by Hope Tarr
But her life was far too complicated to admit anyone else into it, notably a drop-dead handsome rake with avowedly dishonorable intentions—and a fiancée. Tonight must be the last of their tête-à-têtes.
A crash sounded behind her, followed by what might have been a muffled groan. Heart pounding, Chelsea swung around, expecting to find a night watchman. Instead, a large rat scurried from the overturned rubbish bin.
Shaken, she forged ahead, not stopping until she’d gained the alleyway to her house. There she braced her back against the fence and lifted her face to the starless night. Eyes closed, she let the rain wash over her, but not even the icy drapery of her drenched clothing could quench the fire burning inside her. Her previous two carnal encounters had been with a nervous boy and a lecherous man more than thirty years her senior. She’d begun to doubt that passion—true passion—existed outside of romantic novels. But, having experienced the wonder of Anthony’s kisses, the magic of his hands, Chelsea was once more a believer. The mere memory of his hot mouth and long, sensitive fingers was enough to rekindle the pulsing heat between her legs. The last time she’d felt such fire, she’d been ten years old and in the grip of a raging fever. Then she had very nearly lost her life. In Anthony’s arms, she’d very nearly lost her soul.
Perhaps she had lost it, along with her mind. Brutal honesty was the best—the only—antidote for what ailed her. And the disgraceful truth was that, during those magical moments in Anthony’s arms, she hadn’t simply set her problems aside. She’d forgotten them—forgotten Robert—completely. It was bad enough that she’d acted the harlot, shaming not only herself but her parents’ memory. But to behave thus when her baby brother, the brother she was charged to love and protect, was kidnapped, perhaps even dead, was beyond shame, beyond forgiveness. If—when—Robert was returned to her, she’d spend the rest of her life making it up to him.
What’s happening to me? I used to be so responsible. So…controlled.
She hugged herself, fingernails gouging her numb upper arms. One thing was certain: she could, under no circumstances, risk seeing Anthony again. Thank God he had no idea where she lived.
Why is she standing out in the rain?
Anthony gripped the fence post, using his free hand to massage his smarting shin. Rainwater mingled with the sweat gathering between his shoulder blades. Chelsea was nothing if not fleet of foot, and she’d gotten a good head start by the time he’d surrendered to the impulse to go after her. Fortunately he was well-acquainted with West London. His hunch that she would avoid the main streets had proven correct, and it hadn’t taken him long to catch up. Colliding with the rubbish bin that some idiot had placed in the center of the alley had been cursed ill-luck, but at least he’d managed to dive into the shadows before Chelsea had turned around. He also had managed to wrench his bad knee in the process.
At the other end of the alley, a gate opened. Anthony backed against the fence, keeping to the shadows. Pricking his ears above a distant peal of thunder, he could just make out the scraping sound of a hasp being lifted.
Chelsea’s trim shadow finally disappeared inside the walled garden of a gray frame house. Anthony waited until he heard the gate screech closed before heading back. Not only had he seen her safely home, but he’d discovered exactly where home was. Tomorrow morning he would put that knowledge to good use, assuming he were reasonably ambulatory. Shifting his weight to his good leg, he hobbled toward the circle of yellow lamplight at the end of the alley. Racing over cobbled streets did not constitute an exercise regimen of which his doctors would approve. He knew from experience that there would be the devil to pay tomorrow, but the lady was worth it.
Well worth it, he acknowledged, running a hand across his damp forehead. The musky scent of Chelsea’s arousal fitted his fingers like a glove; the heat radiating from her had been scalding. Yet, when he’d unfastened his breeches, she’d stared down at him as though she’d never seen a naked man before. Impossible, he assured himself a moment later, recalling how her silken, courtesan’s caress had brought him to the brink of his climax. Her confident carriage, her delightfully direct remarks, her boldness in dressing in breeches and becoming a thief—these were not the hallmarks of a shrinking virgin. He’d stake his uncle’s fortune that Miss Chelsea Bellamy, despite her youth and erstwhile respectability, had amassed a fair share of worldly experience along with the baubles she’d purloined.
