Just then, Arthur’s familiar wheat-colored head appeared through the spyglass. He wove through the crowd of men more than twice his height. Out of breath, the lad stopped in front of Whitelock. After a short exchange of words, the viscount nodded. A slow, seemingly self-satisfied grin twisted his mouth as Whitelock left Tattersall’s.
Lucan wondered what news Arthur could have brought that had the power to please Whitelock so. There was only one way to find out.
Frances fidgeted with the brim of the bonnet in her grasp. Having been escorted to Lord Whitelock’s study some time ago, she’d worried over the same spot to the point of causing one of the woven straw pieces to come loose. Now, she focused on removing the single frayed strand without disturbing the others. It was a menial task but one that kept her mind off her worries.
Right now, she needed to fill her life with menial tasks. If Lord Whitelock did not renew his offer of employment, perhaps she could repair straw bonnets. She could set up an open-air shop in Covent Market and—
Her breath hitched suddenly. The staggered inhale came out of the blue, serving as a clear reminder that she had other matters occupying her mind, whether she wanted to dwell on them or not.
Her father had been taken away to gaol over a debt. She had no job. No home. Nothing in the world other than her satchel and a basket of violets, vegetables, and a smelly fish. The fish in question had been taken to the kitchen, where the butler had kindly offered to have it watched over.
Shortly after her arrival at Lord Whitelock’s townhouse, a tea tray had been brought to her. The housekeeper and maids were as genial as the butler. Due to the state of Frances’s nerves, however, she hadn’t drunk any tea or nibbled on the assortment of pastries. Then, a quarter of an hour ago, a maid had brought in a fresh pot of tea and carried the old one away.
Not having eaten more than a few peas from the market on her way home—or more aptly, her former home—Frances was starting to feel the effects of anxiety roiling in her stomach. Even though she didn’t feel much like eating, she was not doing herself any favors by starving.
Yet before she could pour a cup, she heard Lord Whitelock’s familiar voice in the hall as he greeted the butler. “I understand we have a guest, Wimpole. And have you seen to her comfort?” There was a slight pause for the less audible, indistinct murmur of the butler’s response before she heard the viscount again. “Very good.”
Still worrying the brim of her bonnet, Frances faced the door. Soon enough, steady footfalls brought Lord Whitelock into view.
He smiled in his usual amiable manner, but as he drew closer, the flesh surrounding his mouth pulled into a frown. “Miss Thorne, it is a pleasure, as always, to see you; however, I note by your troubled expression that you have come for a purpose.”
At his astute observation, she nodded. Inhaling a breath of resolve, she forced herself to maintain control of her hysterics. “I have, my lord. The situation I feared would happen with my employment has happened. I no longer work for Mrs. Hunter.”
“Then you must allow me to renew my own invitation,” he said, providing an acute sense of relief. “You have been invaluable to me, and I have great need of your services. My wife has not had any true companion for more than a month. She is looked after by the maids, but they have not the time to sit and read to her.”
“And that is what you would have me do?” Frances asked but hesitated. Now was certainly the best time to tell him of her defects. “I must admit that my education is sorely lacking, specifically in the skills of a companion. I am fluent in neither Latin nor French. While I enjoy music, the pleasure I receive is filtered through an untrained ear. My own instruction was cut short when it became apparent that I have no musical talent. In addition, I have no artistic ability or any true appreciation, other than a rudimentary enjoyment of shapes and colors. I have never understood the meaning one is expected to derive from a painting or a sculpture.”
As she spoke, Lord Whitelock’s smile returned. “Nothing would give me more pleasure that to tutor you and further your education. Though I don’t mean to be boastful, you’ll find that my home in Lincolnshire hosts a collection of art that puts most galleries to shame. And as for your qualifications, you are desired primarily for your excellent tone and your pleasant nature. I have seen your penmanship and heard you read aloud, and I can assure you that you have already surpassed the tasks that will be put before you.”
Nervous and with so much at stake, she fidgeted with the brim of the bonnet. “If you’ll forgive me, my lord, I worry that reading a list of servants from a registry does not require the range of emotion that a sonnet does. I only say this because I do not want to disappoint you after you’ve been so generous with your offer.”
