The door swung open. “Cherry, wake up!”
Betsy all but sprinted inside, drawn up short as she saw me sitting up, the covers askew and my bare legs hanging over the edge of the bed. Puzzlement shaped her brow for half a breath before she flung out a hand. “Hurry!” she entreated. “We’ve got to get you ready.”
“What is so,” I began, only to yelp as she grabbed my arm and half dragged me away from the bed. “Betsy!”
“The earl,” she hissed. “He’s sent a card ’round, he has.”
I blinked dumbly. “The earl?”
“The earl,” she repeated earnestly, whipping my nightdress off without so much as a by-your-leave. I stood gaping as she added pointedly, “The Earl Compton. The marchioness’s son!”
Ah. Then it all made sense. I stepped back out of reach as my maid tried to seat me at the vanity. Nude, I braced my hands on my hips and said flatly, “I’m not going down.”
Her brown eyes narrowed. “Oh, yes, you are.”
“No, I’m—”
“Fanny told me to tell you that if you so much as narrow your pretty eyes at him,” Betsy continued over my stubborn refusal, “then not only will she take away your books, she’ll donate them to the richest abbey in all of England.”
My jaw dropped. “She wouldn’t.”
All Betsy had to do was cock her head, hands on her aproned hips, and I wilted. “There’s a girl,” she encouraged, but I ignored her.
Damn that Fanny Fortescue.
Not only would she remove my books, but she’d have them placed in a library so large that they’d never get read again, just to watch me bat my lashes at an earl.
An earl who had already snubbed me in front of all of London.
Bah. He wasn’t even really an earl. His father was; but as the eldest son, he only gained the title as a courtesy. The land and holdings wouldn’t be his until his father’s death, when he’d inherit “marquess” and “earl” both.
It could be years.
Unlike me, who was only months away from independence.
“Is he handsome?” Betsy was saying as she hurriedly styled my hair.
My back teeth clenched. “No.” Lie. Just the mere thought of him was enough to remember his lovely eyes meeting mine as he danced me across the floor.
I shifted as my stomach flipped.
“That’s not what Fanny says,” Betsy countered gaily. She jerked hard on my hair, forcing me to look straight ahead as I tried to glare at her. “She says he’s quite possibly the most handsomest gentleman in all of London.”
My jaw shifted. “Not likely,” I muttered. Especially with Micajah Hawke about. But that was hardly fair. They were as day and night; fair and dark. Angel of the night and angel of . . . Oh, for God’s sake.
Neither man was suitable for me, anyway. Not that either man was asking.
What the blazes was wrong with my head today?
“Quickly, hang onto the bedpost.”
I obeyed Betsy quietly, breathing out as she placed a knee at my back and pulled my corset laces tight enough that for a moment, I saw stars. “Betsy!” I gasped.
“Your waist is not your strength,” she told me firmly. “One more.”
“Good Lord.” I winced as she yanked with all of her strength. “This is hardly going to be a social—”
“It’s never too late,” Betsy interrupted me, and flung yards of dusky rose fabric over my head. The day dress all but floated to the ground at my feet. Trimmed with a rich wine and touched with creamy lace at my elbows, décolletage and hem, it was one of my favorites. And one of my most flattering. It contrasted beautifully with my hair.
“There,” she said as she finished the last hook and eye closure. “You’re pretty as a painting.”
We’d see about that. Everything in place, Betsy thrust me out the door and downstairs, where Fanny waited as if afraid I’d bolt if left alone too long.
She surveyed me critically. “You’ll do,” was her momentous praise. I barely resisted sticking my tongue out at her as she took my arm and led me into the parlor. “Booth will be bringing tea immediately. Don’t you dare ruin this, Cherry St. Croix.”
“Me?” I glowered at her as I sank to the gold brocade settee, automatically arranging the folds of my gown. “I’m hardly the one that cut him, you know.” Although maybe I should have. The beautiful, sonorous melody of chimes soared through the house as the door mechanism was engaged.
