by Gaelen Foley
When the first course was served, he realized by watching the others that the gentlemen were expected to carve the meat dish that happened to be set in front of them.
He eyed up the steaming chine of lamb before him, picked up the long, serrated carving knife, and gave Acer Loring a hard, meaningful look, needing not a single word to make his threat concisely plain.
Acer’s smug hauteur wilted as he watched Rackford slice the eight pounds of steaming red meat; Billy hadn’t earned the nickname “Blade” for no reason. By the time he was through with the job, he trusted the dandy had gotten the message.
Done, he stuck the knife into the saddle of lamb with a flourish and offered the dish to the debutantes seated around him.
He noticed Jacinda giving him an exasperated look. He sent her a small shrug. She looked away, shaking her head.
When it came time to attack the meal, however, he floundered, as uncertain as the dupe of some shell-game trickster, his hand wavering above the selection of silverware. He swept a rather desperate glance over the other guests until he saw Jacinda staring forcefully at him.
The person next to her asked her a question, and she rejoined the conversation with a smile, but he watched her hand as she slowly picked up the second fork from the left and twirled it playfully between her fingers.
He made his selection in relief. She glanced at him briefly a moment later, making sure he had not made another faux pas.
Somehow she got him through the three-hour meal, until at last, it was over. The ladies withdrew, while the men stayed at table for a short while longer, drinking port and sherry. He met her rakehelly brother, Lord Alec Knight, who was of an age with him, and liked the man at once.
At last, the sexes reconvened in the salon, where card tables were set up for a few respectable games of whist. The debutantes, however, seemed more interested in showing off their musical talents on the pianoforte, either playing the instrument for the crowd of guests or singing with its accompaniment. Rackford stood at the back of the room, leaning against the wall and sipping another glass of the thick, fortified wine. He was most interested in waiting for Jacinda’s performance, but rather than going to the piano, she meandered slowly through the crowded drawing room.
He looked into her eyes as she casually sauntered toward him. Pure lightning leaped between them, but she demurely looked away and leaned against the wall beside him, sipping her wine. He pretended to enjoy the music, but all his senses were ferociously focused on her.
He could feel her acute awareness of him, as well. It was torture, not being able to touch her. “Thanks for your help in there,” he said under his breath.
She waved her silk fan idly, avoiding his gaze. “I know you think me a useless ornament, but sometimes my trivial expertise has its uses.”
“I never said you were useless.” He could think of any number of uses for her, all of which would have gotten him slapped. “Dare I hope your kindness to me means you have decided to believe me?”
“No.”
“Then why did you help me?”
“I have decided to withhold judgment until Lucien comes home. That is all.”
“Fair enough.”
“Till then…” She sighed. Pretending to watch the next piano-playing debutante’s performance, she slid him a wary, sideways glance. “I haven’t much time, and this is not to be interpreted as encouragement, but you, Lord Rackford, are a pitiful sight. You will never survive the ton on your own, but for reasons I do not wish to contemplate, I am disposed to help you. Call on me tomorrow at one. Do not be late.”
Taken aback, he had no time to react as she gave him a bolstering look, then drifted on through the crowd, chatting with people here and there.
He watched her with newfound hope wafting up from the core of him.
A pitiful sight? he wondered in amusement. How could anyone possibly interpret that as encouragement? But he hid his widening smile and sipped his sherry, too happy, suddenly, to care.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
At five minutes before one the next day, a splendid black town coach with the Albright coat of arms on the door rolled through the high wrought-iron gates of Knight House. Jacinda watched from an upper window just long enough to note that the driver and footmen were in tan livery with frothy white lace jabots and black tricornes. The four black horses were perfectly matched, their black harnesses shot through with smart crimson stitching. Her eyes shining with excitement, she dashed off to the drawing room to receive her caller.
She doubted he was familiar enough with Society’s customs to realize he had been invited at a most informal hour reserved for visits with one’s most intimate friends; social calls grew more ceremonious as the afternoon advanced. Lord knew she might well need the whole day to bring him up to scratch. Since the afternoon was sunny and pleasant, she had already decided that she and Lord Rackford should walk in Green Park, where they could talk privately. Knowing beforehand that he would be coming, she had sent Miss Hood out on a fool’s errand. Lizzie would accompany them, a much more agreeable chaperon than the eagle-eyed governess.
