Thief of Hearts

by Teresa Medeiros

  “My father?” she queried.

  “I’m afraid the weather has aggravated his wound, Miss Lucy,” Smythe explained. “He won’t be attending. He asks that you deliver his regrets to Lady Cavendish.”

  Gerard hastened Lucy into the waiting carriage. He suspected her father’s indisposition had more to do with the fresh exploits of Captain Doom off the coast of the Admiral’s own beloved Cornwall. They had been splashed across the front pages of both the Times and the Observer that morning.

  Rain pattered on the carriage roof as Fenster deftly maneuvered them into the congested traffic of the Strand. Its cozy rhythm only served to underscore their awkward silence. Both Lucy’s tyranny and the fleeting camaraderie they’d enjoyed in the library seemed to have dissipated in the chill. She gazed out the rain-beaded window, her profile pensive in the hazy glow of the carriage lamp.

  Probably fretting over her precious father’s conveniently fickle health, Gerard thought unkindly. Or mooning over Captain Doom, nursing her childish infatuation with a phantom.

  His irritation increased with every revolution of the carriage’s wheels. If the Admiral had wanted a man to squire his spoiled daughter all over town, why hadn’t he just hired her a bloody beau? Or a husband? Ionia’s library stood unguarded, yet Gerard was to spend the evening banished to some servants’ hall, relegated to pressing his nose against an invisible window, separated from everything he’d ever wanted by a mocking twist of fate.

  The carriage lurched to a halt. A footman wrapped in an oilcloth cloak appeared at the door. “There’s been an accident. Hackney coach overturned in the road.”

  Gerard opened his mouth to snap a command, but Lucy’s cultured tones thwarted him. “Tell Fenster to turn around and take whatever route the other carriages seem to be taking.”

  Gerard settled back in his seat. He’d do well to remember his place. After all, he was only a servant.

  It took the elderly coachman several minutes to untangle them from the snarl of vehicles, but they were soon rumbling after a carriage with an elaborate coat of arms consisting of an eagle with outspread wings emblazoned on its door.

  Leaving behind the broad paved lanes haloed by rows of street lamps, the carriages wended their way down an unfamiliar street. Unfamiliar to Lucy, but not to Gerard. He knew every cracked cobblestone, every ramshackle hovel, every smudgepot of an alley. The tainted smell of the river flooded his mind with childhood memories, more bitter than sweet. There was nothing left of the boy who’d been born and raised there. Not even his name.

  Some nobleman with a perverse sense of humor had christened the teeming wharf district the Garden. His aristocratic nostrils had obviously never inhaled its hellish stench of rotting fish, stale gin, and overflowing sewage, all layered by centuries of poverty. The river was the pulsing vein of its existence, yet there was never enough water to wash with, never enough water to drink. Was it any wonder Gerard found the lemon- and soap-scented purity of Lucy’s skin so unbearably erotic?

  Crowds thronged the narrow street, blithely ignoring the rain for most had nowhere to go to escape it. Beggars, whores, and street vendors rushed toward the shiny carriages, hoping their dismal luck was about to change. The clamor of their voices pierced the thin glass of the carriage windows, their cries as timeless as their emaciated faces.

  “Spare a farthin’ fer a cripple, mate?”

  “Come ’ave a glass with me, guv’nor. Ye’ll not regret it. Me name’s Angel and I can take ye straight to ’eaven!”

  “Cat meat! Get yer fresh cat meat!”

  Gerard searched Lucy’s face for a sign of disdain, not understanding himself why her reaction to this place was so vitally important to him. She was staring straight ahead, her delicately chiseled features as cold and impassive as the Greek statuary she resembled, as cold as the lump of marble she dared to call a heart. Savage disappointment wrenched his gut. He turned his face to the window, knowing he should be relieved that he could no longer bear to look at her.

  The ducal carriage had drawn far ahead of them, its occupants eager to escape the seething mass of poverty. The massive vehicle raced toward the deserted corner, its rate of speed increasing as its driver lashed the handsome grays into a dangerous gallop.

  Gerard saw Lucy’s head jerk toward the window, heard her horrified gasp an instant before he saw the ragged child step into the road, arms outstretched as if to steal just a touch of the splendor thundering past. Then the child was lying crumpled in the road and the carriage was gone, rocking wildly as it disappeared over the horizon.

