by Anna Bradley
At the time, he hadn’t given a damn if Godfrey swindled Jarvis of his last farthing, but that was before he knew Jarvis was Lucy’s uncle.
That changed everything.
Now here was Godfrey with Jarvis in London, hanging about Lucy like a leech lusting after fresh blood.
“Mr. Ramsey? The dance is over.”
Ciaran jerked his attention back to Lady Felicia. “So it is. I beg your pardon.” He escorted her from the floor back across the ballroom, his gaze on Lucy. As they drew near, they heard Mr. Jarvis speaking sharply to her, his voice raised.
Ciaran and Lady Felicia stopped a few paces away, confused. Something was wrong. Mrs. Jarvis’s lips were trembling as if she were about to burst into tears, and Markham was gaping at Jarvis with the strangest look on his face—an odd combination of outrage, shock, and fury.
Some sort of argument was taking place between Lord Godfrey, Lucy, and Mr. Jarvis. Mrs. Jarvis looked on, blanching with terror every time her husband’s jarring voice rent the air.
“Thank you for the invitation, my lord,” Lucy was saying to Godfrey as Ciaran and Lady Felicia joined the party. Lucy’s shoulders were rigid, and her lips white at the edges. “But I don’t care to dance again this evening.”
Ah, so that was what had caused the uproar. Lucy had already danced once with Vale, and etiquette demanded she now dance with whatever gentlemen requested her hand, including Lord Godfrey.
Ciaran didn’t give a damn about etiquette. He didn’t like the anxious look on Lucy’s face, and he didn’t want her to dance with Godfrey any more than she wanted it.
“It’s a country dance, Lady Lucinda.” Lord Godfrey gave Lucy a condescending smile. He was leaning toward her with his arm draped over the back of her chair, as if he had every right to be there, every right to touch her. “I realize you’re not familiar with London manners, but surely you can manage a simple country dance?”
Ciaran’s scowl deepened. Godfrey was far too close to Lucy, and his arm on her chair was insultingly familiar. Lucy kept edging away from him, but each time she moved Godfrey did, too, closing whatever distance she put between them. He looked like a snake about to wrap itself around its prey.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to decline all the same, my lord.”
“Don’t be silly, girl,” Jarvis snapped. “If his lordship wishes to dance, then you’ll dance.”
Lucy glanced at the dancers assembling for the set, and Ciaran could tell at once what she was thinking. The dance would take an age with such a large number of couples, and she couldn’t bear to suffer Lord Godfrey’s company for such a long time.
“This instant, Lucinda.” Jarvis looked as if he was about to drag Lucy from her chair.
Mrs. Jarvis laid a timid hand on her husband’s wrist. “Augustus, I don’t think…that is, the child’s natural reserve may be such—”
“For God’s sake, Harriet, be quiet!” Jarvis snatched free of his wife’s grip and turned a fearsome glower on Lucy. “Not another word of fuss, Lucinda, or else—”
“Never mind it, Jarvis.” Lord Godfrey rose to his feet and tugged his coat down with icy dignity. “I’m not so desperate for a reel you need to bully the young lady into a dance.”
Jarvis’s face went from white to red as Godfrey offered Lucy a stiff bow, then turned on his heel and strode away. When Jarvis turned back to Lucy, his face was nearly purple with rage. “By God, Lucinda—”
Markham evidently didn’t care for Jarvis’s tone any more than Ciaran did. He leapt forward, but Ciaran was there first. He thrust his body between Lucy and her uncle, then stepped up to Jarvis, so close their faces were mere inches apart.
“The lady said she doesn’t wish to dance.” Ciaran spoke calmly enough, but his voice was frigid with menace.
Jarvis’s face drained of color. “The lady is my ward, sir.”
Ciaran raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t back away. “Even more reason for you to treat her with respect.”
Jarvis drew himself up. “Who are you, sir, to tell me how to treat my niece?”
Before Ciaran could answer, Lucy made a soft sound of distress. He turned to her to find her dark eyes had gone huge, and her face was paler than he’d ever seen it before. “Lucy, are you all—?”
