“His name is Gunst,” she said, startling him out of his impure thoughts. “It’s probably spelled g-u-n-s-t.”
His confusion must have been obvious, for she said it again. “Gunst. The other man—the younger one. That’s all I could get.” Then she snatched her cap from his hands and said, “I have to go. I have some reading to do in advance of an engagement I have tonight.”
…
Lucy found it difficult to concentrate that evening at Mr. Lloyd’s house. She kept having to remind herself to attend to the conversation around her, and there was one mortifying moment when she looked up to find everyone regarding her intensely. She had panicked, thinking, quite irrationally, that they somehow knew she had been thinking about Trevor’s tattoos. Mr. Lloyd had to prompt her, repeating a question about something she’d said the previous week that had come up again this evening. But she tried not to scold herself too terribly as she made a passable answer—she was mixed up in an intelligence mission and helping bring down a potential killer, for heaven’s sake. She was bound to be a little distracted!
Still, she enjoyed herself immensely. The discussion was lively, and even those who had disagreed with her listened politely when Mr. Lloyd turned the floor over to her to introduce next week’s selection.
“When one has a Wollstonecraft scholar in one’s ranks, it seems foolish not to take advantage of that fact,” he said to the group, smiling warmly at her as she finished her short speech about Mary’s biography and the circumstances surrounding the writing of Vindication.
“Even I have to admit, it’s an excellent pairing with Rousseau,” said Mr. Landley, an older gentleman of about sixty who had vehemently disagreed with a few of her criticisms of Rousseau last week. Mr. Landley was a librarian, and though he’d made no pretense about where his views clashed with hers, he’d been respectful and even solicitous.
“You admit that you have not read Wollstonecraft firsthand, correct?” said Lucy, smiling broadly to show she meant no ill will with the question.
“You are quite correct, Miss Greenleaf, and it’s the height of intellectual boorishness, is it not, to so stubbornly criticize a writer one has not read?” He bowed to her as if conceding a wager. “I thank you for the opportunity to remedy my error, and I shall think of you this week as I do my reading.”
“Mr. Landley is too old to change his ways,” teased one of the group’s other two women, Lady Theodora, a woman a few years younger than Lucy, who, given her honorific, must be the daughter of an aristocrat. It was remarkable that she cared to—and was allowed to—attend a salon like this one. But then, Lucy had learned these past few weeks that the upper classes were a lot more diverse than she had imagined. She could, for example, imagine Emily fitting right in at a meeting like this.
“Age doesn’t preclude intellectual flexibility,” said Mrs. Murray, the widow who had driven Lucy home last week and the group’s other female member. “I’m sure I’m older than Landley, but I’ve changed my opinion on several topics any number of times.”
The group laughed, but not unkindly. From what Lucy could tell, the woman was famous for being easily talked into intellectual positions—and equally so for abandoning them. She seemed to be poking fun at herself even as she teased Mr. Landley.
How extraordinary. Lucy marveled anew at the cordiality of this group, at how they welcomed, even seemed to revel in, new and controversial ideas, as long as they were reasonably articulated.
“You’ve made quite the impression on our little group,” said Mr. Lloyd after the formal portion of the meeting had ended and the evening had transformed itself into a mere party. He offered her a glass of ratafia, which she accepted with a smile. “If you manage to dislodge Landley from his position, you’ll have my eternal admiration.” She followed his gaze over to Mr. Landley, who was good-naturedly pounding a table with his fist as he spoke to a small group of gentlemen. “Not that you don’t already have it.”
Startled, she swung her eyes back to Mr. Lloyd, unsure what to say. She thought it might be the first time in her life someone had paid her a compliment like that and, frankly, it rattled her. “And you have my gratitude,” she finally offered. “Thank you for inviting me to join.” What a kind man Mr. Lloyd was.
It was only later, on the way home, that another interpretation of their exchange was brought to her attention. The widow, Mrs. Murray, seemed to have taken a shine to her, and had insisted once again on delivering her home in her carriage.
