He lunged toward her.
She jumped back into the corridor. Her hand tightened on the rose stem. It snapped. “I’ll run screaming.”
With a sneer that distorted his handsome face, he asked, “Who would hear you in this neighborhood?”
“Men who would attack you and steal everything you own right down to your boots.” This she understood, and in a contemptuous voice, she said, “I’m surprised you made it this far.”
“I can protect myself.” He showed her the sword hidden in his cane.
She almost laughed. Was he bragging or trying to intimidate her? At one time, she would have been impressed. Now she knew the kind of men who lurked in dark alleys, who would club Lord Freshfield unconscious before he had time to draw steel. “It’s almost dark. Go out and try your luck.”
He gazed at her, at the way she stood, at the amusement on her face, and his gaze dropped. She wasn’t the unwary fool she had been before, and he didn’t know how to bully her. “How can you, a female raised as a lady, bear to live in this slum?”
She tucked the long, sharp pin that had held the rose between her knuckles, facing out. Harry had taught her that, his low, hoarse voice morose with intensity as he suggested weapons like hatpins, keys, and writing pens. At the time she had thought it was kind of him to worry about her so. Now she was thankful. Profoundly thankful. In a cold, clear voice, she said, “It makes you wonder, doesn’t it, why would I prefer to live here than in a house with you?”
“I’ll make you sorry you said that.” He lunged toward her again, a long-legged leap that threatened violence.
She lifted her fist. She was no longer the girl she had once been. She would defend herself now.
But from the landing below her, she heard the rattle of footsteps, and an airy, male voice call, “Miss Ritter, are you up there?”
Lord Huntingon.
To Freshfield, she said, “But you won’t make me sorry today.”
“Who is it?” Lord Freshfield demanded. “A lover?”
“You have a mind like a sewer.” She called down the stairs, “Yes, my lord, I’m here.”
Freshfield stood, arms straight at his side, hands clenching. She knew what he was thinking. She could see it in his face. He wanted to confront the gentleman whose boots tromped up her stairs, but he didn’t dare. He was a coward. He liked to frighten those weaker than himself; he didn’t want to confront a man who might handle him with the flat of his fist.
As Freshfield brushed by her, he grabbed her arm hard enough to bruise. “This is not over.”
She knew that. Unless she got away from London and hid herself so well that he could never find her, it would never be over.
He ran down the stairs, his boots creating an angry clatter on the aging boards.
She listened to see if Huntington stopped him, but heard not even the murmur of a greeting. In the darkness of the stairway, perhaps they hadn’t recognized each other. She hoped not, for if Huntington thought she entertained Freshfield in her rooms, he would be justified in demanding her dismissal.
Huntington loomed in the doorway so recently vacated by Freshfield.
She drew back into the darkness of her room. Perhaps Freshfield had heightened her fears, but to her, Huntington presented the appearance of a dangerous man, one given to manipulation, one with a plan and a purpose.
Then he moved forward, exclaiming, “It’s dark. How do you bear the darkness? It’s frightening in here. Aren’t you afraid?”
And she relaxed. The ominousness he had projected was nothing but a figment of her overactive imagination. “There’s a candle burning.” She gestured toward it.
“A single candle,” he scoffed. “It’s dim. I can scarcely see where I’m stepping—or what I’m stepping on.” He looked down at the rough, bare boards beneath his boots, then around at the shabby surroundings.
She winced in mortification. She hadn’t minded that Freshfield had viewed her surroundings. She very much cared that Huntington did. It wasn’t pride, she told herself, but rather a matter of gaining and holding his respect. He was obviously a man who set much store by appearances.
He bowed to her, a lovely, flourishing bow, and said, “Introductions are not necessary, for I know who you are, Miss Ritter”—he waggled his finger at her—“and how naughty of you to play such a trick on me at the park!”
So he did know who she was. Had his ignorance at the park been an attempt to shake her from her task, or had one of the onlookers informed him of her identity? Probably the latter.