“Your humility makes you even more valuable to me,” he said with a slight edge of amusement, the creases around his mouth lengthening. “Of course, I would pay you handsomely. I am a generous master, but only because I value those in my employ. If you don’t mind my asking, how much did you earn at Mrs. Hunter’s?”
“After two and a half years, I’d begun to earn ten shillings a week.”
At this, he balked. “Only ten shillings? For all the services you provided? That is unacceptable. If you’ll forgive me for speaking of money—I do not wish to be vulgar—I pay my scullery maids ten shillings a week, and they have room and board as well. I hope this does not alarm you, but my wife’s previous companion earned a pound a week.”
A pound a week? That was unheard of! Frances felt her mouth drop open before she could collect herself. At the servant registry, she had been privy to more sensitive information, such as wages, and Lord Whitelock was renowned for his generosity, but she’d never known to what extent. He was greatly admired by servants and society alike, but now she understood why. He was more than a lord and master. He was a benefactor.
“Forgive me, Miss Thorne. You’ve gone pale. Where are my manners? Please, you must be exhausted from such a trying day. Take your rest while I pour you a cup of tea.” Taking her elbow, he led her to a tufted chair near his desk.
Overwhelmed, she’d nearly forgotten for her training. A viscount should never pour her tea. “I—”
“No argument. I insist.”
To argue now would seem ungrateful, not to mention insupportable behavior. Therefore, she bit her tongue and relished the feel of the soft chair beneath her. Even the furniture in his study portrayed him as a man who had the needs of others foremost on his mind. He made certain that the most comfortable chair was near his desk, so that his company would feel at ease.
“I cannot express my gratitude enough, sir,” she said when he handed her the cup and saucer. Taking a sip, she cringed at the bitter taste. Obviously, the leaves had steeped too long, but she wouldn’t dream of mentioning it. “There is another troubling matter of which you must be made aware. My own father, just this morning, was taken away by runners because of his debts.”
Lord Whitelock was good enough not to show his surprise, just as he hadn’t when she’d told him about her recent loss of employment. Not many men could be as skilled when presented with such news. Instead of gasping in shock or even arching his brows, he kept his amiable expression in place as he eased into the wing-backed chair opposite her.
Before her courage abandoned her, she continued. “I do not know the extent of his crimes, but of course I will inquire with the local magistrate later, when I visit him. Even now, I have no idea where they have taken him. I came here without thinking.”
“And right you were to do so. A magistrate’s office is no place for you.” He steepled his fingers and glanced down at the teacup in her hand. Out of politeness, she took another sip. It was almost unbearably bitter. “Allow me to do you the favor of making the inquiries. In fact, if you would permit me, I could settle his debts.”
Pay her father’s debts and remove him from gaol? That would be . . . that would be . . . Well, in all honesty, that might not be the best thing to do.
She l
oved her father, of course, and didn’t want him to suffer. However, if Lord Whitelock paid his debts, then Frances would need to repay those debts. She might very well be paying off her father’s debts, in addition to any new ones he would likely incur, for the rest of her life. Of course, she would need to speak with her father to explain. “Though it pains me to say this, I could not accept such a favor. I have a firm belief that debt invites the ruin of scruples.”
“I have often said as much, which is likely why I tend to err on the side generosity when it comes to those who work for me,” he said, enticing her further. “I do hope that you will consider my offer. But I must warn you that since my wife has been without a companion for so long, I would require you to leave for my country estate at first light tomorrow. Under your particular circumstances, I understand if you would prefer to stay in town and remain close to your father . . . ”
In other words, she could either accept his offer or choose to repair bonnets in Covent Garden.
Could she leave London tomorrow when she’d lived here all her life? Such a change would be drastic. She wasn’t certain she could take much more change right now. Yet leaving for Lincolnshire—where she would earn a pound per week!—was the far more sensible decision. With that, she could pay off her father’s debt in little over a month.
