“Lucy!” The duchess snapped her fingers. “You will bring more tea straightaway.”
Lucy’s head snapped up, and her cheeks colored. She started to refuse, but to her surprise, Lord Wellstone turned toward her and, beyond the view of the others in the room, gave her a surreptitious wink.
“This moment, Lucy.” The duchess made a shooing motion. Something very strange was happening. Lucy’s stomach churned.
“I don’t want to trouble you,” Lord Wellstone said rather insincerely, but her stepmother shushed him.
“It is no trouble, my lord. Lucy,” she stressed, “will be glad to fetch a fresh pot of tea.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Lucy agreed, still confused as to the viscount’s intent. Deciding that retreat was the better part of valor, Lucy bobbed a curtsy and left the room. She clambered down the back stairs as she tried to puzzle it out. Despite the fact that his grandmother lived next door, Lord Wellstone had never before paid a visit. If he was not here to denounce her for the contretemps in Lady Belmont’s garden, what could the man be thinking by establishing such an acquaintance and raising expectations?
Belowstairs, Cook still snored in her chair, and the fire burned low. Lucy reached for the scuttle to replenish the coal and then picked up the poker. Surely her life had grown complicated enough for one day. She was strategically arranging the coals among the embers when there was a knock at the open kitchen door. She turned and moaned softly under her breath when she saw her gardener standing on the threshold. Her dratted heart raced at the sight of him.
NICK CRINGED as the girl whirled around, clutching a poker in her hand. Having seen her wield the scythe in Lady Belmont’s garden, he knew to proceed with caution. After all, she had been rather adamant before about not wanting to be rescued.
“Hello.” Nick winced. Not a brilliant opening. The girl arched one pale eyebrow incredulously. Nick fought to hide a smile. She was a woman of spirit, he would certainly give her that. “Somehow I didn’t think you’d be cast into raptures at the sight of me.” He decided to take a chance and step inside. His eyes traveled around the room, taking in the spare furnishings and an older woman, most likely the cook, snoring in the corner.
“Why are you here?” The girl hadn’t lowered the poker an inch. Nick ignored the fact that the sight of the hoyden sent his pulse skittering. It was only nerves. And battle fever, brought on by the altercation in Lady Belmont’s garden.
“I don’t believe those men are finished with you, princess, and I don’t fancy the idea of leaving you as easy prey for the likes of them.”
She turned away, and Nick wondered if she found something amiss with him physically, for she had avoided his gaze more than once in the garden, and she was now doing so again.
“You speak rather well for a gardener.” Despite the fact that he had come to her rescue earlier, suspicion was etched in every line of her body.
“And you speak rather well for a kitchen maid.” He admired her profile. Her cheek was flushed from the warmth of the fire, and her corkscrew curls formed a golden cloud around her head. It would help matters considerably if she weren’t so damnably appealing.
“I can imitate my betters,” she shot back. “And you?”
“My betters took pity upon me,” Nick improvised. “Thought some elocution lessons might improve my standing in the world.” That was true, to a certain extent. When he’d arrived in England, his native Santadorran accent had been thick as treacle. Crispin had made it his personal crusade to render Nick’s English comprehensible.
“It doesn’t appear to have improved your lot, since you’re still a gardener.” She lowered the poker the merest bit.
“Ah, but I wasn’t even a gardener before,” Nick said. His eyes moved to the length of iron in her hand. “Do you suppose you’ll put down that weapon anytime soon?” She looked at the poker, as if noticing it for the first time, and then her eyes rose to meet his. Their gazes held, and again Nick felt the ground shift beneath his ruined boots. Once more she looked away, and, by Jove, the disconcerting sensation ended as abruptly as it had begun. With a shrug, she returned the poker to its stand beside the fireplace and reached for the kettle.
“I don’t need your protection.” The words were sharp, defensive. “I can manage very well.”
His jaw clenched. “Princess, I have no doubt that you could hamstring both of those ruffians and the Home Secretary as well,” he said.
