by Liz Carlyle
And then, it struck him that he was becoming far too moralizing for his own good.
Gads! He had a reputation to maintain! What the devil was happening to him? He’d been here but two days, and already he was thinking like some overzealous Whig. Next he’d be espousing labor unions. Brooks’s would be compelled to revoke his membership. As a man of honor, he’d have to insist upon it.
———
After leaving Mrs. Quince with Nan and Molly, Cecilia could not summon the courage to return to the office. Her body still trembling with agitation, she dragged down the darkened corridor feeling like a prisoner headed for Tyburn Tree. She went so far as to lay her hand upon the office doorknob, and then, at the last possible moment, she turned and fled, darting back down the passageway into Mrs. Quince’s tiny sitting room instead.
Dear heaven, had she lost her wits entirely? She crossed the room to the walnut sideboard and, bracing her hands on either side of it, bent her head and drew a deep, unsteady breath. She had let Delacourt unnerve her again, drat him. No, she’d let him do much worse than that. For all his wealth and influence, he was nothing but a rotter and a libertine. So why did he still have the power to make her feel... make her feel so...
Damn him! Cecilia jerked upright and slammed down her fist. Atop the sideboard, a candle bounced out of its holder and rolled onto the floor. Ignoring it, Cecilia turned away and began to pace. Heaven help her, she was to be trapped at the mission with him three bloody days a week, and every time she looked across the room at his hungry green eyes, she would feel it. That twisting, snaking sensation deep in the pit of her belly.
She whirled about and crossed to the window. In the street below, traffic lumbered along as usual. A coal cart. A costermonger. Then an elegant coach and four, doubtless conveying some shipping mag-magnate down to the Lower Pool to watch his ship come in. It seemed a perfectly normal day on Pennington Street.
But it wasn’t. Slowly, Cecilia turned, letting her gaze slide from the glass. She had to get out, go home. Have a bath. Have a ride. Hell, have a drink. Anything but this.
Just then, the door swung open, and to Cecilia’s surprise, Kitty O’Gavin came in carrying a stack of freshly laundered bed linens. Cecilia moved from the window, and Kitty gave a little scream, her head jerking up like a terrified animal.
Cecilia’s personal concerns faded. Hastening forward, she took the sheets and set them down in a chair. “Kitty, did I startle you?” she asked softly. “My apologies.”
Pressing her lips tightly together, Kitty shook her head. “No, m’lady. I just... I just...” She was still trembling.
Cecilia laid a hand lightly on her arm and drew the girl toward Mrs. Quince’s sofa. “Come sit down, Kitty. I want to speak with you.”
Reluctantly, Kitty eased herself down. “I’m fine, m’lady, truly.”
Cecilia managed a smile and settled onto the opposite end. Kitty looked tired; dark circles ringed her eyes, and she looked as though she’d dropped a stone, weight she could ill afford to lose. “How are you bearing up, my dear? You look terribly tired.”
Kitty refused to hold her gaze. “I’m well enough, m’lady.”
Gently, Cecilia reached out to tuck an errant strand of limp blonde hair behind the girl’s ear. “Kitty, you are very young to be alone without your sister. Have you any family? Anywhere to go? I can arrange for passage—to Ireland, even to America—if you need it.”
Kitty stared into her lap and shook her head. “No, I’ve no family as I know of.”
“Then have you given any thought to your future? Tell me how I can help. Might I look about for a situation for you? A good laundress can always find employment.”
Kitty’s head came up in alarm. “No! I mean—I like it here. As long as I can stay, I’d like to. I’ll work hard, m’lady, I swear it.”
Soothingly, Cecilia stroked a hand down her arm. “Oh, my dear, it isn’t a matter of working hard...”
Cecilia let her words trail away. She’d been about to say that women who came to the mission must learn a skill and move on with their lives. But Kitty seemed too lost to hear that just now. “Of course, you may stay as long as you wish,” she reassured her, resolved to change the subject. “Now, tell me, Kitty, have you thought of anything else we might tell the police? Anything which might help them find the person who did this?”
Abruptly, Kitty shook her head.
Gently, Cecilia prodded. “Can you tell me what persuaded the three of you to come to the mission, Kitty? I mean—three friends, all together. It strikes me as odd.”