He continued, “But the formalities should be observed.” He bowed again. “Jude Durant, the earl of Huntington, at your service.”
She curtsied. “Miss Caroline Ritter, at your service, my lord.” His insistence on the proprieties made her feel as if she were on solid ground, as if she could do the task set before her, for she’d been raised in the world of society and proper behavior. With complete solemnity, she extended her hand. “I’m your new governess.” Had he come to refuse her services? For she wouldn’t allow him to intimidate her.
Taking her fingers between his two gloved hands, he held it firmly, and in a tone new to her, a tone of deep appreciation, he said, “Hm. Yes. When I was a lad, I dreamed of having a governess like you.” His intense gaze swept her from head to toe, stripping away her clothes—or was it her pretenses?
Once again she thought he was bigger than she had realized, a strapping man with broad shoulders that looked out of place in that absurd jacket. In the wavering light of the candle, his face no longer looked smooth and young. A line bracketed either side of his mouth, as if bitterness had placed it there, and his eyes were sharp and far too observant.
He didn’t look like a dandy. He looked like a man who had met the world and found it harsh and unforgiving.
With a jolt, she realized—she might be in as much danger from Huntington as she was from Freshfield. They were alone. She was an unprotected female. And with a single glance, Huntington had proved he was obviously, shockingly, completely male. Furthermore, she had seen his expression at Hyde Park, and she had not a doubt that she had irritated him. Irritated him, and intrigued him, and made him look like a fool.
Then he let go of her hand. Petulantly, he demanded, “Why should I learn to flirt? I’ve always planned to coast through life on my looks. Look at me.” He posed with his profile to her, his lips pursed. “Like chiseled marble.”
She almost laughed. Almost. She had to stop imagining a threat where none existed. This man might appreciate the female form, but he was absorbed in a lifelong love affair—with himself. “There’s more to finding the right woman than wearing the right clothes and posing to show off your perfect chin.”
“Do you think it’s perfect?” She would have sworn his eyes were twinkling. “Because I’ve thought so, too. Strong, manly, yet sensitive, with a rather dashing cleft in the chin.”
He did have a rather dashing cleft in his chin, one that made her want to press her finger in it and see if it sprang back like well-risen bread. But such sentiment was foolish; he would be a duke, and she…before long, if she were lucky, she would be taking a ship to France. In a firm tone, she said, “Nevertheless, your father has contracted my services for whatever reason, and I intend to fulfill that contract to the best of my ability.”
“As if I need to learn to flirt!” He waved his handkerchief with petulant fanfare. “Why, I have ladies fawning on me at every party.”
With a brutality brought on by desperation, she answered, “For no other reason than you’re the heir to a dukedom.”
Radiating indignation, he drew himself up. “That’s not true! The ladies also enjoy conversing with a gentleman who understands fashion.”
Words failed her. Fashion? What he wore wasn’t fashion, but an abomination against good taste. But if she said so, she would violate more rules of courtesy than she had already. “I imagine the ladies do enjoy speaking with a lord who comprehends the intricacies of material and color.”
“Exactly.” Her trepidation fell away as he continued, “I must tell you, that color you’re wearing is an outrage with your skin. What made you select gray? It makes you look sallow and does nothing for your hair.”
In shock, she looked down at her new riding costume. “I think it’s quite attractive.”
“Ha, ha!” He laughed in a manner so affected she gritted her teeth. “Quite amusing. So. You will teach me to flirt—as if I really need such lessons!—and I will teach you to dress.”
“I have gowns being sewn right now, gowns ordered by your father.”
“I will inspect them all. I shan’t be embarrassed by the companion on my arm.”
“I won’t be the companion on your arm.” Painstakingly, she explained, “I’m the female who’ll help you find a companion for your arm.”
“If you must.” He touched the wall. He grimaced as his white gloves came away soiled, and with elaborate disdain, he pulled out his handkerchief and wiped at his fingers. In his old, light, society voice, he said, “This will never do! Not at all. I can’t learn to flirt here.”