Frances opened her mouth to accept but was surprised by a yawn instead. “Oh! Forgive me,” she said, thoroughly embarrassed. “I meant to express my gratitude once more but . . . I suppose I am more tired than I imagined.” She tried again. “Please know that I am both honored to have been selected and delighted to accept the position as Lady Whitelock’s companion.”
Lord Whitelock glanced again at her teacup as she stifled another yawn. He seemed pleased by her answer in the way that he grinned. “You have eased my burden a great deal, Miss Thorne.”
Reluctantly, she held her breath and took another sip, then because he appeared to be waiting for her to finish the brew, she did. But wished she hadn’t because she instantly felt lightheaded. She leaned back against the seat to stop the dizziness.
“If you will permit me, I’ll ring for Myrtle to show you to a room so that you may rest before dinner. In the meantime, I will inquire after your father on your behalf.” Gentleman that he was, Lord Whitelock displayed no alarm at seeing her tired. Instead, he stood and walked to the bell pull.
After a frenzied few hours, Lucan paid the Fleet Prison gaoler two shillings to be led down to Hugh Thorne’s cell.
The walls of the dank, narrow passages leaned inward, giving the impression of closing in bit by bit. Scant light filtered in through the high cell windows on the opposite wall, and no one had bothered to light the torches in the afternoon. Human waste ripened the air, the scent even more foul when accompanied by the echoes of sobs all around him. There was, however, a cool breeze, though its origins were undetermined. For all Lucan knew, it was a specter, silently roaming the halls of a more permanent prison.
The gaoler opened the door. Thorne sat on the floor in one corner, his chamber pot in the other. The sour stench of bile and vomit wafted through the cell.
Thorne lifted his head slowly, recognition bringing a moist sheen to his dark eyes. “You’ve come. I knew you would, my boy. I knew it wouldn’t be long before you learned all, in that mysterious way you glean all the secrets you unearth.”
“Only moments ago,” Lucan answered, thinking back to the past hours’ nightmare.
From Hyde Park, he’d traveled past Mrs. Hunter’s shop. On the street there, he’d heard outraged whispers from a gathering of lady’s maids on the pavement, gossiping about Miss Thorne’s dismissal. Immediately, he rode to Mrs. Pruitt’s rooming house, only to overhear the landlady’s window-to-window conversation with Mrs. Bayer about the horror of having the runners appear at her door to cart Thorne away. “It forced me to toss his daughter out on the street for the sake of decency.”
Decency? Lucan had been tempted to ask the old crow what was decent about throwing an innocent woman to the wolves. But he hadn’t the time. He had to find Miss Thorne before she made up her mind to go to Whitelock for help.
Yet he’d been too late. According to Arthur, she was at Whitelock’s townhouse now. Lucan would have to find a way to speak to her without risking the dissolution of his agreement with Whitelock.
“I would have come sooner. I would have stopped this,” Lucan said to Thorne.
“Not this time, I’m afraid.”
Lucan pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d been hoping this was a mistake. Hoping that Thorne would tell him that he’d been wrongly imprisoned again. Yet for months, Lucan had seen a drastic decline in Thorne. No matter how hard Lucan had tried to keep him afloat, Thorne had been determined to go under. “What happened? Tell me.”
Thorne turned his hands over and stared at them, the same way he had in the carriage the day before. “It was at the tables at Lord Rowland’s club. I came up short. He offered a loan. I thought the next hand would surely win. Or the next. Or . . . ” His hands dropped into his lap and he looked up. “I couldn’t repay it.”
That’s why Lucan had found him in a gaming hell in the middle of the day. “How deep are you?”
“One or two hundred pounds.”
“Which is it?”
Thorne swallowed. “Two.”
Bugger. “I don’t have that sum right now, but I can get it.”
“I don’t want you to,” Thorne said, shaking his head firmly. Slowly, he stood. “I’ve earned my place here. Not only by my unpaid debts but my despicable thievery.” He rubbed the upraised flesh over his thumb where a T had been branded years ago. “I’ve earned this mark. I wasn’t a thief when they gave it to me, but I am now. I don’t know what kind of man I am anymore. I stole from my own daughter. She goes without food because of me. We’ve moved seven times over because of me.”