She jumped, dropping the kettle. A spray of boiling water flew from the spout. Nick bolted forward and yanked her toward him, away from the scalding stream. She collided with his chest, and he stumbled backward before finding his balance.
“Are you hurt?” The indescribable sensation of this golden-haired kitchen goddess pressed against him pierced him to the core. Every curve of her fit perfectly against him, and his body responded as it was meant to. Hastily, he set her back. Her eyes, soft and unfocused, mirrored his confusion.
“I’m f-fine,” she sputtered and pushed his arms away. “A silly mishap, nothing more.”
“Well, then, aren’t you two a fine pair o’ lovebirds?” a familiar voice said from the door. Nick turned to see the thug, Tully, standing in the threshold, Hector looming behind him with a length of rope in his hand.
“Confound it,” Nick muttered under his breath.
The girl tensed and slid toward the fireplace, where the poker still leaned in its stand. Nick started to stay her movement, but it would do more harm to call attention to her.
“Have you come back for another thrashing?” Nick mustered as much bravado as he could into the question.
“We want as wot we came for in the first place,” Tully said, jerking his head in the direction of the girl. “There’s those what wants to talk with ‘er.”
“And you think I’ll stand here and let you take her?” Nick actually laughed at that. Once he embarked upon a rescue, he brooked no interference. With deliberate nonchalance, he rolled up the sleeves of his smock. Clearly this day was not meant to be an easy one. “I thought we’d settled this once before.”
Tully rubbed his head. “Not to my liking.”
In the corner, the cook snorted. The sherry bottle dropped from her fingers and rolled across the room, spreading a stream of liquid in its wake. It rolled between Nick and the doorway until it bumped to a stop against the grate, where the girl’s fingers were closing around the handle of the poker. She looked at Nick, and then at the length of iron in her hand.
Nick was no idiot. “Now!” she cried, and he was ready when she tossed the poker through the air. He caught it and brandished it before him like a sword. The poker made a much better rapier than the cracked gardener’s scythe.
Tully started forward, lust for revenge distorting his face. His foot hit the sherry coating the stone floor, and suddenly he seemed to be flying through the air. Nick turned, changing his grip, and swung the poker like a cricket bat. The iron connected with the thug’s midsection with a satisfying thwack, and the miscreant doubled over before falling to the floor.
“Aw, now,” Hector grumbled from the doorway, “when ye ‘arm Tully, then I’m the one wot ‘as to do somethin’ about it.” He reluctantly crossed the threshold. “Why don’t ye just send ‘er with us, peaceful like, and no one ‘as to be ‘urt.”
The giant moved toward the girl. Nick cast about for a weapon, since Tully was now wrapped around the poker, but the only thing at hand was the kettle the girl had dropped. Deciding that hot cast iron made as good a weapon as any, Nick snatched the kettle from the floor and, with one heave, sent it flying in a perfect arc that struck Hector on the temple.
The reluctant thug shot him a look of surprise before he crumpled to the floor.
“Hmm—what?” snorted the cook in the corner, rousing at last. Just then two more shapes loomed in the doorway, and Nick knew it was time to flee. He grabbed the girl’s wrist and towed her toward the stairs that led to the main part of the house.
“Stop!” commanded t
he voice from the doorway, but Nick refused to heed it, fully intent on carrying out the course of action he had only that morning sworn to avoid. They dashed up the stairs and into the wide hallway that ran the length of the house. Nick spotted the front door.
“Wait!” The girl pulled against his grip, but he was brooking no arguments. They passed an open doorway, and a glance inside revealed the Duchess of Nottingham and her daughters, as well as Crispin and another gentleman dressed all in black. But even his friend’s presence was not enough to keep Nick’s boots from moving toward the front door. He wanted this hellion somewhere private, somewhere quiet, and when he got her there, he was going to find out what in Hades those men wanted of her.
“Let me go,” the girl hissed, angry and not afraid.
“Lucy!” a shrill voice rang out, only it rang with exasperation and disdain, not panic. The black-and-white tile of the marbled foyer echoed under their feet as Nick hauled her along. He threw open the front door and, despite the girl’s protests, pulled her down the steps after him.