Kitty finally looked at her. “It was Meg’s idea,” she softly answered. “Her’s ‘n Mary’s. They come upstairs to our room late one night, woke me up, and said they were leaving. So what choice did I have? Stay there by meself? So I came, too. That’s all I know.” She ended on a strident note, looking as if she were desperate to escape the room.
Again, Cecilia patted her on the arm. “I understand Kitty. Really. Now, run along back to work if you wish. I shan’t trouble you any further.”
After Kitty left, Cecilia felt marginally calmer, though a great deal more saddened. Her troubles seemed suddenly insignificant in comparison to those of others. On the mantelpiece, the small brass clock chimed the hour. Three o’clock—? Good heavens, it was time to go home. Resolved not to return to the office, she went straight downstairs.
In the shop, there were no customers. Behind the counter, one of the girls was industriously sweeping the floor. Etta, efficient as always, had already gone to call the carriage. Cecilia turned to lift her cloak from its hook behind the door when, suddenly, the girl with the broom spoke.
“Lady Walrafen?” she asked rather nervously.
“Mrs. Quince ain’t come down in ever so long, and I’m a bit worried about somethin’.”
“Worried?” echoed Cecilia, fastening the frog of her cloak. “What’s the matter, Betty? Is the till off again?”
Betty put her broom in the corner with a clatter and stepped tentatively from behind the counter. “No, mum, it ain’t that,” she answered, running her hands down her apron. “It’s just that a strange man come in—maybe two hours past. Arstin’ questions, ‘e was.”
De Rohan? His name leapt to Cecilia’s mind, but she thought it unlikely that the police inspector would ask questions without permission. “What sort of man, Betty? Was it a policeman?”
Betty looked distinctly uncomfortable. “No, mum. Leastwise... I don’t think so. But now that I think on it, he did look a bit like a policeman.”
Cecilia pulled up her hood and began to tuck her hair in. “Did he ask for me? Or for Lord Delacourt? What, precisely, did he want?”
“He was arstin’ questions about that girl—the one what got stabbed.” Nervously, Betty twisted her hands in her apron. “He wanted to know if she was ‘ere at the mission. So I told him straight out, just like we’re supposed to, that I couldn’t answer them sort o’ questions.”
At once, Cecilia’s hand stilled. “And then what?”
Betty shrugged. “I tole ‘im if he’d wait, I’d fetch someone. But when next I looked around, ‘e was gone.”
Cecilia felt a wave of relief. Clearly not the murderer, then, since he had not known what had become of Mary. Nor, thank God, had he asked for Kitty. “Perhaps he was a friend? Or a former—er, client?”
At that, Betty’s expression brightened. “Now that I think on it, he did sort o’ look the type.”
“And just what did he look like?” Cecilia pressed. Unfortunately, Betty was not the brightest candle in the mission’s chandelier.
Betty shrugged again. “I was awful nervous, mum,” she said apologetically. “Tall, ‘e was, and dressed nice. But not too nice, if you know what I mean.”
Cecilia really didn’t know, but she rather doubted much more would be had from Betty. Just then, she saw her carriage draw up in front of the shop. “Listen to me, Betty,” she said carefully. “You did precisely the right thing by not answering his q
uestions. And if you should see that man again, I want you to send for Mrs. Quince at once. Can you do that?”
Dipping her chin shyly, Betty bobbed a quick curtsy. “Yes, mum. I will. I promise.”
———
As Delacourt had suspected, Cecilia never returned to the office. After another two hours of letter writing, he flung his pen down in disgust and headed for home. But once he’d relaxed into the depths of his coach, his hard-won concentration slipped, and his mind returned again to Cecilia. He tried to relax against the plush upholstery, but it was of no use, for beneath the layers of his expensive clothing, Delacourt was still chaffed by her rejection. And wounded by her poor opinion.
A sore tooth! What a fatuous analogy. He was just a bloody damned fool, and inside the shadows of his carriage, it was easier to admit. Oh, perhaps Cecilia desired him, but she still did not respect or like him. And why had he commenced a flirtation with her, of all people? Was he simply feeling the press of years? Or was he remembering something that had almost been?
Delacourt shut his eyes and let his head fall back. Good God, how he hated that, hated to admit he even possessed such a memory, hated to think of it.