She spoke in a tone pitched to reach his ears and not pierce the thin walls where others listened. “You’re not required to learn here. I intend to visit His Grace’s home, and it is there you will learn the art and the subtleties of flirting.”
“Exactly.” He looked around fretfully. “Are you packed?”
“What?” What was he talking about? Was he always so arbitrary in his conversation? “Packed? For what?”
“Weren’t you listening? My father sent me here to bring you to his home.”
“You didn’t say that,” she pointed out, head spinning.
“A woman of superior understanding would have comprehended and been packed by now.” Huntington moved into the room, found the stack of clothing she had placed on the table beside her bed, lifted them, and looked around. “Is there a bag anywhere to be had?”
He confused her with his rapid change of subject and his arrogant insults. “I didn’t think His Grace would care where I lived, and if the only reason the ladies enjoy speaking to you is your appreciation of fashion, your ability to find a suitable mate is impaired by contradictory interests.”
He waved her clothes at her, and she leaped forward when the frayed leg of her drawers dangled downward. “Let me pack for myself, please.” She had, she realized, given in to his imperious command without knowing whether he spoke the truth. And even if he did, she could scarcely believe the arrogant duke of Nevett would send his heir to arrange what a servant could do better. Yet what other reason besides his father’s command would Huntington have for taking her in his custody and transporting her to Nevett’s town house?
She looked around the tiny, grimy room and wondered—why did she care? She had the chance, an honorable chance, to escape the poverty of London’s East End and the terror of Lord Freshfield’s pursuit, and she would seize that chance with both hands.
Pulling her bag from beneath the bed, she packed her clothes.
From the cover of darkness, Freshfield watched as Huntington removed Caroline from her room and herded her down the street. Freshfield had plotted to have her for three years, and now Nevett’s heir had swooped in and taken her from underneath Freshfield’s nose. He wouldn’t have it. He had put up with Brenda’s shrieking and nagging ever since his aborted seduction undertaking. He had successfully sabotaged two of Caroline’s attempts at employment. He had stalked her throughout London, and damned if that ridiculous fool Huntington would have her first.
Perhaps after Lord Freshfield had tired of her, but not yet.
Not yet.
Chapter 8
As Jude paid the driver of the cabriolet, he heard Miss Ritter take a long breath. “I really don’t think this is the proper thing to do,” she said.
She was a shadow on the stairs of the elegant town house. The light spilled from the windows and over her shoulders and outlined her glorious curves. Her face was in shadow, she stood completely still; nevertheless, she attracted him like some nymph with mystical powers. And she didn’t seem to realize it. Because of the way he dressed? God, he hoped so. It was better than thinking she felt indifference where he suffered lust, or that she was so used to fascinating her companion that she found his interest commonplace.
“You have met my father, I believe. Do you intend to tell him he desires an improper act?” Jude didn’t wait for the reply, of which there could be none, but took her firmly under the arm and ushered her to the door. Lifting the huge iron knocker, he let it drop and listened with satisfaction to the thud.
Beside him, Miss Ritter flinched.
Was kidnapping her the proper thing to do? No, certainly not. To use her to distract the Moricadians was the act of a scoundrel, and Jude knew he trod a fine line, for a man tempted by a woman always ran the chance of revealing his true self.
The butler opened the door and stood astonished as Jude escorted Miss Ritter inside. “Here you go.” Jude handed Phillips her bag. “Please take this to the silver bedchamber for Miss Ritter.”
Phillips looked down at the bag in his hand. “But my lord, the silver bedchamber is not made up.”
Miss Ritter made a small squeak of distress.
Jude tsked in disgust. “Did His Grace not warn my stepmother of Miss Ritter’s arrival? How like him. Better prepare the room.” Turning to Miss Ritter, he said, “If you’d take a seat in the lesser drawing room, I’ll locate my stepmother and inform her of the circumstances.”