One of my favorite sounds, that doorbell. So much more pleasing to the ear than a simple ringing gong or bell.
I heard the uneven step of my butler approach, and my back straightened. Fanny sat on a far chair, knitting in hand, and glowered at me. “Not,” she warned on a hiss, “a word. Not even a hint of your temper, miss, or so help me—”
Booth cleared his throat. “Miss St. Croix, my lord Compton, Earl Compton, is arrived.”
It was as if someone had thrown some diabolical switch. Fanny’s expression eased from severe to gracious in the space of a breath. She rose, shooting me a pointed look that I couldn’t possibly fail to understand.
As tempted as I was to remain seated, my own brand of snubbing, I knew Fanny would more than make good on her threat if I acted up.
I rose as well. We eased into a curtsy as Earl Compton strode into the room. Hatless as a courtesy and divested of his outer clothing, he cut a fine figure in my small parlor.
Too fine. Although the striped brocade chairs and heavy curtains were of excellent quality, and the dark wood furniture kept to a gleaming polish, it seemed to me as if it paled next to the earl’s own refinement.
His bow was stiff, but precise. “I thank you for your hospitality,” he said by way of greeting, and a shiver slipped between my shoulders.
I remembered that polished voice in my ear. And I did not like it. “We could hardly turn you away,” I said sweetly. “Imagine the talk.” Fanny’s eyes narrowed a fraction.
His met mine directly.
I lifted my chin. “Please, my lord, sit. Tea shall be arriving.” The sooner, the better. Booth had gone to acquire the service, and once a single cup was done, I’d have the pompous earl tossed out on his ear.
Or at least, I amended as we all sat, escorted out politely. I wasn’t a fool, after all.
“Are you well, Miss St. Croix?”
I almost laughed at the polite query. “Yes, thank you,” I replied, even as I locked down the surge of incredulity bubbling in my throat. He hadn’t risked scandal just to ask after my well-being.
“Excellent.” He hesitated. “I apologize for my early visit, but as I was passing through on an errand, I thought . . . that is, you must be wondering—”
The earl’s words ended abruptly as Booth rolled the tea service in. I watched his eyes trail over Booth’s missing limb, taking in the ornate prosthetic. Not a flicker crossed his expression. Not a pained wince or quiet judgment.
To my dismay, my estimation of the man rose. Just a notch. “Tea?” I asked, retaining the saccharine tone I knew Fanny would task me for later. I stripped off my gloves, tucking them into my lap.
“Most kind.” Compton sat rigidly, as if every muscle were in a constant state of focus. His frock coat was a rich, deep blue, his waistcoat polished gray and his trousers to match. His tie was blue, as well, and the color did remarkable things for his brilliant eyes.
They remained fixed on me. If he was aware of Fanny’s silent speculation above the gentle click of her knitting needles, he didn’t show it.
I was all too aware of every nuance in the room, and I could add that to my silent litany of things I didn’t like.
I poured tea—fortunately with more practiced grace than I expected of myself—and refrained from throwing it at him. I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to demand satisfaction for his behavior. I wanted to march into Mr. Ashmore’s study and tear the matched set of pistols from the wall, just so I could throw one to him and watch his shocked expression.
I did none of these things.
His gloveless hand cradled mine for the heartbeat it took to transfer the saucer. As if he’d laid an electrical charge against my flesh, I felt the brush of his skin clear to my bones. The china clinked as my hand shook, tea sloshing over the lip and onto my fingers. Hot enough that I jerked in surprise. “Oh!”
“Forgive me,” Compton said at the same time, capturing my hand in his. “That was terribly clumsy of me.” Without awaiting my permission, or even any response at all, he plucked a neatly folded handkerchief from his pocket and blotted at the liquid sliding over two fingers.
Fanny said nothing.
Some chaperone she turned out to be.
I watched him as he tended to my bare skin. His eyes were on his task, his posture still unbending for all his fingers curved into my palm. Gentle, but strong. Sure. Warm.