That was as far as he got before Lucy raised a hand to her forehead. She swayed in her chair, and Ciaran just had time to reach her before her eyelashes fluttered closed, and she fell into a swoon.
Chapter Ten
Goodness, swoons were useful things, weren’t they? If Lucy had realized feigning one would lead to such a quick escape she would have fallen into half a dozen of them by now.
“No, never mind coming down from the box, Bexley,” she called to the coachman when she reached the carriage. She lowered the stair herself, adding, “Just wait for now, won’t you? Mrs. and Miss Jarvis will be out presently.”
Bexley, a rough-looking fellow Uncle Jarvis had hired for the season, merely grunted.
Lucy sprang nimbly into the carriage, a long sigh escaping her as she closed her eyes and let her head rest against the seat. Her one regret was she’d worried her aunt with her sudden lapse in consciousness. Or what appeared to be a sudden lapse in consciousness. She’d half-expected to be caught out in her charade, but apparently she was a better actress than she realized.
Uncle Jarvis hadn’t bothered to wait and see if she were dead or alive before rushing off after a furious Lord Godfrey, but poor Aunt Jarvis had followed Lucy to the ladies’ retiring room, wringing her hands, chastising herself, and clucking nervously the entire way. It had been quite a struggle to persuade her aunt to return to the ballroom and wait for Eloisa to finish her dance with Lord Vale and let Lucy make her own way to the carriage.
“For a lady who swooned not half an hour ago, that was a vigorous leap into your carriage.”
Lucy didn’t open her eyes, but her lips curved into an involuntary smile. She would have recognized that low, amused drawl anywhere. “Well, Ciaran Ramsey. The Wallflower’s Gallant, and hero of ladies in distress everywhere, whether they want saving or not.”
Ciaran hauled himself into the carriage, plopped down on the seat across from her and pulled the door closed behind him. “Seems to me you did want saving tonight, lass.”
Ciaran’s face was half lost in shadow, but Lucy heard the hint of humor in his voice. “Not at all. That is, I don’t deny it was an ugly scene, but I found my way out of it. The swoon was a spur of the moment thing, but quite a stroke of genius, really.”
Ciaran stretched his long legs out in front of him. He was so tall his knee brushed against hers. “You mean you only pretended to swoon?” He let out a low chuckle. “What a devious thing to do. Yet here you sit without a trace of guilt on your face. Shame on you, Lady Lucinda.”
“I’m only happy Eloisa was dancing with Lord Vale at the time. It upsets her when her father falls into a temper, and I don’t like to drag her into my scrapes if I can help it.” Lucy frowned. “Somehow, though, it seems to happen more often than not.”
“I don’t doubt it, lass.” He was quiet for a moment, then he murmured, “I looked for you, you know. After you disappeared, I searched all over Brighton for you. Quite a lot of effort for the lady who broke my nose.”
“I didn’t break it! You told me it wasn’t…” Her lips quirked when she caught the flash of his smile in the dark. “I think what you mean is it was quite a lot of effort for the lady who kicked you in the face, and almost broke your nose.”
“Something like that.” Ciaran shifted restlessly against the seat. When he spoke again, his voice had grown serious. “I’ve thought of you every single day since you left Brighton, Lucy. I couldn’t believe you’d go without a single word of explanation. I didn’t believe it, until I went to your villa and saw it was empty.”
Lucy drew in a shaky breath. All her life, she’d always be
en the one who was left behind. She knew how much it hurt. Without thinking, she reached for his hand. “I didn’t choose to leave, Ciaran. You must know that.”
He didn’t answer right away, but he didn’t snatch his hand back, either. After a long, tense silence, he sighed. “I did know it, but it didn’t make it any easier. What happened?”
Lucy hesitated She was half-ashamed to admit the disaster in Brighton had been her own fault, but Ciaran was her friend, and one didn’t lie to their friends. “My Uncle Jarvis found out about my, er, sunrise beach adventures.”
He’d found out, all right, and he’d been livid. Lucy had never seen anyone so angry in her life.
“I should have known that would happen.” Ciaran glanced down at their clasped hands. “I never should have encouraged you to keep meeting me there.”