“Now don’t go stealing Mr. Lloyd out from under Lady Theodora, my dear!”
The woman’s tone had been light, and she laughed as she delivered the injunction, but Lucy reared back against the leather squabs as if she’d been struck. “I beg your pardon?”
“Lady Theodora is husband-hunting. But the girl is too smart for the empty-headed peacocks that make up her pickings in the ton. You can’t blame her for setting her sights on Mr. Lloyd.”
“But she’s a lady,” Lucy said. It was one thing for people of different ranks to fraternize in a group like the salon, quite another for them to wed.
“Yes, and to give her credit, she cares not a whit for rank. Apparently her father doesn’t either. Viscount Crawling—he’s an Egyptologist, and she’s his only child.”
“So why does she need a husband at all?” Lucy asked. “Unless she has…tender feelings toward Mr. Lloyd?”
“There are many reasons to marry,” said Mrs. Murray. “A grand passion isn’t required, or perhaps even ideal.” When Lucy furrowed her brow, the older woman smiled. “Widowhood—and spinsterhood, I would imagine—can get very lonely, my dear. A life is a very long time, and there’s a great deal to be said for an affectionate companion with whom one shares interests and opinions. And, of course, marriage often blesses one with children.”
“Lady Theodora is so vocal in our meetings,” Lucy said, thinking back to the many intelligent things the lady had said that night. “I had no idea she was there for another purpose.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest that she’s not a genuine member of our group. But the girl is in want of a husband, and she’s set her sights on Mr. Lloyd.”
“Well, I’m sure she couldn’t have chosen better,” Lucy said firmly, struggling with how to respond. “He seems a very agreeable sort. As does she.”
“She is. So agreeable that she would step back and watch him marry another if he so chose.”
“Mrs. Murray, you can’t be implying that I…that Mr. Lloyd…”
“Do forgive me for being so forward, Miss Greenleaf,” said Mrs. Murray, patting Lucy’s hand. “You must think me a terrible busybody. It’s just that the life of a widow is a lonely one. And this salon—these people are my friends. I’m afraid I’m fiercely devoted to my friends. I just want Lady Theo to be happy.”
Lucy opened her mouth to assure the older woman that there was absolutely nothing between her and Mr. Lloyd, but then she remembered his comment about admiring her. It had been delivered with a great deal of…ardency.
“Just as I want you to be happy,” Mrs. Murray added as the carriage slowed to a halt in front of the Jade. “For you are my friend, too. I just thought you should know the way of things.”
Lucy contemplated delivering a final speech about how her regard for Mr. Lloyd was purely intellectual. Just as his expressed admiration for her was purely intellectual. But she must have hesitated too long, because Mrs. Murray smiled and said, “Of course, you must listen to your heart.”
“Thank you,” she finally said, because it was all she could say. “Thank you for the ride and for…everything else.”
Chapter Twenty
Trevor was upstairs berating himself. Not that that was unusual these days—the berating part, anyway. He had tried very hard to stop hiding in his apartment, though. He had a certain amount of legitimate work he needed to do upstairs, but he had made a point in recent days of being present downstairs, orienting himself to the rhythms of the hotel, making himself available to answer quest
ions or make decisions, as needed.
The trouble was, he wasn’t really needed. Lucy had everything running like a well-oiled machine. The servants turned to her with questions and obeyed her instructions. They tolerated him, but he got the distinct impression that he was like a piece of very expensive furniture to them—something to step deferentially around and not disturb, but ultimately nothing to be bothered with.
Lucy tried to include him, which he found amusing. She would set a column of figures in front of him and ask him to check her arithmetic. It was always error free. Or she might pause in the middle of tasting something Monsieur Bellanger was cooking and ask his opinion. But she always did it very properly, by handing him his own dish and tasting spoon. He didn’t, however, miss the look she gave him as she did so and knew she was remembering, as he was, the last time they had tasted Monsieur Bellanger’s creations together. So he looked back, more intensely and longer than was called for, licking his lips as he did so. And, like clockwork, she blushed.
