably warm day, the sun shining brightly. The street was teeming with carriages and riders. The footpaths were bustling with people taking advantage of the nicer weather to do their shopping. Much easier to handle packages when one wasn’t carrying an open umbrella—even if she had the footmen to haul her packages for her. Perhaps after seeing to a new bonnet, she would visit the cobbler—
A smartly dressed lad, the top of whose head barely reached above her waist, bumped into her. He hopped back, doffed his hat and gave her a beguiling grin. “Beggin’ yer pardon, miss.”
Then he was racing off in the direction in which he’d been heading. He couldn’t have been more than eight or nine. It wasn’t unusual to see young children running about unaccompanied, just not ones so well decked out. She felt a measure of jealousy that he might have succeeded in escaping the attention of his nanny. When she was a girl, she’d certainly contemplated running away from her governess on more than one occasion. To know that freedom, to have a few moments where not every skip, jump or hop was criticized, when she didn’t have to keep her shoulders back, her spine straight—
“Ow! Oh! Let me go, ye bloody toff!”
Hearing the cries of distress, she stopped and turned, her heart kicking against her ribs at the sight of Mick Trewlove holding on to the boy’s collar and dragging the flailing-armed youth behind him. He didn’t stop until he reached her.
“Lady Aslyn.” With his free hand, he swept his hat from his head, while the lad continued to squirm at his side.
She couldn’t help but stare. In the sunlight she could see his eyes more clearly than she had the other night. They were a deep rich blue, like sapphires, not the dark she’d originally thought. The darkness of his hair and beard made them stand out all the more. She swallowed in an attempt to moisten her suddenly dry mouth. “Mr. Trewlove.”
He gave the boy a hard shake. “Hand it over.”
“Dunno what yer talkin’ about, guv.”
Mick Trewlove’s glare was hard, threatening in a manner intended to send grown men scrambling for their lives. Yes, she could see why Nan did not want to cross paths with him in a darkened alley. It was intimidating enough running into him here on the open street in broad daylight.
“Caw, blimey,” the lad grumbled as he reached into his jacket pocket, brought out a short string of pearls and dropped them into Mick Trewlove’s waiting palm.
With a gasp, Aslyn slapped her hand over her gloved wrist where only a few minutes earlier a pearl bracelet had been encircling it. “You little thief.”
The pickpocket kicked Mick Trewlove in the shin, causing him to grunt and release his hold. The criminal dashed off. The two footmen started after him.
“Let him go!” Trewlove shouted with such authority that both servants ground to a halt as though the order had come from God. “He’s quick, and I suspect he knows these streets and warrens like the back of his hand. Besides, we’ve reclaimed what was stolen.”
We had nothing to do with it. He had done it all.
His gaze landed back on her. “If you’ll give me your wrist . . .”
She had the unsettling thought she might be willing to give him every part of her person. Dear God, her cheeks felt as though the sun had dipped down to land on them. If she were to look in a mirror, she’d no doubt find them as red as an apple. Still, she did as he requested, extending her arm, hoping he wouldn’t notice any flush on her face.
Quickly he removed his gloves, no doubt because of the delicate nature of the undertaking. His hands were bronzed, his fingers well-manicured. The only marring was a few small faint scars here and there, and she wondered if he’d obtained them in his youth. She imagined he’d been quite the rapscallion, getting into one scrape after another.
Dipping his head, he concentrated on securing her bracelet to her wrist as though he were in no hurry to complete the task. Although she wore gloves, she was still incredibly aware of his fingers brushing near her pulse, the way it seemed to speed up with his nearness. It was such a mesmerizing, intimate service, his practically dressing her. Air suddenly became too hot to take into her lungs, a slight dizziness assailed her. Surely she was not on the verge of swooning.
Why did this man have such an effect on her? Why did everyone else seem so small in comparison?
People were walking by, slowing their step, staring, but she was barely aware of them, considered them more as an intrusion than anything, refused to allow them to distract her from noticing everything about Mick Trewlove that she could.
His fingers, so long and thick compared to hers, should have been clumsy and awkward as he slid one end of the tiny clasp into the other, and yet there was nothing at all inelegant in his motions. Finally his large hands fell away, and she watched with no small measure of fascination and regret as he tugged on his black leather gloves. She could have looked at his bare hands all day. They were a laborer’s hands. She should have been put off by their nearness to her, yet she’d been drawn to them as though they’d lived the leisurely life experienced by a gentleman.
