Time was of the essence. Likely, Whitelock knew that Lucan had no other choice. If he accepted, then he would acquire a great deal of debt. If he didn’t, then he would have Thorne’s death on his own conscience, knowing for the rest of his life that he could have prevented it.
“When I pay you the ten thousand pounds, you’ll give me all the evidence?”
“Of course. Doubtless, you know of my reputation. I have no enemies.”
Lucan knew there was no other way. He held out his hand, confident in his gambling ability enough to procure the sum. “Then I accept.”
Whitelock’s grip was surprisingly firm for an older man. Before he let go, that unnerving smile reappeared. In the same instant, the fire hissed over a log and flared, casting sinister shadows over the viscount’s face.
Then, he reached into his breast pocket, withdrew a thick packet, and handed it to Lucan. When it changed hands, the edges of the banknotes flashed. Obviously, Whitelock had been confident as well. Lucan would be careful not to underestimate this man.
“One more thing,” Whitelock said with a snap of his fingers. “My card, if you please. Since I would rather not make waves with my political connections, no one can know of our meeting. In fact, if anyone discovers our association or learns of our agreement—anyone at all—then you will soon find yourself in Thorne’s place.”
Lucan obliged and handed back Whitelock’s card. He understood the need for secrecy, yet the threat was harsher than need be. “I will not speak of it. But might I ask why you would not wish it to be known that you saved an innocent man from the gallows.”
“I am generous, but I cannot abide beggars. I prefer the benefits of choosing my own charities. Besides, I find that a kindness given is always repaid tenfold.” Whitelock crossed the room to the door and rapped twice. “I imagine you are clever enough to find an excuse for your absence when you return to your friends.”
Lucan nodded. “Then we will meet once more in three years.”
“Precisely. I will contact you.”
A single knock came from the other side before the footman appeared. He escorted Whitelock down a dark corridor, leaving Lucan alone, staring down at the ten thousand pounds in his grasp.
If all went according to plan, Thorne would not hang after all. A rush of relief swept through him. It wouldn’t take Lucan any time to earn the money and absolve the debt. Yet there was something about Whitelock that unnerved him. As he walked back to the hazard room, Lucan couldn’t help but wonder if he’d struck a bargain with an incredibly generous man . . . or with a devil in disguise.
CHAPTER ONE
June 1824
Two years, six months later . . .
Frances Thorne blinked twice at the booklet in her grasp.
“I told you it was scandalous,” Kaye said, crowding closer for a better view.
Together, they walked to the second floor box window of Mrs. Hunter’s Agency and Servant Registry. Outside, the London street bustled with the raucous clamor of carriages, handcarts, horses, and all the people one would expect on such a fine June day. Frances, however, paid little attention.
She adjusted her brass-rimmed spectacles. The afternoon light illuminated the palm-sized booklet of men’s fashions from Paris. Turning another page, she lingered on the sketch of a man dressed in boots, breeches, shirt, cravat, waistcoat, and . . . nothing else. No frock coat or tailcoat, just a fitted striped waistcoat.
While the page on the left side of the booklet displayed a frontal sketch, the right displayed the . . . backside. And what a fine sketch it was.
Frances let out a slow breath. Fanning herself with the booklet, she blamed the warm weather for the rush of heat to her cheeks and neck. “And you say that you found this at your uncle’s shop?”
“It was on his worktable this morning,” Kaye said, angling her face toward the cooling breeze of the makeshift fan. Kaye lived with an aunt and uncle above his tailor shop, and Frances knew she occasionally borrowed sketches, though never an entire booklet. And never one with such detail to the—ahem—backside.
Frances stopped fanning and studied the sketch once more. Solely out of appreciation for the artist’s skill, of course. Never mind the fact that she was the last person who would be considered a dilettante. “You don’t suppose there was an actual gentleman fitted with these clothes, do you?”
“I’d like to think there was.” Kaye snickered and tucked a corn silk lock of hair behind her ear, her blue eyes dancing. “In fact, I’d like to think that he might walk through the door of Mrs. Hunter’s one day, take one look at me, and—”
“And not be a lecher like nearly all the other men we deal with?”