Did she have a ruined reputation waiting for her back in Sussex, along with her family’s shambles of an estate? Was that why she’d left? It didn’t take much imagination to see why the bold beauty would want to break free from a backwater like Upper Uckfield. By now she must be sick to death of assemblies, church bazaars, and the fumbling courtship of the local swains. What he couldn’t fathom was why she seemed hell-bent on seeing London through prison bars.
Thinking of the other men who’d had her set his blood to boiling. How many had succeeded where so far he had failed? One or two? Five? Ten? More than ten? Limping toward Mount Street, he vowed he’d make her forget each and every one of them. He’d kiss and touch and taste her until the only man’s name she could recall would be his.
The throbbing in his groin rivaled that of his injured leg, making him welcome the icy rain pelting his back. No other woman had ever affected him this way. Remembering the sensation of Chelsea’s firm nipple beneath his tongue, he regretted that he hadn’t taken the time to unfasten the tapes of her chemisette to discover how far the charming blush extended. Nor had he gotten around to removing her breeches to find out if her slim legs were as beautiful as the snug-fitting garment suggested.
But there was a great deal more to Chelsea Bellamy than a pretty face and long legs. The compassion in her eyes—and touch—when she’d asked him about Albuera had been genuine. Until that night, he had not spoken of the battle to anyone, relegating the painful memories to the dark recesses of his mind, where they served as ghoulish fodder for his nightmares. Fear, not stoicism, was behind his silence. To speak was to risk drowning his scarred soul in the deluge of anguish. But, looking into the turquoise pools of Chelsea’s eyes, he’d felt his grief blunt to a manageable sadness.
Although he’d yet to bed her, he knew instinctively that the feelings Chelsea aroused in him were a world apart from the uncomplicated lust he was accustomed to sating. For the first time in his life, he wanted more from a woman than a casual coupling.
And, for the first time in years, he dared to hope that the peace he craved might be within his grasp.
Chapter Seven
Driving his curricle through Mayfair the next morning, Anthony’s mind was anywhere but on the road. Fortunately even those who were unfashionable enough to remain in town after the Season rarely emerged from their residences before noon. At this hour, pedestrian traffic was limited to the milk maids, saloop vendors, and muffin men, all of whom were accustomed to darting clear of carriage wheels and horses’ hooves.
He turned onto Mount Street, and a sudden sneeze sent him in search of his handkerchief. Bouquets of lilies, daffodils, poppies and, of course, roses draped the carriage bench and floor. He’d even bought a bunch of blue forget-me-nots after deciding that the color reminded him of Chelsea’s eyes. The flower seller had been speechless when he’d asked how much she wanted for the lot. Recovering, she’d haggled with cockney guile. Anthony had overpaid, not that he’d cared. What were a few more coins compared with the prospect of making love to Chelsea in a room filled with the heady scent of spring? The thought alone made him harden.
He drew the team of blacks to a halt beneath the shade of an elm tree. Bunches of flowers tucked beneath both arms, he headed for the gray house, his stride purposeful despite the limp. Eager, it didn’t take long for his first polite knock to transform into a vigorous pounding.
Patience at an end, he dropped the flowers on the stoop and clanged the heavy brass knocker. “Chelsea, I know you’re in there. Open this door at once.”
The hairs at the back of h
is neck prickled. Sensing he was being watched, he turned and glimpsed a capped head pop up from the other side of the stone wall. The boy hoisted himself to the top and swung his skinny legs over the side.
“Missus Bellamy b’aint at ’ome, guv.”
Mrs. Bellamy. Anthony felt the force of those words like a fist slamming into his stomach. It had never occurred to him that Chelsea might be married. He contemplated the possibility that the rheumy-eyed Goliath was her husband, and jealousy jolted him. No, it couldn’t be. The brute was her butler and old enough to be her father. On the other hand, she did seem uncommonly devoted to him. He’d heard of husbands who sold their young wives into prostitution. Perhaps Jack was using Chelsea to do his thieving for him? The image of those gnarled paws groping Chelsea’s lovely body brought Anthony’s blood to the boiling point.