He was going to rescue her whether she liked it or not.
Chapter Three
OMINOUS GRAY clouds gathered over Mayfair as Nick towed the angry scullery maid down the steps of Nottingham House. He was glad there were no scythes or pokers lying about the street, for he was sure she would quickly see to it that he met the same ignominious fate as the ruffians who were pursuing her. Well, she had a rescuer now, a known hero, and he intended to give her the full measure of his efforts.
Yip! Yip! Wellington appeared on the steps of Lady Belmont’s town home, his gelatinous torso trembling with excitement.
“Stay, Wellington,” Nick ordered as they passed by, but it was a hopeless cause. The little dog tumbled down the steps and hit the pavement at a dead run. Nick glanced over his shoulder to find Wellington barreling along behind them.
“Wait for Wellington,” the girl admonished him, but Nick ignored her and instead racked his brain in an attempt to formulate a plan. The cobblestones passed quickly underfoot, yet he had no idea where he was headed. He could hardly take the girl back to his rooms at the Cromwell, especially since she believed him to be a gardener, and the only other respectable residence he frequented was Lady Belmont’s, where the thugs had found her. Well, if he couldn’t take her to a reputable house, why not a disreputable one? It was not as if the scullery maid whose wrist fit so neatly in the circle of his fingers had any high-born sensibilities that might be offended, or a reputation that would be compromised.
At that moment, the clouds burst, and rain poured forth in a torrent, drenching Nick and his companion in a matter of moments. The soggy turn of events decided the matter, and he headed in the direction of an establishment he knew all too well.
LUCY WIPED THE rain from her face and, for once in her life, wished for a bonnet. There was only one way to deal with a man determined to rescue, and that was to let him believe himself the hero. He would tire of his antics soon enough, and until he did, she would try to think of a plan, for with two of Sidmouth’s thugs lying unconscious in her stepmother’s kitchen, disaster loomed even larger than before, and her chances of emerging from this bumble-broth unscathed were diminishing rapidly.
The gardener led her through a jumble of London streets, the fingers encircling her wrist strong but gentle. The very possessiveness of the gesture irked her. He doubled back and then ducked through an alleyway while Wellington grunted with the effort of keeping pace. She lost track of time when she began to tire. The rain drenched her hair and seeped down her spine until she was thoroughly wet.
Lucy glanced behind them and could see no sign of pursuit. “We can stop now,” she said to the gardener, her voice low so as not to attract attention.
“We’re not stopping until we’re safe.” He didn’t turn to look at her, just plowed ahead through the downpour and the growing foot traffic as they approached the old part of the city. Lucy fumed and eyed the passing carriages, praying that Wellington would not feel like chasing a barouche.
“The only thing endangering us now is this forced march through the middle of London,” she muttered. “It’s high-handed tactics like this that make women dream of suffrage.”
His shoulders tightened for a brief moment, but he didn’t break his stride. “Only a bit further now.”
“Where?” They were leaving the respectable part of the city, and ahead lay the East End and its squalid uncertainties. She knew the area well enough. The reform meetings were held in its smoky taprooms, and she had ferried messages back and forth between most of them.
The gardener stopped so suddenly that she collided with his back. Beneath his wet homespun smock, his muscles were like iron, and Lucy felt the shock of the contact all the way to her toes. Their momentum threw him against the waist-high ornamental gate that stood guard in front of a shabby row house, the worn brick facade clinging to its last vestiges of gentility.
Lucy caught the rain-dampened post and steadied herself. She would not be distracted by the longing that rose within her at the reminder of his strength. Wellington collapsed at her feet, and his eyes rolled back in his head as he wheezed.
“Here?” she asked. The house was rather unremarkable, with only a few windows lit in the face of the darkening sky.
“Yes, here.” The gardener swung open the gate and led her up the short walk.
The polished bronze knocker on the door appeared well worn, as if a great number of guests had made use of it. Lucy shot a glance at her rescuer as he lifted the heavy bronze and gave three quick raps, wondering at the man’s audacity. He was a servant, and so was she, as far as he knew. What were they doing on the front steps?