Kip’s hands were slender, smooth, unblemished. The veins didn’t jut up like unruly mountain ranges, rough in their appearance, yet also majestic. They didn’t reflect strength, competence, courage. She couldn’t imagine Mick Trewlove’s hands shying away from any task. From the simplest to the most complex, from the easiest to the most difficult, they wouldn’t hesitate to do what needed to be done. One of the reasons for the existence of the faint scars she’d noticed marring them; yet they did nothing to distract from the beauty of his hands. If anything, they added character, hinted at tales best told near a warm fire in the late hours of the night.
Never before had she given so much thought to hands, never before
had any so fascinated her.
“Thank you.” She sounded breathless, embarrassingly so, as though unnerved by him, by his presence, when in truth she’d never felt safer in her life. “How did you know what he’d done?”
“I witnessed his bumping into you. I doubted it was innocent or an accident.”
“But he was attired in such fine clothing. A child of the aristocracy.”
“A kidsman will find a way to dress the children he manages so they blend in with their surroundings. Makes them more effective at picking pockets if they’re not suspected of being thieves.”
“How do you know such things?”
“The streets upon which I grew up”—he glanced around—“were not so posh.”
His words piqued her curiosity. Where had he grown up? How was it that he now gave the appearance of being a gentleman? What had his life been like? How had he garnered success? It had to have been a slow process to get to the point of having the means to tear down structures and rebuild them. But something else nagged at her. She blamed her next question on the duchess and her varied suspicions regarding the good intentions of people. She trusted very few. “Quite the coincidence, you being here to rescue my bracelet.”
“More fortuitous, I should think, that I happened to be in the area shopping for a parasol for my sister. Once the lad disappeared and you noticed the absence of your jewelry, you’d have never seen it again.”
There was the slightest chastisement in his voice, as though he fought not to be offended that she was questioning his sudden presence. She felt rather ungrateful that she had. “Quite right. I would have mourned losing a bracelet that had once belonged to my mother. Is your sister about?”
“No, the gift is to be a surprise. For her birthday.”
“You’re a rather thoughtful brother.”
“Hardly. I’m seeking peace. She’s mentioned at least a dozen times during the past week that she is in want of one.”
“M’lady, perhaps we should continue on with our errands,” Nan suggested quietly, her diplomatic way of informing Aslyn she’d been talking too long on the street with a gentleman to whom she was not related. At least she thought that was her purpose. She couldn’t be completely certain, as she’d never before spent so much time in the company of a man other than the duke or Kip. No suitors had ever called upon her, because they’d thought it would be a waste of their time, that she was spoken for, or would be in short order.
“Yes, we must be off.” She held up her hand, the sunlight catching and glinting off the pearls. “Thank you again for the rescue.” She lowered her voice, barely able to hear the words she uttered. “And the other.”
“Yet you returned it.”
So Mr. Beckwith had seen after the matter. She wasn’t surprised. Even if Mick Trewlove wasn’t a client, Mr. Beckwith was a man of considerable resource. “It would be inappropriate for me to accept a gift such as that from a gentleman I barely know.”
“I delivered it in such a manner than no one of any consequence need know of its arrival.”
“I would have known.”
“Do you never do anything you ought not, Lady Aslyn?”
Right that moment, she was thinking a good many things about the wonderful shape of his mouth that she ought not. “Again, thank you for rescuing my bracelet. I shall pay more attention to my surroundings when I take my daily stroll through the park at four—to ensure no one else takes advantage of my naiveté.”
He lifted a thick dark eyebrow. “Hyde Park, I presume.”
Wondering at her boldness, she could merely nod. Had she truly just arranged an assignation? She couldn’t deny that the man intrigued her, that she’d like to know more about him. Perhaps because he was forbidden and never before had she been so daring as to risk seeking out that which was forbidden—not even a biscuit from the tin when the cook wasn’t looking. She’d always been so deuced good. Where was the harm in a little naughtiness that wouldn’t go beyond a walk?
He tipped his hat. “I shall keep that in mind should I ever find time for a stroll through the park. Good day, Lady Aslyn.”
“Good day, Mr. Trewlove.”
She watched him walk away. He cut a fine figure, his strides long, but unhurried. He had such broad shoulders. She suspected he could heft and cart around any burdens, regardless of their weight.
“He’s the sort the duchess has warned you about, m’lady,” Nan said quietly near her shoulder.
Yes, she very much suspected he was. Strange how at that precise moment—weary of being so innocent, so protected, and in fear of her own shadow—she couldn’t seem to make herself care.
Business was thriving at the Mermaid and Unicorn tonight, but then Mick had yet to see an evening when it wasn’t. The excellent fare was delivered by confident girls wearing saucy smiles who knew if any gent dared pat them on the rump, the proprietor would have him banned from ever coming back. In spite of the raucousness, the men behaved. No one wanted to be on Gillie’s bad side—especially her brothers, two of which, Aiden and Finn, were presently sitting at the table with him, taking long slow draws of their beer while he preferred the whiskey served in his sister’s establishment.