Barely a hope, less than a dream.
With his eyes squeezed shut, he could see it still. A shaft of brilliant sun. And a gentle face, a lithe, vigorous body, turned toward the light, gilded by it. A gasp. And then soft, tentative lips pressing uncertainly against his. A young girl’s innocence. A confirmed rake’s nightmare.
And yet, it had not been a nightmare. Not precisely.
Not until the end.
Delacourt squeezed shut his eyes, but his mind spun as relentlessly as his carriage wheels, while the trees and buildings along the Strand dappled the interior with dying sunlight. Delacourt sat up, stretching out his hands to study them.
His were the hands of a man who was no longer precisely young, it was true. But he had a dreadful suspicion that his flirting with Cecilia had been driven by something worse than a young blade’s inexorable slide toward middle age. Delacourt shifted uncomfortably on the seat. The truth was, Cecilia Markham-Sands was not the accomplished flirt he’d expected a society widow to be. In fact, she’d kissed as if she were dreadfully inexperienced. Which ought to make him feel a deep sense of remorse.
It did not. It pierced him with a dangerous sense of exhilaration.
For two years, she’d been another man’s wife. Yet Cecilia still seemed oblivious to her own charms. He’d never known such a woman. And Delacourt had known more women than he cared to count. They were all the same, save for the minor details. He was not a vain man—well, not inordinately so—but he knew how to please a woman with flawless expertise. Delacourt could read their every emotion—feigned passion, sincere timidity, false modesty. But in the end, they all succumbed to his attentions.
Never before had he kissed a woman so set upon resisting him. Or resisting herself. And Cecilia’s tempestuous emotions—fear, anger, deep desire—all of them had been frighteningly real. Delacourt would have staked his rather sizable fortune on it. It had been cruel of him to torment her. And while Delacourt could honestly be called a great many things, a few of them not so flattering, he had never been deliberately cruel to a woman.
He did not like her, it was true. He felt a deep sense of anger when he thought of all that had passed between them—of how she had made him feel, both before and after he had kissed her that very first time. It really was too awful to consider.
What he needed was to think of something else.
Or, more honestly put, what he needed was sex. Badly, too, for beneath all the guilt and anger, his body still ached with an old, familiar hunger. The need to thrust and burn and spend himself inside a woman as she sighed with breathless anticipation. To feel her legs band about his waist, urging damp flesh against flesh. To smell his scent mingle with hers and swirl about them in a sweet, sensual heat.
How long had it been? Too long. Far too long for him. And it had grown worse with every passing day. For the last three nights, he’d fairly smoldered with lust, tossing in his bed until well past dawn. Yes, he was a hedonist. Some would say a sybarite. But he neither knew nor cared what others thought. His appetites were well known, but he played fairly, he paid well, and he gave as good as he got. If not better.
Delacourt was always in control, but his sensuality was a strong, undeniable part of himself. The heritage of his iniquitous sire, perhaps?
The thought made him want to put a fist through the glass of his window.
No, by God, he was not like that. He might be a licentious rakehell, but he was not a rapist. He would never take an unwilling woman. Not when he understood she was unwilling, for God’s sake. And at base, Cecilia Markham-Sands was still an unwilling woman. She always had been. And he did not need another misunderstanding on that score.
At Charing Cross, Delacourt picked up his gloves and his stick, then rapped violently on the carriage roof. He was tired of being trapped in a dark, confining coach with his rigid cock and newfound conscience. It was a virulent combination. Moreover, another duty called.
He sent his driver on to Curzon Street, then turned north to make his way up St. Martin’s Lane and deep into yet another rabbit warren brimming with trouble, the narrow lanes and alleys which formed the fringe of Covent Garden. It was but a short walk to Rose Street, and the Lamb and Flag, an iniquitous public house often called the Bucket of Blood for its history of hosting rather violent fistfights. Usually, the place teemed with rabble, of both the higher and the lower orders. Tonight, however, Delacourt was driven not by boredom or thirst but by an obligation so annoying that he paused on the threshold to consider it.
But it had to be done, damn Cole and Jonet both. And as he stepped inside, Delacourt knew that his journey had not been in vain. Deep in the rear, Lord Robert Rowland sat with one hip hitched upon a worn trestle table, watching dispassionately as two young swells fervently diced.