They waited several long moments for an answer, and then the door opened to reveal a beautiful young woman in a mobcap and apron.
“Nicky!” Her eyes lit with pleasure when she saw the tall gardener. She threw back the door. “Oh, Nicky, it’s been ages!” She launched herself across the threshold and into his arms. Wellington barked when the young woman pressed her lips against the gardener’s mouth, and Lucy felt the unwelcome urge to strike someone. Or at least snatch off her mobcap and pull her hair.
“You naughty boy, where have you been?” The beauty stepped back and gave his arm a playful swat. “Shame upon you, Nicky.”
“Hello, Henny.” The gardener smiled without the least embarrassment at the maid’s forwardness. “I’m afraid I’ve been occupied elsewhere of late.”
Lucy rolled her eyes and snorted, but the maid only laughed. “I’m sure you’ve been a busy boy.” Her eyes traveled suggestively over his smock and breeches, and Lucy blushed on his behalf, or maybe her own. The maid’s mouth formed a petulant little pout. “Dressed in that costume, you are irresistible.”
“As are you,” he said, indicating her attire, and he smiled in return, a lazy, indolent smile. A smile that Lucy had not yet seen, and made her knees go decidedly weak, even though it was not intended for her. Lucy decided perhaps she would hit him instead.
“Ahem.” She cleared her throat. It was time to remind the two moonlings that another party was present, not to mention an impressionable dog. “This reunion is quite touching, I’m sure, but wasn’t the idea to escape notice?” Lucy was proud that her voice held all of the asperity and none of the jealousy she felt.
The maid turned, as if noticing her for the first time. “Oh, hello. Are you the new girl?”
The exasperating gardener gave a shout of laughter. “No, Henny. Never the new girl. Listen, we must get out of sight.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Surely Madame St. Cloud could allow us the use of her drawing room for a bit?”
“But Nicky, have you forgotten? It’s Tuesday. The drawing room is always used on Tuesdays.” Her suggestive laughter grated on Lucy’s nerves. What could be scandalous about a Frenchwoman using her drawing room on a Tuesday?
“Then someplace else,” the gardener said. “It doesn’t matter where.”
The maid turned her attention to
Lucy, her eyes traveling up and down, taking note of Lucy’s wet, faded dress and disheveled appearance. Henny’s eyes lit with a low flame of spite, but Lucy refused to cower.
“Well, there is one room that’s not in use.” The maid smiled at Nicky, looking like a cat promised a dish of cream, and a knot of unease tied itself in Lucy’s chest.
“Now, Henny,” the gardener protested.
“It’s that or nothing, I’m afraid.”
The gardener slanted Lucy a sidelong look, and Lucy met his gaze with defiance. Whatever the problem, clearly the pair believed Lucy was not up to the challenge. “Are we to stand here until night falls?” They would never see her flinch, just as she had never allowed her stepmother to force her into showing fear. “Or shall we lurk about as if we were foxes waiting to take tea with the hunt?”
Henny smiled with satisfaction, and the gardener sighed. “Very well, then. Lead on, Henny.” He turned to Lucy. “Just remember that you agreed to this.”
The maid stepped back, the gardener took Lucy’s arm, Wellington heaved his bulk up the last step, and much to Lucy’s apprehension, the four of them entered the house.
Although the faint sound of voices could be heard from behind closed doors, Lucy breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the foyer was deserted. Perhaps this unremarkable home was as good a place as any to hide until she could sort through her difficulties and arrive at a plan. She was not depending on his help but merely being practical.
The maid led them up the main staircase, and Wellington moaned dramatically as he heaved himself upward, until Lucy bent down and scooped his wet little body into her arms. They followed the maid down a corridor, and when they reached the end, Henny stopped at a mahogany door. She turned the knob, and the gardener gestured for Lucy to enter the room first. She caught the glance he shot the maid, and the hairs on the back of Lucy’s neck snapped to attention. After a slight hesitation, though, she complied and stepped through the doorway.
Princess Charming Page 4