Lucy gave him a crooked smile. “Do you suppose there was anything you could have done to stop me? Come now, Ciaran. You know me better than that.”
“Was it terrible?” Ciaran sounded as if he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.
Once again, Lucy hesitated. It had, in fact, been terrible, but she didn’t intend to tell Ciaran how terrible. It might tempt him to another feat of misguided heroism.
Uncle Jarvis had been so overcome with rage he’d frightened her. He’d cursed until spittle was flying from his mouth, and his face had turned such a dangerous shade of red she’d been certain he’d shriek himself into an apoplexy. The next thing Lucy knew their things were packed and loaded into the carriage. They’d left Brighton behind without a second glance.
“N-no, not terrible, but he insisted we leave Brighton at once. We’ve been in London since then, preparing for the season.”
After Uncle Jarvis’s fit, neither Lucy nor Eloisa had dared hope they’d get much pleasure from their visit to London. They’d reconciled themselves to a grim time of it, but strangely enough, Uncle Jarvis had seemed to regain his equilibrium as soon as they arrived in the city. His mood had improved at once, and since then he’d been…well, if not pleasant, at least he hadn’t locked them in their bedchambers.
Ciaran frowned. “Preparing? What does that mean?”
“It means new clothes, and dress fittings, and dreadful dancing lessons from overwrought French dancing masters.” A scowl crept over Lucy’s face. “It’s been quite awful, really.”
Ciaran’s lips twitched, but the faint smile was gone as quickly as it appeared. “Why wouldn’t you tell me your surname, Lucy? If I hadn’t known you were going to London after Brighton, I might never have found you again.”
Here it was, the moment Lucy had dreaded since the first day she’d met Ciaran. She squeezed her eyes closed, but there was no escaping it, no hiding from it. All of London knew who she was, and who her father was. Ciaran would find out about it soon enough, and anyway, concealing the truth was just another form of lying. “I didn’t want to tell you because my father is…was…the Earl of Bellamy.”
Lucy waited for the exclamation, the laughter, the shocked gasp, but it never came.
“Barmy Bellamy? The Mad Earl?” Her brows drew together. “You’ve never heard of him?”
“Not until I arrived in Brighton. I did hear a few of the rumors while I was there. I’ve known all along you’re his daughter, Lucy.” He hesitated, then asked evenly, “Was he mad?”
There was no judgment in the question, no mockery in his voice. He was simply asking. It struck Lucy then no one, not even her cousin or her aunt had ever asked her that. They’d just assumed the rumors were true.
Now he’d asked the question, Lucy wasn’t sure how to answer it. Her father had been broken, certainly, and in a way that couldn’t be repaired. But madness? Weren’t they all mad, in one way or another? Weren’t they all broken in some way that couldn’t be fixed?
“He was different. People aren’t always kind to those who are different, are they? Even before my mother died he wasn’t much like other people. Afterward, he became…” She stopped, her breath catching. It was harder to get the words out than she’d thought it would be. “My mother was killed by a highwayman. Her death was sudden and tragic, and my father never recovered. He shut himself up inside our estate in Devon and he never came back out again.”
A thick, tense silence fell over the carriage. Lucy knew she’d shocked him. Who’d ever heard of an earl who refused to set foot outside his house? She waited for Ciaran to gather himself, dreading what he’d say, but when he spoke his words surprised her.
“What about you, Lucy? What did it mean for you that your father never left the house again?”
Lucy swallowed. They were going to have this out, it seemed, and she’d just as soon have it all out at once. “It meant he rarely permitted me to leave it, either. Not at first,” she added quickly, when she heard Ciaran’s sharp intake of breath. “But over the years he grew more restrictive. I loved my father, and I never thought of him as mad, but I may be the only person in England who didn’t.”
“You’re the only one who matters.”
Lucy couldn’t see him well enough to read his expression, but she’d never heard him speak quite so gently before. Tears rushed to her eyes, but she held them back and forced a laugh. “Yes, well, tell that to the old ladies in Brighton. I thought Lady Essex was going to come after me with a pistol and a burlap sack when she discovered I’m the Earl of Bellamy’s daughter.”