“Did I earn the extra shillin’, guv?”
Mick looked over at the urchin with the hopeful eyes who had planted his clasped soiled hands on the table. He wasn’t decked out in such finery now, but neither was he wearing rags. “You didn’t have to kick my shin so hard.”
The lad scowled. “ ’Course I did. ‘Ad to make me escape look real. The bird wouldna believed it otherwise.”
“The lady.”
“She was a fancy one, she was. Bet ye gotta be all clean afore ye can even kiss ’er.”
“What do you know about kissing girls?”
“Everythink. I kiss ’em all the time.”
He doubted it. The scrawny lad couldn’t be more than eight. Reaching two fingers into his waistcoat pocket, he withdrew a coin and tossed it toward the boy, who caught it with a wide grin.
“Caw! Blimey! A crown! Thanks, guv. Ye need somethink else nicked—” He jabbed his thumb against his skinny chest. “—ye just let me know.” Then he was racing off, no doubt in search of bulging pockets.
“What was that about?” Aiden asked.
Mick shook his head. “Just a little task with which I needed some assistance.” It hadn’t been coincidence he’d crossed paths with Lady Aslyn. Ever since she’d left her residence earlier that afternoon, he’d been following her, waiting for the most opportune moment to approach her. He’d known she was going out because he paid a footman to deliver a message whenever he learned of the lady’s plans for the day. In any household, there was always a servant more loyal to coin than to his employer.
She’d spent so much time at the dressmaker’s he’d begun to wonder if she’d moved into the shop. When she’d finally emerged and he’d overheard her tell the servants she was heading to the milliner’s, he knew the time had come to take advantage. It had gone much better than he’d imagined, even if he had ended up purchasing a parasol for Fancy because guilt had pricked his conscience for baldly lying to the lady’s face. He didn’t understand that reaction on his part. A good deal of his climbing out of the gutter had involved lies and half-truths. He was accustomed to telling them with a straight face and moving on, but this afternoon he’d spent coins on a bit of frippery. Not that Fancy hadn’t been pleased with the gift.
“I don’t like you using my boys for your nefarious deeds,” Gillie said, as she set another glass of whiskey in front of him and tankards in front of Aiden and Finn.
“He’s not your boy.”
“He works for me. He’s mine.”
Like their mum, she had a soft heart. Unlike their mum, who was short of stature, Gillie was nearly as tall as he. Her hair was cropped short like a man’s. Her loose shirt and bo
ots were reminiscent of a laborer’s attire. Her brown skirt was plain, hung off her hips as though there were no petticoats beneath it. Probably weren’t. While Fancy loved all the trappings of ladies’ attire, Gillie abhorred them. If he’d purchased her a parasol, she’d have conked him over the head with it for spending coin on something for which she had no use.
From the moment Ettie Trewlove had taken Gillie in, she’d dressed her as a boy. Mick had assumed it was because the Widow Trewlove had lad’s clothing to pass down and didn’t have the pennies to spare for frocks. He’d thought she cut Gillie’s hair whenever she trimmed the boys’ because she didn’t have the time to brush and braid long tresses, and the shorter style was less likely to attract lice. It was only when he’d inadvertently caught her wrapping linen around Gillie’s chest when she was twelve that he realized she’d made her appear to be a boy in order to protect her from unwanted advances—or worse.
He suspected if Gillie ever grew out her hair and put on a proper dress, her features might appear more comely and she might draw a man’s attention. Although if a fellow stared at her for too long, he was likely to earn a black eye. Gillie was as quick with her fist as she was with a kindness.
“It was a harmless prank,” he told her. “He never left my sight. He was never in any danger.”
“Nicking a bracelet from a lady clad in silk could get him hanged.”
He fought not to grimace. The next time, he’d explain to the little urchin to keep his mouth shut regarding the specifics of his task if he wanted to earn extra coins.
Gillie yanked out a chair and dropped unceremoniously into it in a manner he doubted Lady Aslyn had ever used to take a seat. She would slowly, elegantly alight—
“Why are you stirring things up, Mick?” she asked pointedly, always too forthright. He reconsidered his earlier assessment. Even if she grew out her hair and put on a pretty frock, no man was going to court her when she was always so damned irritatingly blunt, looking a man straight in the eye while carrying on her inquisition, demanding he answer truthfully or suffer the consequences. “Our lives aren’t half bad.”
Beyond Scandal and Desire Page 6