  Gerard bellowed for Fenster to stop, but before their own carriage could lurch to a halt, Lucy had thrown open the door and spilled into the pouring rain.

  CHAPTER TEN

  GERARD FLUNG HIMSELF OUT OF THE CARRIAGE to find Lucy already kneeling in the street, the fallen child cradled across her lap.

  She lifted her face to him. Tears streamed down her pale cheeks, blending with the rain. Pain and fury ravaged her voice. “Were they blind? Couldn’t they see her? They didn’t even stop! For God’s sake, they didn’t even slow down!”

  “They probably didn’t want to risk losing their places at supper,” Gerard replied grimly, squatting beside her to check the child’s heartbeat and examine her scrawny limbs.

  The little girl stirred beneath his probing hands. Her eyes fluttered open, huge in her gaunt face. She gazed up at Lucy in unabashed awe. “ ’Ave I died, miss? Are you an angel?”

  Lucy laughed then, a joyous ripple of sound that arrowed straight to Gerard’s heart. He realized that he’d never heard her laugh before.

  “I’m afraid I’m no angel, dear. My father would be only too eager to assure you of that.”

  Gerard smoothed lank strands of hair from the child’s grimy brow. “She was only stunned. A few scrapes and bruises, that’s all.”

  A woman came rushing toward them, her sham finery marking her as a whore more plainly than her half-unbuttoned bodice and bare feet. Although she’d clearly tumbled from her most recent customer in a blind panic, she’d taken the time to pin on her bonnet. Gerard was not surprised. He’d had long acquaintance with such displays of pathetic bravado in those with little to wear but their pride. The hat’s moth-eaten plume drooped in the rain.

  The woman snatched the shaken child from Lucy’s arms. “Get yer bloody ’ands off ’er!”

  The little girl clung to her mother’s neck like an albino monkey, but her adoring gaze remained riveted on Lucy.

  Lucy rose to face them, clutching her soiled reticule. “She doesn’t seem to have any broken bones, ma’am. We think she’ll be fine.”

  “No thanks t’ the likes o’ you,” the woman snarled.

  Gerard held his breath without realizing it, waiting for Lucy to reprove the woman for allowing her child to run wild in the streets. But she endured the setdown with such stoic dignity that the woman launched into a profane tirade, flaying Lucy with the caustic edges of her tongue.

  Gerard could not stand idly by as she accepted a rebuke not rightly hers. When the woman paused for breath, he stepped into her line of fire. “Pardon me, madame. Perhaps you misunderstood the situation. It was not Miss Snow’s carriage that struck your child. However, she did possess the grace to stop and see to your daughter’s well-being.”

  Something in Gerard’s bearing made the woman take a step backward. Her sodden bonnet plume collapsed over one eye. “It don’t matter what one run ’er down. Ye’re all alike. Bloody selfish bastards, the lot o’ you!”

  Lucy was fumbling with her reticule. Before Gerard could stop her, she drew forth a wad of pound notes and held them out to the woman. “Please,” she said. “Take these for your trouble. Have the child seen by a physician. Buy her something warm to eat.” Gerard realized it was more money than her father was paying him in a month.

  The woman’s gaze lingered hungrily on the modest fortune in the gloved hand before she snatched it and tossed it back in Lucy’s face. Lucy blanched, but did not fli
nch. One crisp note caught in her hair while another fluttered down to sink into a puddle.

  “Ye can keep yer bloody charity. I works for my money and proud of it I am.” Dismissing Lucy, she raked a bold glance over Gerard, still clutching her daughter to her ample breasts. “If ye’d like t’ ditch the duchess and come back later, gent, I’d be more than ’appy t’ earn my coin with the talents the good Lord gave me.”

  Gerard felt his lips harden into a pitiless line as he tipped his hat to her. “Take your child home, madame. Where she belongs.”

  None of Lucy’s clumsy attempts to make reparations infuriated the woman as Gerard’s gentle reproof did. With an inarticulate sound of rage, she swiped the hat plume out of her eyes and marched away. The little girl gazed over her mother’s rigid shoulder. Her forlorn eyes haunted Gerard. He knew only too well that in a few years she’d probably be selling her own precious body on the street for pennies.