He glanced up to find me staring. Was it my imagination, or did I detect a trace of heat in those eyes? A whisper, something. Something focused and intense.
Whatever it was, it slipped over my skin and curled into a warmth low in my belly.
I snatched my hand back. “My Lord Compton,” I said flatly, “with all due respect, why are you here?”
“Cherry!”
Fanny’s gasp of outrage drew only a flick of eyes from my guest. The corner of his mouth quirked. A hint of a smile. “They say you are a woman to speak your mind.”
I poured my own tea, ignoring the vaguely damp remnants of the same liquid between my fingers, and dropped two sugars into the steaming cup. “They also say that I am a madman’s daughter,” I replied evenly. “Beyond hope and help, with ambitions far above my place.” I watched the almost-smile fade from his mouth and steeled myself not to care. The words were his mother’s.
“They say you are a keen mind,” he countered stiffly.
“I have my father’s mind for science,” I replied, “and my mother’s love of the written word. Or so they say.” I raised my eyebrows. “They say an awful lot. This does not answer my question.”
He inclined his head. “So it does not. Miss St. Croix, I’ve come to apologize.”
The word didn’t stick in his craw like I imagined it would. He said it easily, graciously. He did not choke on the syllables, as I’d half hoped.
I blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“As a point of fact,” the earl continued, placing his untouched saucer on the service beside us, “it is I who should be begging yours.”
I could only stare.
He rose, and with instinctual courtesy, I rose as well, but I neglected to put my tea saucer down to do it. My skirts rustled; I resisted the urge to smooth them. They didn’t require smoothing.
I did. My hackles were up like some ruffled cat’s, I knew that, but so was my awareness. Of him—his presence, his costly fragrance, the fit of his waistcoat. Awareness of my own pulse, loud in my ears.
He did not take my hand, as I suddenly was terrified he’d try. I kept all ten of my fingers curled around my saucer rim, white with strain.
Compton placed one hand to his heart and bowed deeply. “I indulged Mother’s request without knowing who you were or why she would request such a thing,” he explained, but rigidly. Uncomfortably, I hoped. “I was foolish, and humbly beg your pardon.”
I stared at the sandy gold cap of his lowered head. “I—what?”
Hardly my most gracious moment.
But as he straightened again, taller than I and now closer for standing, he looked down into my face with such earnest appeal that my throat went dry. “You must allow me to somehow mend the rift, Miss St. Croix. It was undeserved scandal, that much I am sure of.”
“You have no conception of who I am,” I pointed out. Across the room, I could see Fanny gesturing frantically. Stop talking! Forgive and forget.
I wasn’t ready to.
No matter how sweet the apology.
“I would rectify that, as well,” Compton replied simply.
I pushed on. “You are aware that even now, you are scandalizing your poor mother, yes?”
Again, that corner of his lips twitched. His eyes remained on mine; we were close, but not touching. Squared off, but not for a fight. The tension seeping between us was all me, I was sure.
I should have just forgiven the man and removed him from my house.
But that near-smile. His eyes. His earnestness and utter control and propriety . . .
“As one good turn deserves another,” he replied, “so can it be said of an incivility. Such feuds can last lifetimes.” I was so surprised when he actually reached for my hand that I let him have it, his long fingers enclosing mine. He bowed over it, apparently heedless of the incongruity of my standing there with a teacup and saucer balanced awkwardly in the other hand.
“It is my hope, Miss St. Croix, that there will be no cut in my future.”
Chapter Six
I retired to my room the instant the earl took his leave. Fanny thought me too overwhelmed to handle myself, that I needed a rest.
I let her think so. In truth, I was too vexed, too befuddled, too utterly bemused, and too eager to unloose this pent-up energy roiling inside my skin to bother with these new complications the earl posed.
I could have taken the laudanum I had left. There was nothing better to cure anxieties, but I didn’t dare.