“Yes, well”—Kaye sighed—“at five and twenty, I’m beginning to wonder if I wouldn’t mind a lecher so much, as long as he was my lecher.”
At seven and twenty, Frances knew precisely what her best friend meant. Frances, however, was still holding out hope to find the one person who could restore her faith in men. Which would not be an easy task, considering that her own father dashed those hopes on a daily basis.
“Do you suppose your very own lecher is out there, right this instant?” Frances closed the booklet and looked down at the street below.
A black landau with a matching pair of high-steppers in the harness stopped in front of the shop. Even before the door opened and the occupants stepped forth, she knew it was Lady Binghamton. Her ladyship often brought her maidservants here to have them instructed on how best to escape rogues and roués. Artful Defense was a service that Frances had provided for the past two and a half years, since she’d first begun work here.
For Mrs. Hunter, these lessons were an amenity offered by the agency to loyal patrons at no charge, and therefore with no additional wages for staff. For Frances, this instruction—in addition to her clerking duties—provided a way to honor her mother’s memory. Her mother had been passionate about Frances’s knowing how to protect herself, even to her very last days.
Mother had told her of a dear friend—a girl who’d trusted the wrong man. The girl’s naivety had been ripped from her most cruelly. Elise Thorne’s most fervent wish was for Frances never to suffer like that girl had.
That had been the reason why Frances had begun to offer lessons in defense, adding her own adaptations to what her mother had already taught her.
“I wonder who her ladyship has brought this time,” Kaye mused, nudging Frances with her elbow. “Soon she’ll be running her own abbey, and all her maids will be dressed in habits. It makes me wonder about the late Lord Binghamton.”
“We dare not.” Frances already imagined that his lordship had likely not been the best of men. Especially since his widow of more than forty years believed all men to be cads of the first order. And if a lady with much more experience in life was so jaded, then what hope did Frances have of not becoming just like her?
“True. Perhaps even a lecher of my own wouldn’t be for the best.”
A heavy gray cloud passed in front of the sun, offering a glimpse of their reflections in the glass. Their teasing expressions had gone. Now, they stood with heads bent and hands clasped like mourners at a funeral.
“Girls!” Mrs. Hunter called from below, ringing the brass bell that was always within her reach. “Put on your best faces. Lady Binghamton is here. Make sure you tell her how much we appreciate her patronage, but don’t mention a single word about Tuttle’s Registry down the street. Not. A. Word.”
“Yes, Mrs. Hunter,” Frances and Kaye said in unison, which brought a grin to both of them. Mrs. Hunter had been quite prickly since the other agency had opened a month ago.
Kaye drew in a breath and lifted her eyes to the low, sloped ceiling. “Is my best face on straight? I do hate when I put it on crookedly.”
“Then you’d better tuck your smirk in your pocket.” Frances laughed, earning a slight pinch from Kaye before she turned and headed downstairs.
It wasn’t until her friend disappeared that Frances re
alized she was still holding the scandalous booklet. She couldn’t possibly greet Lady Binghamton or Mrs. Hunter with this on her person. Looking around for a place to hide it, she went to the window where the sash was pulled up just enough to leave a finger-sized gap. Or a booklet-sized gap.
Standing there, her gaze drifted down to the street again. Lady Binghamton was stepping onto the pavement, her charge hovering close to her side. They were of the same build, both slender and petite. The younger woman’s face, however, was hidden by a long-brimmed straw bonnet, like a horse wearing blinders. This was, perhaps, why she did not see the boy bounding toward her until it was too late. Jostled by the lad, the young woman spun directly into her ladyship’s path. Lady Binghamton’s black embroidered shawl went awry, slipping from her shoulders and heading straight for the gutter.
And down into the gutter it would have gone too, if not for the sudden, gallant rescue by a gentleman in a gray tailcoat and top hat.
The gentleman had appeared out of nowhere. With an elegant sweep of his arm, he snatched the shawl from certain destruction. Her ladyship turned, her hand to her mouth. The man bowed at the waist, presenting the wayward silk like a knight in shining armor asking for his lady to wear his colors.