  He returned his attention to Lucy, desperate to escape this place and its memories.

  She stood staring after the child, her expression desolate, her hair plastered to her head, her beautiful gown soiled and torn. The wet silk clung to her slender curves as if she were Venus freshly risen from the sea. She’d lost both her cashmere shawl and one slipper to a muddy puddle. Her bare toes peeked out from a jagged tear in her left stocking.

  Gerard knew then that he’d made a terrible error in judgment. He could have walked away from the woman he had believed her to be without a backward glance. But this was a different woman. One whose lips trembled with vulnerability. One whose sooty lashes were spiked with tears. One whom he could not resist.

  He drew off his coat and wrapped it gently around her shoulders. “Come, Lucy. The carriage is waiting.”

  He guided her toward the vehicle, stepping over the scattered pound notes. Lucy’s largesse would not go to waste. Shadows were already creeping out of the alleys and darkened doorways to claim it.

  “I’ve never been so ashamed,” she confessed when they were once again settled among the leather squabs of the carriage.

  “You weren’t the one to run her down.”

  She toyed with the tattered lace of her gloves. Gerard had to strain to hear her subdued words. “Not then. Before. When I saw those people.” She lifted her somber gray eyes to his face. “Why should I have so much when they have so very little?”

  He had no answer for that. He’d been wrestling with the same question for most of his life. “Did allowing that woman to berate you and offering her money ease your troubled conscience?”

  “I felt sorry for her.”

  “You saw what she thought of your pity.”

  Lucy’s eyes widened with dawning realization. “She didn’t want my kindness, did she? She wanted an excuse to stay angry. She needed to be angry. So she could hold on to her pride. How did you know that?”

  “Simple. My mother was a whore.”

  He lounged back in the seat, eyeing her with unbridled arrogance, and awaited the flicker of distaste his crude confession would kindle in her eyes, the politely masked repugnance and veiled pity that would kill his burgeoning regard for her.

  Her wistful smile was the last response he’d expected. “So was mine. Only I’m told she accepted no coin for her favors.”

  Gerard’s heart was still struggling to absorb the blow when a footman appeared at the carriage door, poorly hiding his impatience at their delay. “Shall we proceed, my lady?”

  Lucy wrung out a fold of her sodden skirt, her broken little laugh sounding more like a hiccup. “Lady Cavendish would have the vapors if I appeared on her doorstep in such a sorry state. There’s nothing left for us to do but return home.”

  Inspired by her feeble attempt at cheer, Gerard held up a hand, stilling both Lucy and the footman. “Stay here,” he commanded. “I’ll be back in a trice.”

  Her bodyguard had ducked into the rain before Lucy could remind him that she still had his coat. She snuggled deeper into its depths, both warmed and comforted by the masculine fragrance of bayberry trapped in the coarse fibers.

  Mr. Claremont returned over twenty minutes later, his arms laden with parcels. Sinking into the opposite seat, he undid his cravat and tossed his hat away with a careless flick of his wrist. His sodden shirt clung to his shoulders. Droplets of rain glistened in the crisp chest hairs curling from the open collar.

  He cleared his throat pointedly and Lucy jerked her gaze up, mortified that he’d caught her staring. His familiar smirk of amusement had returned.

  To hide her chagrin, she peered out the window at the rainy vista. “The carriage is moving. Where are we going?”

  “Why, to supper, of course. I’m your bodyguard, aren’t I? ’Tis my duty to see you well nourished.”

  Lucy sniffed the air; it was fragrant with a potpourri of delicious aromas. An inadvertent moan of anticipation escaped her. “What wicked thing have you done now, Mr. Claremont?”

  “Since we’ve been forced to deprive Lady Cavendish of our charming company, I thought we’d stage our own little supper party.”

  He spread open his parcels on the seat beside him. Lucy’s mouth watered as each new treasure was revealed: roasted apples, a string of sausages, crumbling Banbury cakes, crumpets, a jug of ale, a steaming loaf of bread, and a variety of sweetmeats that made her throat tighten with longing.

  “Oh, my!” she whispered. “It’s quite splendid.”