Miss Ritter had seemed bold in the park, setting her plan to capture him in motion with timing and flare. In that pathetic little flat, she had been determined, straightforward, and brisk. Yet when faced with a time spent in the luxury of Nevett’s town house, she viewed Jude with suspicion. She held her shabby parasol uneasily clasped in her hands.
Jude hoped she would prove brave and stalwart, for she was a useful addition to his plans.
“Thank you, Lord Huntington.” She entered the small drawing room he indicated. “I think.”
He couldn’t completely ignore her trepidation. Not now that he had her in the house. Taking her gloved hand, he bowed over it, and to build her confidence, he put all of his charm into his smile. “I assure you, you’ll be pleased with your quarters, and my stepmother is a dear. The two of you will get along felicitously.”
When her eyes widened, he realized he had lied to himself. He hadn’t smiled at her to build her confidence. He’d been testing to see if he could capture her interest. He had. Her lashes fluttered. Color stained her cheeks. Gently, she withdrew her hand, and she looked shy and confused and as if she wanted to smile back but didn’t dare.
Of course not. Last time she had trusted a man, she had been betrayed and destroyed, and if Jude tampered with this girl, if he took advantage of her vulnerability, he would be no better than Freshie. Freshie hadn’t wanted to be noticed—although with that bright cravat, there was no way to miss him—and when Freshie wanted something kept quiet, it was because what he intended was slimy and cruel and would reflect badly on himself.
Miss Ritter had definitely not wished to discuss the matter with Jude. He understood her wish for privacy, but he also knew he would have to put a stop to Freshie’s pursuit of Jude’s governess. Jude had plans for her.
He straightened. “Please sit down. I’ll send my stepmother to you.”
He found Mum alone, reading in her study, and her bright, welcoming smile told him only too clearly how dreary she must be.
Kissing her cheek, he said, “As my father commanded, I’ve brought the lady.”
She tucked her finger into her book to keep her place. “What lady are you talking about, dear?”
“The lady Father hired to teach me to flirt.” Obviously, his stepmother knew nothing about Miss Ritter, and Jude rather enjoyed the progression of expressions that crossed her face.
Disbelief, anger, and amused resignation. She laughed as if she couldn’t help herself. “To flirt! That
old devil. I told you he was up to something.”
“You were right.” Jude seated himself across from her, discarded his gloves, and adjusted the crease in his trousers. “He hired a governess from the Distinguished Academy of Governesses to help me snare a wife.” Smoothly, Jude moved to his falsehood. “Father requested she be housed beneath his roof, I suppose so he might more easily retain control of the proceedings.” And to provide protection as well as a refuge for her. Jude could feel easy that Miss Ritter would never be in danger from his clandestine activities.
This was the kind of maneuver at which he excelled—lightning assessment of the situation and the ability to arrange matters to his best advantage.
Yet at the most important moment of his life, long-range planning had availed him nothing. He had hesitated, and so he had lost his elder brother. The heaviness of remorse weighed on him, and nothing could wipe the stain on his soul clean. He would go to hell for his misdeed—but not until he had first sent de Guignard and Bouchard to the flames.
Mum laughed again, her tired eyes alight with a glee directed at him. “Who is your governess?”
“You might know her. A Miss Caroline Ritter.”
Mum’s mirth died. “Yes, I know her. The poor child. Is she reduced to this?”
“I would say she has not been reduced to this, but elevated. I found her in a hovel.” He valued Mum’s opinion, so he asked, “You like her, do you?”
Mum placed her book on the table and folded her hands in her lap. “It is—or rather was, for I haven’t seen her since her disgrace—impossible not to like her.”
Remembering Turgoose’s report, Jude said, “That’s not what I heard. I heard a great number of people disliked her.”
“She was the belle of the season, a diamond of the first water, and from a less-than-aristocratic background. She generated a great deal of jealousy, which contributed to her downfall.” Mum smiled slightly. “But for herself, she was charming.”
“Yet she lost all.”
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