Frances held her breath, watching the scene unfold with avid interest. Was it possible that the ideal man truly might exist?
Just then, a breeze blew, disturbing the tails of his coat. The ends parted, one draping across his back and exposing his perfectly formed backside.
Frances craned her neck. The same breeze also dislodged his hat, forcing him to bend further, extending a rather muscular leg behind him. She swallowed. A pulse fluttered at the side of her throat. The midday sun seemed suddenly alive in her very own stomach, heating her to impossible degrees.
He must be very handsome, she thought, because even Lady Binghamton smiled at him.
Donning his hat, the gentleman straightened. The tails of his coat—unfortunately—fell back into place. Then, he proffered his arm and gestured to the door of Mrs. Hunter’s.
He’s offering to escort them inside this very shop! Frances quickly realized that she was standing one floor too far away. Without delay or checking to see if her best face was on—because, in truth, she only had the one—she made haste down the stairs.
“Come, come, Miss Thorne,” Mrs. Hunter said with a hurried wave of her hand. “Stand beside Miss North. There. Oh, your cheeks are flushed. We do not want to appear sickly to Lady Binghamton.”
“I’m certain it was merely the sun in the window upstairs. I’ll be sure to open the sash at the back of the shop to make the room more comfortable for her ladyship.” Frances glanced to the door, her breath coming up short, her lungs tightening in anticipation.
“What is that in your hand?” Mrs. Hunter tugged on the booklet. Kaye issued a mew of distress.
Oh dear! Frances had forgotten to leave the booklet behind. Thinking fast, she tugged back and slipped the booklet up her sleeve in a flash. “Merely a fan. Nothing more.”
Beneath a curly silvery wig, Mrs. Hunter’s painted eyebrows puckered. The plump flesh of her cheeks drew together like a snag in a stocking as she pursed her lips. “You are paid to be on your best behavior always, Miss Thorne.”
“I have not forgotten, Mrs. Hunter.”
Thankfully, Frances was saved any further reprimand when the door opened.
Lady Binghamton entered, followed by the young woman with the long-brimmed bonnet. The gentleman stood in the shadow beneath a scalloped-shaped awning and held the door. It took all of Frances’s training on societal politesse not to give him her attention. Instead, she offered a demure curtsy to her ladyship and bid her good afternoon.
“Mrs. Hunter,” Lady Binghamton began, her tone firm and clipped, her mouth set in a grim, permanent frown. “I have a request for your services. The matter is of some urgency.”
“You honor us greatly with your patronage, my lady.” Mrs. Hunter bowed her head, because, apparently, a single curtsy was not enough. “I have tea prepared in my office if your ladyship would care for refreshment.”
Mrs. Hunter’s office was a large oaken desk at the opposite side of the room. From her perch, she typically kept close watch on every dealing that Frances and Kaye had with the servants who came in seeking work, and also the ladies and gentlemen who sought to hire them.
Displaying an excessive amount of deference, Mrs. Hunter drew Lady Binghamton and her charge across the room. In the seconds that passed, Frances worried that the gentleman would close the door and leave. That he would simply go on with whatever errand had brought him to this street. Yet to her surprise, he lingered. In fact, he stepped inside.
Frances dared a look. Then, an instant, unwelcome jolt of recognition trampled through her.
Lord Lucan Montwood. He was the farthest thing from a gallant knight of old that she could imagine. No wonder he lurked in the shadows. He belonged there. Not only was he a renowned gambler and rake, but he came from an unscrupulous family. His father, the Marquess of Camdonbury, had accused her very own father—their former steward—of treason. In the two and a half years since, she’d suspected more than once that the marquess had been guilty of the coining offense.
Now, her father wore a thief’s T branded into the flesh of his thumb for the rest of his life. The punishment for such a crime was usually death by hanging. Yet by some miracle, the evidence against her father had disappeared. He’d been released from gaol but never once spoke about it.
Her breath came out in a rush of disappointment. Against her will, she curtsied, but only because Mrs. Hunter kept scrutinizing her behavior of late.