  “The riverbanks aren’t completely devoid of charm. They can still provide a feast fit for a beggar king”—he drew a penny-bunch of sweet lavender from his waistcoat with a flourish—“and flowers for his lady.”

  His humor melted to something more perilous as he leaned forward and gently tucked the sprig of lavender behind her ear. Lucy shivered at his touch. He was doing it again, she thought frantically. Stealing all the air. Shrinking the carriage until their knees touched, their breath mingled, her eyes fluttered shut in foolish invitation.

  “I really shouldn’t,” she murmured.

  “Nonsense.”

  At his crisp reply, her eyes flew open. He was pawing through her reticule. “Ah!” he exclaimed, drawing out a silver object. “I knew there’d be a watch in here somewhere. Probably a barometer and a sextant, too, to measure the precise latitude of the carriage.” He dangled the watch in front of her face. “Just as I suspected. Precisely twenty-two hundred hours.” The watch disappeared back into the reticule. “And what is scheduled to take place at twenty-two hundred hours, Miss Snow?”

  His good humor was irresistible. Lucy tried to swallow a smile, but failed. “Supper?” she ventured.

  The carriage rolled to a gentle halt. Lucy lowered the window to find them surrounded by glistening tree trunks. Overhead, a dense canopy of branches melted the rain to a fine mist. Had she been a woman given to fancy, she might have imagined it lent the forested landscape an enchanted air.

  “Where are we?” she whispered, hesitant to profane the sylvan hush.

  “Berkley Wood. Do you know it?”

  “Indeed I do. So does every footpad in London. What are you trying to do? Invite a robbery?”

  Claremont crossed his well-muscled arms over the broad expanse of his chest and gave her a dour look. “Why, Miss Snow, your faith in my abilities is touching.”

  She averted her eyes, disturbed by the masculine display. “What about the servants?”

  “They’re probably huddled under Fenster’s oilcloth sharing their own ale.”

  Lucy suspected he’d deliberately misunderstood her question. She’d meant, Wouldn’t die servants be scandalized by their behavior? But she realized with a shock that for the first time in her life, she didn’t care. She was ravenous and Mr. Claremont’s generous feast was simply too tantalizing to resist.

  She eyed the string of sausages longingly. “Those aren’t cat meat by any chance?”

  “Of course not,” he promised, breaking off one and handing it to her. She bit into it, savoring its succulent flavor. He grinned. “On
ly the finest spaniel for Admiral Snow’s daughter.”

  Lucy choked. Claremont handed her his handkerchief and thumped her on the back. “I was only joking. Did it put you in mind of a childhood pet?”

  She dabbed her watering eyes. “Oh, no. Father doesn’t approve of pets.”

  “Not even for supper?”

  Lucy choked again, this time with laughter. Claremont offered her the jug of ale.

  She waved it away, struggling to catch her breath. “I do not indulge in spirits, sir. They only weaken one’s moral character.”

  Leering devilishly, he lifted the jug in a toast before bringing it to his lips. “Precisely.”

  Lucy covertly admired the flex and ripple of Claremont’s tanned throat. She wet her parched lips with her tongue. “Perhaps one tiny sip …?”

  He handed her the jug and she wiped its mouth with meticulous care before bringing it to her lips. Realizing too late what she’d done, she reluctantly lifted her eyes to find Claremont studying her with wry amusement.

  “Don’t worry, dear. You can’t get the diseases I’ve got simply by drinking after me.”

  Feeling her cheeks flush with chagrin, Lucy took a sip of the ale, then grimaced. Its sour taste was tempered by the thread of warmth that tingled into her belly as she handed the jug back. Claremont cocked an eyebrow in challenge and brought it to his mouth, drinking deeply from the precise spot warmed by the kiss of her own lips. His tongue darted out to catch a stray drop.

  Dazed by the deliberate intimacy of the gesture, Lucy reached absently for one of the Banbury cakes.

  His hand caught her wrist. “Oh, no, you don’t. As your bodyguard, I’d best taste first. After all, it could be”—he lowered his voice to a dramatic pitch—“poisoned.”

  He bit into the cake, then held it out to her. She reached for it, but he drew it back. The tantalizing treat reappeared just inches from her lips. Lucy glared at him. No one had ever dared to tease her before. It would serve him right if she bit him instead of the cake.