“How do you know this?” Anthony barked.
The lad pointed to the street. “I saw the big bloke flag down a ’ack and then they both got inside.”
“How long ago was that?”
“’Bout an hour.”
“I don’t suppose you know when Mrs. Bellamy is expected back?”
“’Fraid not, sir.”
No matter. She and the hulk would return sooner or later. Shielding his eyes with the edge of his hand, he looked up through the haze to the yellow ball of sun. Hopefully it would be sooner, before he dissolved, although he’d wait until doomsday if need be. Damn, but he couldn’t. He’d promised Phoebe a ride in Hyde Park later that afternoon.
He looked at the boy, still perched on the wall’s edge.
“How old are you?”
“Twelve, sir.”
Although small for his age, the child appeared intelligent and articulate. Anthony reached into his pocket and pulled out a half crown.
Holding it out, he asked, “Tell me, do you fancy a chance to earn this?”
“Oh, yes, sir.” He scooted off the wall’s edge, landing at Anthony’s feet. “What ’xactly do I ’ave to do fer it?”
“Only to deliver a message. Do you know Grosvenor Square?”
The boy gave a brisk nod. “Me mum’s cousin Jane works as a lady’s maid in one o’ the big houses there. Mum’s taken me to visit ’er a couple o’ times.”
“You’re hired.” Anthony reached inside his breast pocket and pulled out one of his calling cards. “Go to Number Nine. Give this to the butler and say that Lord Montrose is detained and sends his regrets. Mind you say no more, no less.”
The boy repeated the message, and Anthony handed over the card along with the coin.
“There’ll be another one waiting for you if I’m still here when you get back.”
His promise had the intended effect. The boy pocketed the money and sped away.
Anthony adjusted his coattails and sat on the crumbling stoop, heedless of the flowers. He wasn’t accustomed to cooling his heels on anyone’s doorstep, but there were some things in life worth waiting for. Last night he’d decided that Chelsea Bellamy was one of them.
Men!
Chelsea craned her neck out the carriage window and confirmed that they were still at it.
Jack shook his fist at the hackney driver, still seated on the box. “Five shillin’s and not a ha’penny more.”
The driver, red face working, scrambled down. “Five shillin’s! Why that’s bleedin’ highway robbery. ’Tis ten or I calls the constable.”
Oh, dear. This is going to take a while.
Perspiration gathering beneath the sleeves of her black bombazine, Chelsea unpeeled her damp back from the tattered leather seat and scooted to the edge. Given the beastly heat, five shillings more made no difference to her. To a cockney, however, bargaining was a matter of honor. That point had been driven home earlier when she and Jack had visited Goldsmith’s Row in Cheapside. A certain goldsmith, Tobbitt, was known to purchase valuables with no questions asked.
Before they set out, Jack had counseled her to leave the pearls behind. Depending on how they fared that day, they would either take the necklace back to Tobbitt or to another fence. Chelsea didn’t know what she would say when the time came for her to produce it.
But, when she entered the goldsmith’s musty shop, a more pressing concern supplanted that worry. Beetle-browed and bandy-legged, Tobbitt had ushered them past dusty glass-topped counters to the storage area at the back. Drawing the curtain, he’d motioned for Chelsea to unwrap the scarf containing the jewelry. Without the pearls, the most valuable item was Anthony’s gold timepiece. Even though he’d said she might keep it, she’d never felt more the thief than when she’d handed it over to the seedy little man.
“Can you sell it or not?” she’d finally demanded, hard-pressed not to snatch it back.
Still squinting over the engraving at the back of the case, he’d smiled, his teeth as yellow as the gold he dealt in. “Oh, not to worry, milady. Everything in London has a price—and a purchaser.”
Even so, at first he’d offered them only fifty pounds for the lot. He’d finally doubled that offer, worn down by Jack’s haggling and Chelsea’s promise of more to come.