“Miss Thorne.” Lucan Montwood flashed a smile, revealing a dimple on one side of his mouth. She imagined a serpent must look the same before giving a taste of his venom.
“My lord,” she said through gritted teeth. After introducing Kaye, who then turned to help Mrs. Hunter with the tea, Frances expected him to leave at once. Yet he did not.
Lucan doffed his hat and tucked it beneath his arm. Not a strand of his dark hair was out of place. And beneath a thick brow, his amber gaze held a peculiar light, there in the shadows. The color of his eyes had always fascinated her. In her youth, before her mother’s death and before his family had betrayed her father, she would visit her father at Camdonbury Place. Yet all the while, she’d hoped to cross paths with Lucan. Even though they were only a year apart in age, he’d always seemed so worldly to her. And with those eyes, he’d looked at her as if he knew worldly things. The types of things that her mother had warned her against.
Her infatuation had been a girlish one, born of naiveté. Soon enough, she’d learned that men like Lucan were born deceivers. And Frances had had her fill of deception.
“What a serendipitous meeting,” he said. “Had I not been nearby, I’d not have had the opportunity to renew our acquaintance.”
Since he knew of her vehement dislike of him, she chose to ignore his goading. “Her ladyship was quite fortunate that you happened along. Although, I am surprised that you chose to rescue a perfectly innocent shawl instead of sending it to the gallows, as you and your family are wont to do.”
He stared at her for a moment—long enough for her to adjust her spectacles—as a slow, daring grin revealed that dimple of his once more. Truly, a man so diabolical should not have such an appealing dimple. She loathed that dimple and the man who wore it.
“If I’d known that I had an audience, I’d have sent a wink to the”—he pointed upward with one long, gloved finger—“second-floor window? You must have rushed down the stairs. That would explain the high color of your cheeks when I first walked in. Ah! And there it is again.”
Drat it all. Normally, she was clever about hiding her thoughts. On the outside, she made sure to keep a proper, respectable appearance, hiding her adamant curiosity of the opposite sex. Leave it to a serpent to conjure a way of seeing beneath. “The light is dim where we stand. You are only revealing your own arrog
ance for what you wish to be true. I merely caught a glimpse of your . . . manipulation of her ladyship’s shawl.”
“Your judgment of me is harsh indeed. I suppose it is true that the wasp gives no warning before she stings,” he drawled, inclining his head. Then he leaned forward ever so slightly and lowered his voice to a whisper. “But what a sweet pain it is, Miss Thorne.”
Wasp, indeed. Yet instead of feeling justified or even contrite, Frances felt the thrumming of her pulse and the heat of midday burning inside of her. The scent that swirled around her as he drew back left her befuddled. She would expect that a rake known for gambling would smell like whiskey, smoke, and whatever else one might find in a gaming hell. Instead, he smelled of freshly ironed sheets and what she could only describe as midnight—a dark, earthy fragrance sweetened by the dew on the grass.
Before she gathered her wits enough to offer one more sting, he slipped away, the door clicking shut behind him.
Then, not ten feet away, Mrs. Hunter rang her insufferable bell. “Miss Thorne.”
Frances jumped at the sound. Her legs were unaccountably unsteady, as if her bones had turned to ribbons that might curl beneath her. She was far too old to be prone to such behavior, she thought, and lifted a hand to the brooch that held her fichu in place. It served to remind Frances why she was here, and why her work was so important.
Then she turned, her best face fixed in place. “How may I be of service, Mrs. Hunter?”
Her employer smiled approvingly. “Lady Binghamton would like to utilize your services. Her niece, Miss Farmingdale, has need of your instruction in Artful Defense.”
The young lady in question had removed her bonnet, revealing a comely face framed by a wealth of deep auburn curls.
“My niece,” her ladyship began, “has led a cloistered life for her education. Now, that she is under my charge, I have decided to employ her as my companion. Though I doubt she will ever be far my side, I require assurance that her person will remain unchanged throughout the duration of her life.”
The Maddening Lord Montwood: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series Page 2