And there was the time he came upon her standing on a footstool, trying to reach a punch bowl perched on a high shelf in a cupboard. She was straining toward it, arms outstretched so that her bodice stretched taut over her breasts, and leaning forward in a way that showcased her devilishly pert bottom. What he should have done—what he’d intended to do—was to walk over there and fetch the bowl for her. Instead, he came up behind her, placed one hand firmly on her hip, and used the other to reach the bowl. Then he handed it to her, freeing his second hand to join his first at her waist. Well, not quite her waist—they had slid a little lower. Then, instead of offering her his hand to assist her down from the step stool, he swung her down, watching with satisfaction as her pink mouth fell open. She couldn’t say anything. They were in a kitchen filled with people. Though no one was paying them any attention, they would turn at the sound of their mistress’s voice.
“Anything else I can help you with?” he’d whispered, his masculine pride stoked by the fact that her breath had grown noticeably shallow. When she shook her head no, he said, “more’s the pity,” before he turned and strode out of the kitchen, trying to slow his racing pulse.
Which led him to the berating: what the hell was his problem? Was he trying to seduce her? He got up and strode from his apartment, heading for the stairs. He’d always believed that a man should be judged by his actions, rather than by what he said or claimed or protested. The world was full of men—and women—who said one thing and did another. In his mind, protecting Lucy—getting her on the path to a better life—was the most important thing. But how could that be true given his actions since she had arrived? He’d been preying on her himself, and you couldn’t hunt someone and protect her at the same time.
Perhaps today he could manage to find her, tell her what he needed to tell her—an important piece of news about the Jespersen mission—and not touch her. He could make no apologies for his wicked thoughts, but goddamn, could he try, just this once, to keep his hands to himself? While he was at it, he should also tell her about the rumors Catharine had reported. She’d been right—Lucy had a right to know. They concerned her, and she was the hotel’s manager. But he knew he would not. If he couldn’t protect her from himself, he could at least protect her from baseless gossip he hoped would dissipate on its own.
“Where is Mrs. Greenleaf?” he asked, pitching his voice to carry over the kitchen’s ever-present din. Talking, no touching, he reminded himself.
A kitchen maid bobbed a curtsy. “She’s cleaning room 203, sir.”
Of course she was. He clenched his jaw and glared at the maid so hard that she dropped the bowl and spoon she’d been holding. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It wasn’t this girl’s fault Lucy was stubborn as a mule and continued to ignore their agreement that she should tell him before she went into Jespersen’s room.
When he arrived, the door was cracked. Peering in, he could see her at work changing the bed linens. There was no sign of the room’s occupant. Despite his agreement that her presence in the room was necessary for the good of the mission, the sight of her wearing that maid’s cap set his blood practically to boil. “What are you doing here?” he said, shutting the door behind him.
She froze in the middle of shaking out a sheet, and for a moment the soft fluttering of the linen onto the bed was the only sound in the room. “I should think that would be quite obvious. I’m making this bed.”
He massaged his temples in a futile attempt to calm the throbbing there. “Yes, but why are you making this bed? How many times need I remind you that you are not a maid?”
Undaunted by his raised voice, she spoke coolly. “We all agreed that I would continue to look around the room.”
“Looking around the room is not the same as cleaning it.”
She shrugged, which only inflamed his temper further. “He’s seen me in here several times. It does need daily turning over, so it only makes sense that I should do it. If he comes back while I’m here, nothing will seem suspicious. I’ll just be the maid he’s accustomed to seeing.”
Lucy and her deuced logic. All he could do was scowl. At least they were close to being done with this whole bloody business, which was the reason he’d set out in search of Lucy today to begin with. “Blackstone has discovered Jespersen’s identity.”
That got her attention, and she put down the blasted pillow she was fluffing. “Has he been using a false name?”