Lucy sensed more than saw Ciaran smile, felt the tension ease from his body even with the thick shadows dimming the inside of the carriage. Her chest loosened, and the same warmth she’d felt for him when they’d sat together on the beach rushed over her. Impulsively, she reached for him again, until she was holding both his hands. “I can’t believe you’re in London for the season. When I caught sight of you coming into the ballroom, I thought…well, I’ve simply never been so happy to see anyone in my life.”
“I came to make sure you’re safe and to see to it Vale knows you’re here. He’ll help you this season if you find you need it, but there’s something I need to tell you first.”
Something in his voice made apprehension dart down Lucy’s spine. “What is it?”
He hesitated, then asked, “Lord Godfrey. How well do you know him?”
Lucy blinked. What in the world did Lord Godfrey have to do with anything? “Well enough to know I don’t wish to know him any better. My uncle seems to have struck up a friendship with him, though I must say I can’t understand why his lordship would bother. They haven’t a thing in common. Indeed, I would have been pleased never to lay eyes on him again, but the man’s like an unlucky penny, turning up when one least wants or expects him.”
“Unluckier than you think. Your uncle and Lord Godfrey aren’t friends, Lucy. Godfrey’s here to make certain he collects a debt. Your uncle owes him money.”
Lucy laughed. “That’s impossible. Uncle Jarvis doesn’t have any money.”
“It is possible, Lucy. Lord Godfrey holds your uncle’s vowels.”
“But how can he have…” Lucy trailed off.
Of course. All those nights in Brighton when her uncle had gone out and hadn’t returned until the early morning hours. He’d never deigned to explain his activities to his household, but Lucy knew more often than not he was deep into his cups by the time he arrived home.
If he’d been gaming while he was in that befuddled a state…
“You mean to say he’s been wagering. He’s been at cards and dice with Lord Godfrey, hasn’t he?”
“Yes, and your uncle isn’t a skilled gamer. Godfrey’s been hanging about Brighton for weeks now, taking the waters by day and your uncle’s money by night.”
Lucy’s head was spinning. “You saw this yourself?”
His smile was grim. “All those mornings I met you on the beach and you teased me about my bleary eyes, I was coming from a private game over at the Castle Inn. Your uncle and Godfrey we
re there nearly every night, and your uncle was rarely sober.”
Lucy shook her head. She couldn’t say much in her uncle’s favor. He was a weak, selfish man, but a propensity for drink and gaming? It was even worse than she’d realized. “How much? His debt to Lord Godfrey, Ciaran. How much do you think he owes him?”
Ciaran blew out a breath. “I can’t say for sure. I didn’t pay much attention to their dealings. I didn’t know Jarvis was your uncle at the time, or I would have. I only know it went on for weeks, and your uncle played deep. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was hundreds of pounds. Maybe more.”
“Hundreds of pounds! But my uncle doesn’t have it! He hasn’t any money at all!”
Lucy knew how foolish she sounded. One couldn’t walk down a street in London without stumbling over some gentleman who wagered above his means. Lord Godfrey didn’t care whether her uncle’s pockets were empty or not. He’d have his money, no matter if he had to ruin her uncle to get it.
And if Godfrey did choose to ruin Uncle Jarvis, her aunt and Eloisa would be caught up in his penury and disgrace.
Ciaran was watching her closely. “Your uncle doesn’t have any money, but you do, don’t you? Forgive me, but Vale tells me you’re an heiress. As your guardian and trustee, your uncle is in control of your person and your funds, isn’t he?”
Lucy stared mutely at him. Surely, he didn’t mean—
“Has it occurred to you he intends to dispose of both to Lord Godfrey? It would be a tidy way to settle his debt.”
Lucy gaped at him, protests and denials rushing to her lips, but no matter how her heart tried to make it not so, her brain was busily putting together the puzzle pieces.
Her Uncle Jarvis owed Godfrey a debt he hadn’t a prayer of paying. He knew Lucy had the funds to pay it, but he couldn’t simply take whatever he liked from her trust. Nor could he force her to do anything against her will. He was her guardian, not her gaoler.