Locating Hawke’s missing quarry could release this anxiety as well as acquire me a new batch of laudanum for future use. All I had to do was mend my goggles enough that the glass would remain intact inside the frame and I’d be off.
It was the work of an hour. I sacrificed a pair of corset ties, but the wrapping would hold until I found thinner leather.
It would be harder still to replace the glass. I silently added it to my mental list of tasks.
I didn’t often go below by day, but there were times when the risk seemed lessened by need. Whether this was true or not, I felt the risk justifiable today.
It was this, I thought, or I’d go snooping in Mr. Ashmore’s study for books I hadn’t yet found to devour, likely end up not reading them for all this restlessness, and leave them lying about as I often did. And as I was not allowed in such sanctified men’s territory, I opted for the plan that seemed like much more trouble.
If only my guardian knew what it was I got up to when propriety banned me from the lesser evil.
Far below the drift, buried in the deepest center of the East End, there is a fog-ridden building. Once upon a time, it had posed as a rail station, but the rail had been moved farther south and the station long since abandoned.
Now, it hung empty and dark, its floors coated in the fog seeping in through the cracks. My strides displaced the heavy smoke, kicking up droplets of yellow-green mist with every step. This, unofficially, was where the collectors came to claim work.
I wasn’t sure how it started, or who held the lease. I didn’t know whether word of mouth created this epicenter of the trade or if it were some secretive business in the dark. All I knew was that we collectors came here when we wanted work. Miraculously, there was usually work to be had.
The crumbling station was empty this time of day. Sometimes, I came across other collectors surveying the walls for postings. We were a wary lot, mistrustful by nature, but also a cautiously supportive community. As long as a bounty didn’t weigh in the balance, you could rely on a certain amount of secrecy and support from your fellow collectors.
Otherwise, we’d throw one another under a train for a purse.
I grinned as I approached the far wall, dingy with years of smoke and dirt. Papers were pinned in place, some torn as if from a scrap of a greater work, and others fairly neat at the edges. Some were clean scripts, in words educated and polished. Others were barely legible, with terrible phrasing and a complete lack of grammatical understanding.
But each offered coin for a delivery, a death, a retrieval.
I pulled my overcoat closer about my ears,
made sure the brim of my street boy’s cap shadowed my features from any eyes lurking in the dark corners. My goggles allowed me to scan the fluttering parchments with ease, though the yellow lens was fogging in the damp.
There were some calls for beatings. Men who owed money and needed a reminder of the fact. Some requests for lost items, general sleuthing. A handful came from the Menagerie, others from shop owners in need of aid. Some were from secretive patrons of the business, especially the killings.
There were gaps on the wall where bounties had been pulled; that was the unspoken way of the collectors. It was a competitive vocation, a difficult one already without adding other collectors to the mix. To ensure we didn’t race each other to the pot, a collector would accept a job by taking the posted bounty.
It had taken me a few stolen quarries to learn this when I’d first learned about collectors’ business. I’d been bored out of my skull at a ball, and wandered away before the master of the house foisted another boring dance on me. I found myself outside on the veranda, just over a knot of young men. One was a Society collector who’d regaled the young bucks with tales of his exploits.
I’d overheard his directions to find the laughably termed “offices,” and thus began my secretive career. Of course, it had taken quite a lot of nerve to do then what was only habit now.
“Hello,” I said to the damp, still air. “You’re out and about, are you?” I reached up and pinned the corner of a ragged edge to the wall with a finger. Someone had sliced through the bounty notice with a sharp edge, leaving two halves hanging open. By placing them together, I could see that the bounty was a killing, a call for assassination. There were no reasons given, only a figure that made my fortnights’ worth of allowance look like a pittance.
Claimed, then.
I didn’t know who the bloke was, but his mark showed up like this now and again. The last time I’d seen it, it was for another assassination. Nothing nearly so heavy a purse as this, but the same tear through it.
A few days later, the posting was gone. Fulfilled, perhaps. I never knew for sure. But something told me that the collector did this on purpose. He wanted us to know what he was after.
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