“I can’t leave you in here.” It would be like letting the Marquess of Camdonbury win after all. “We’ll find a place for you. A good job—”
“No. I deserve this cell,” Thorne said firmly and then quietly added, “I . . . I need this cell.”
Lucan was starting to lose his temper. He jabbed a fist into the air toward the tiny window. “Think of your daughter. She is out there right now”—jobless, homeless, and looking to Whitelock as if he were a white knight—“searching for the means to set you free.”
“Stop her. Explain my mistakes. Tell her that I need time. But I don’t want her to see me in here. She’s seen me as a broken, feeble man for far too long.” Thorne stepped forward, his expression earnest and not solely of a man wallowing in self-pity. “Take care of her. Watch over her. Although, I have a feeling you already do, in that mysterious way of yours. I still don’t understand your methods.”
Lucan lowered his hand to his side, his fist still clenched. “I listen, that is all.”
“I should have listened,” Thorne answered with a solemn nod.
This wasn’t right. It went against everything inside of him to leave Thorne here, knowing that Frances was out there, suffering because of it. A woman as strong, bold, and independent as Frances Thorne ought to have security in the knowledge of her father’s welfare. In Lucan’s opinion, she deserved much more. Yet there was another part of him that believed in justice, and if Thorne was guilty—because Thorne was guilty—he deserved to be left here. For a time.
“I will return in a week.”
Lucan would continue to watch over Miss Thorne. Not because he’d been asked to but because he wanted to . . . though he didn’t bother to question his own reasons at the moment.
“No. Not even in a month. Give me”—Thorne drew in a breath—“three months, and then I should be ready to repay the debts I’ll owe you.”
Three months, then. During that time, Lucan would keep Miss Thorne safe. Even if she fought him every step of the way. “You have my word.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Lucan reached Mayfair early the following morning. At this
time of day, only servants were about. In his usual method of gaining information, he listened carefully to gossip, keeping Quicksilver at a slow trot.
It wasn’t long before he spotted a pair of maids carrying empty baskets and heading toward the market.
“It’s a shame that Miss Thorne had to leave so soon,” one said. “When I heard that his lordship hired her, I’d hoped for some of her lessons.”
Miss Thorne was gone from London already? Lucan stiffened, and the action caused Quicksilver to stop. He dismounted and pretended to check his horse’s flank as the maids passed by.
“Aye. Me as well,” the other maid said. “But his lordship didn’t want her ladyship to be without a companion any longer. I confess, the way he dotes on her ladyship almost makes me jealous. He is a very fine gentleman.”
The maids were falling out of earshot. All Lucan heard in conclusion was a series of giggles. But the most important matter was that he was already too late to speak privately to Miss Thorne. Now, he would have to find her carriage on the road. He was little prepared for a journey, but it didn’t matter. He would go now, without delay.
Hours later, Lucan spotted Miss Thorne’s carriage outside of London. The curricle was not one of Whitelock’s finest, which was likely because the viscount would travel behind her by a day or two. This left Miss Thorne to make the journey alone but gave Lucan hope of gaining the opportunity to speak with her about his suspicions without alerting the viscount.
Unfortunately, the first day offered no opportunity. The driver pushed the team more than fifty miles before the first stop. Lucan had been forced to slow and give Quicksilver a rest. By the time Lucan had arrived at the inn, it was only hours before dawn, barely enough time to feed his horse and brush him down. Then, the next morning, Whitelock’s carriage had set off as the first rays of light blazed a thin line along the horizon.
After settling his account at the inn, the journey continued similarly, with Lucan trailing behind. It gave him time to think about the events of the past few days as if they were a chess game. All the pawns were gradually falling, one by one. Thorne was in prison due to a debt with Rowland, who was friends with Whitelock. Miss Thorne had lost her employment within the same week that Whitelock had offered her a position. And now, to Lucan, it felt as if the queen were exposed to the bishop.
The Maddening Lord Montwood: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series Page 7