“No, but now we have a story to go with the name. A life. He’s a clockmaker from Denmark.”
“That would explain all the diagrams I found.”
“Yes. Until he arrived at the Jade, he ran a clock shop in Piccadilly. He was known for his fine work. I have one of his pieces myself.” Walking over to where she stood, he extracted his pocket watch and turned it over, angling it so she could see the tiny letters engraved on the back.
“H. Jespersen. How remarkable! One wonders why he would move here to make clocks when presumably there is a market for them in Denmark.”
He was doing it again. She’d moved to stand next to him so they could examine the back of his watch together, but, in thrall to his base instincts, he hadn’t stepped away.
But then, neither had she.
She cleared her throat but stood her ground. “It’s good you’re here, actually. I’ve been wanting to discuss something with you.”
Right. The proposition she’d mentioned the other day. He did step back then, stifling a sigh as he resigned himself to discussing a change to the menu or a staffing problem.
More feminine throat clearing. She seemed unaccountably nervous. Perhaps they should have this discussion elsewhere. Probably being in this room made her nervous.
Before he could suggest as much, she blurted, “Emily and Catharine suggest that intimate relations between a man and a woman can be highly enjoyable.”
He was glad she was staring at the floor because she missed the fact that he actually stumbled a little at the unexpected outburst. By the time she lifted her eyes, blazing with something he couldn’t quite identify, he had recovered himself—mostly. She seemed to be waiting for something. Was it his turn to talk? “Ah, yes, that is indeed the case.”
“For women as well as for men.”
He didn’t know if it was a question or a statement, but he was saved from having to respond when she nodded decisively and said, “You know about my penchant for self-improvement.”
“Yes,” he said warily.
She took a deep breath, and he suspected she was about to launch into one of her signature verbal torrents. “I’m aware that this is highly improper, but I comfort myself that you’ve always said you don’t abide by the conventions of the aristocracy. And I’m not planning to marry, as you know. And I’m assuming there are ways to prevent children—there must be, mustn’t there, or both of us would be in possession of cartloads of siblings.” She smiled a little then, and he tried to interrupt her because, good God, was she suggesting what he thought she was
suggesting? Or was that just base, wishful thinking on his part? But she barreled onward before he could form a coherent sentence. “In the past, I’ve never been much interested in the…matter, but now I must consider the addition of this new information from the ladies, and, well, recent firsthand experiences have given additional credence to their version of events, and I just wanted to see if perhaps a self-improvement project might encompass—what are you doing?”
What Trevor was doing was stuffing Lucy inside the armoire, stepping in after her, clamping his hand over her mouth, and trying to ignore the raging cockstand her bold words had inspired. “He’s coming. Be still.”
His intuition had been correct—the hairs on the back of his neck never lied—because a moment later, the sound of the door opening was followed by the sound of two men speaking in Danish. It was one thing for Jespersen to find Lucy in his room, quite another for him to come upon the hotel’s owner in conversation with an alleged parlor maid. Especially given the topic of said conversation. Pray God the man did not require one of the shirts or coats that hung around them.
The immediate crisis contained, he took stock of the situation. He was fairly certain Lucy had just propositioned him, and now they were immersed in utter darkness. In an exceedingly small space. Her silently heaving bosom brushed against his chest and her belly rested against his erection. Removing his hand from her mouth, he replaced it with a finger over her lips, signaling that she needed to remain quiet. He felt her nod against his chest, and when he tried to pull back a bit, to put some distance between them, he only felt the side of the armoire against his back. She shifted, too, he thought, at first, in order to move away from him, but there wasn’t enough room in her direction either, or… Regardless, she ended up pressing her hips against his thighs, which also had the unfortunate side effect of increasing the pressure against his cock. God’s teeth, this woman was dangerous.
Was it possible that Lucy was instigating this contact deliberately? That she wasn’t going to wait for him to formally endorse her latest “project” before she embarked upon it?
The Likelihood of Lucy Page 22