Just as baking inside this oven was beginning to wear down her patience. Like children, widows were expected to be seen—albeit rarely—and heard not at all. Were it otherwise, she’d pop outside and tell both Jack and the driver what to do with their five shillings. She slipped two fingers beneath her high collar and vowed that, if Jack didn’t come for her within two minutes, she’d do just that.
At last he opened the carriage door and offered his hand.
Chelsea stepped out. Taking one look at his grinning face, she said, “I collect you settled the fare in our favor?”
He pulled a crown from his pocket. “Pretty, ain’t she?”
“Really, Jack. You’re incorrigible.” Feeling less out of sorts, she settled the netted veil over her face, hiding her smile.
Looking out onto the world through webbing was an odd experience. Vibrant colors appeared ashen, objects were obscured. Crossing the street, she squinted at the large mound planted on her doorstep.
Judging by the dejected slant of the shoulders, it must be one of the urchins from the parish workhouse. Sometimes the older boys camped on her doorstep to beg for money or food. It was impossible not to pity their hollow eyes and gaunt, pale faces. Money was too precious to part with, but she always found something for them in the larder. No wonder they kept coming back.
At her approach, the mound straightened. This was no workhouse waif. She would know that cocksure smile and those broad shoulders anywhere.
Oh, God, no. It couldn’t be him.
But it was.
Rising, Anthony leaned heavily on his walking stick. In his other hand he clutched a bouquet of bedraggled red roses. Literally hundreds more flowers wilted in the sunshine on her doorstep. Her heart lurched. No man had ever brought her flowers before.
“So, Miss Bellamy, we meet again.” He shoved the flowers into her hand. “These are for you.” He followed her downward gaze to the brown-edged blossoms hanging limply atop their sagging stems. “I assure you they were quite fresh when I purchased them.”
Reminding herself that every inch of her, including her hair, was concealed beneath the black yardage, she did her best to imitate the cockney accent she’d heard all morning.
“I b’aint Miss Bellamy. ’Fraid you’ve made a mistake, guv.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.” Before she could step away, Anthony snatched her veil and pulled it back. “Although perhaps you would prefer I address you as Mrs. Bellamy.” He glanced to the key in her hand. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
Defiant, she snapped, “As a matter of fact, I’m not. I don’t want you anywhere near me or my house. Is that clear?”
Dark brows lifted. “My dear, felonious Miss Bellamy, must I remind you that you are hardly in a position to be selective about the company you keep.”
“Hush!” She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder. Fortunately no one appeared
to be about. “Someone might overhear.”
He grinned, expression evil. “Indeed.”
Jack appeared behind her, a cloth bag filled with the fruits of their marketing dangling from each wrist. He took a menacing step forward. “Stand aside and let the lady pass.”
Anthony stood his ground. “Not until I’ve said what I came to say.”
The two men eyed each other. Both stubborn as bulldogs, in another moment they would be brawling. A public spectacle on her doorstep could ruin everything. Chelsea stepped between them.
“Lord Montrose, I assure you that we have nothing left to say to each other.”
He didn’t budge. “Then you did yourself considerably more credit than I. Last night I did not have the wits about me to say even half of what I intended.”
Jack’s sudden, sharp inhalation filled the silence. Damn, the game was up. Chelsea’s eyes dropped like stones to the flora blanketing her stoop.
“So, are you going to invite me inside or would you prefer that I remain out here to shout my message to the rooftops?”
“Oh, very well, come in but pray be quick about it.” Hoping he wouldn’t notice her trembling hand, she fitted the key to the lock.
A smile of victory plastered across his face, Anthony followed her inside, his limp more pronounced than she remembered. She wondered if she’d hurt him when she’d tried to knee him the night before. Suppressing the pang of guilt, she reminded herself that last night he’d displayed the cunning of a fox and the scruples of a street cur—and the charm of a snake. All things considered, it made for a dangerous, possibly deadly combination.
Turning her back on him, she led the way to the parlor.