Pausing at the bar just long enough to snare a pint of something wet, Delacourt pressed through the smell of sour ale and unwashed bodies, making his way to Robin’s elbow. In the dimly lit corner, raw tension hung as thick as the tobacco smoke, and Delacourt’s worst suspicions were confirmed when he caught a glimpse of the older man’s face. Damn and blast! No wonder Jonet worried.
Sprawled opposite Robin was Bentham Rutledge, a rogue so notorious his exploits could almost put Delacourt to the blush. He was surprised to see young Hell-Bent back in town. Two years ago, he’d reportedly fled London after a duel had sent his opponent to what was believed to be his deathbed. It was rumored Rutledge had traveled through the Near East and on to India. But clearly, the devil was back. He sat near Robin’s elbow, a raven-haired dolly mop draped over his shoulder and a neat stack of banknotes at his elbow.
Opposite Rutledge, the second player had broken into a sweat. Good God, what a lamb amongst the wolves Robin was! As Delacourt considered how best to intervene, the sweating man shoved what looked like a Sèvres snuffbox into the pile of coins and vowels which lay upon the table. Then, in an unsteady voice, he called the throw.
Delacourt leaned toward his nephew’s ear. “A sovereign says he rolls another seven,” he offered quietly.
Robin jumped as if he’d been shot. “Good God!” he exclaimed, nearly falling off the table. But, like his mother, the lad quickly recovered. “What, ho!” he said jovially, thrusting out a hand. “It’s you, Delacourt!”
The players glanced up, greeting him without enthusiasm.
“Well!” proclaimed Robin. “You’ve met my pal Weyden, eh? And old Hell-Bent, too, I daresay?”
He had not. Nonetheless, Delacourt stiffly inclined his head. “A pleasure, Mr. Weyden. Mr. Rutledge.”
Robin gave him a nervous smile, hung his thumbs in the bearer of his trousers, and rocked back on his heels. “What the devil brings you into Rose Street, m’lord?”
Ignoring the question, Delacourt drew back to stare at the lad’s waist. “Really, Robin!
” he exclaimed, mimicking one of Kemble’s stricken looks. “Not the thumbs! You look like one of Nash’s bricklayers. Not to mention that it ruins the drape of one’s trousers!”
Robin yanked out the offending digits, jerking to attention. “Oh,” he said, his beaming bonhomie fading.
Delacourt inclined his head toward the dice game. “This reminds me! I’d promised to avenge my loss at whist by trouncing you in a hand of piquet, had I not?” He smiled dryly. “Why don’t you come up to Curzon Street right now? I’ll give you supper, too.”
Robin’s face fell completely. “Now?”
“Why not?” Delacourt lifted one brow and tilted his head toward the table. “Surely you’re not fool enough to play in this pernicious rat hole?”
“No, no!” Eyes wide, Robin shook his head. “No, indeed!”
“Oh, you restoreth my faith,” replied Delacourt smoothly, throwing an arm about the boy. “Now, what will you have? Cook set a rack of lamb on to roast this morning. Will that suit, do you think?”
As he propelled Robin out the door and into Rose Street, Delacourt kept chatting companionably, forcing the boy to do likewise, until they entered the shadows of Goodwin’s Court. Carefully, he slowed his pace, looking for footpads and pickpockets. Delacourt was desperate to get the boy home, but dusk was upon them, and the high, narrow passageway, which was never inviting, felt particularly menacing.
Perhaps he possessed a bit of his sister’s intuition, or perhaps it was just extraordinary hearing, but Delacourt sensed trouble before it exploded. Quickly, he pushed Robin behind him just as a door onto the lane hurled outward, flying back against a brick-fronted row house. In an instant, a beefy hand shoved a sobbing woman through the door, sending her reeling backward in a whirlwind of pink satin and red velvet.
She landed ignominiously upon her backside in the filth of the alley, cracking her skull against the opposite wall. The man followed her out, storming across the cobbles to tower over her. He was a big fellow, run to fat, with expensive but garish clothes.
“I said we’ll do with yer as we please, yer stupid cow,” he rasped, grabbing her by her red cloak in one fist while drawing back the other. “An’ none of yer bloody maundering! Now, go an’ see if that slut you work for’ll have you back now, yer tight-arsed nun.”