Downstairs, she heard Mr. Walsh answer the door. She slipped into the drawing room, where Bel and Lizzie were sewing, and hurried to arrange herself in a graceful attitude on one of the sofas, neatly smoothing her skirts around her. Lizzie gave her a mirthful look, in on the secret, but Bel was intent on her work, carefully rethreading her needle. Robert, thankfully, was at White’s—not that his presence would have deterred Billy Blade.
Jacinda’s heart beat faster as she heard Rackford’s sure, heavy footfalls following Mr. Walsh’s dignified march up the curved marble staircase. In another moment, the butler gave a knock on the drawing room door and opened it at the duchess’s summons.
Stepping into the room, Mr. Walsh stood to the side of the door and bowed to Bel, the lady of the house. “Your Grace: the earl of Rackford.”
Jacinda felt her spirit leap as her caller appeared in the white-trimmed doorway of the drawing room.
In spite of herself, a surge of pleasure coursed through her veins.
Perhaps there was hope for him yet, she thought wryly as her approving gaze swept over him. He was dressed with leisurely elegance in a double-breasted spencer jacket of deep Spanish blue, a pristine white waistcoat, a handsome trone d’amour cravat, and drill trousers in a creamy biscuit shade.
He swept off his black top hat and strode in, greeting the ladies in order of precedence. In one hand, he held a silver-handled walking stick, in the other, a giant bouquet, which he presented to Jacinda with a bow.
“How thoughtful,” Bel exclaimed, while Lizzie watched them in delight.
Jacinda blushed brightly, inhaling the delicious mingling of perfumes from the profusion of tiger lilies, irises, tulips, and roses. While the others exchanged pleasantries, she summoned a servant to put the flowers in a vase. Soon, she had procured Bel’s permission to walk in the park with Rackford, Lizzie accompanying them. With an air of complicity, her best friend became absorbed in her book and walked several paces behind them, too honorable to eavesdrop.
“Is it your intention to drive me mad, Lady Jacinda, or does it just come naturally?” Lord Rackford inquired in a naughty murmur, flicking an admiring glance over her carefully chosen promenade gown with its small, tight, decidedly low-cut pink bodice and long white skirts. Since her gown was short-sleeved, she wore long white gloves and a flowing transparent pink scarf draped artfully around her shoulders. Its billowing end reached for him and brushed against him teasingly.
“William,” she warned, boldly using his first name as she glanced at him from behind the brim of her round bonnet, which was trimmed with silk daffodils and tied with a pink ribbon.
He smiled in flirtatious contrition. “Very well. I’ll be good.”
God knew he made her heart beat faster, but she struggled to maintain at least an outward show of cool skepticism. They strolled slowly in step with each other down the wide, quiet, tree-lined path. Rack
ford measured out his paces with his walking stick while Jacinda languidly did the same with her upended parasol.
“Thank you for the flowers.”
“It is the least that I can do after you came to my rescue last night. I did not expect it, to say the least.”
“Well, it’s very simple. As I am a lady, it is my duty to help those less fortunate than myself, and, forgive me, but it is very clear that, without my guidance, you will be eaten alive. Therefore, I have decided to help you, Lord Rackford. That is why I asked you here today.”
“Help me? How?”
“By civilizing you.”
“I see.” A dashing smile spread slowly over his handsome face. “An intriguing proposition.”
“I believe it should prove an amusing project, yes.”
“Well, I am your eager pupil, my lady, clay in your hands. Mold me as you will,” he said in a lazy purr.
She eyed him skeptically, for every word from his lips seemed laden with rakish innuendo—or maybe it was only her own errant imagination. Clearing her throat with a little, businesslike cough, she opted to ignore it. “Before we begin, I must know everything.”
“What do you mean?”
“About your past.”
“You already know it.”
“Not all of it. You say you started out as the younger son of Lord Truro, and I saw for myself that you ended up as the leader of the Fire Hawks. What I want to know is what happened in between—how you got from point A to point B.”
He slid her a wary look askance. “And all of this pertains to your civilizing me, how?”
“It doesn’t,” she admitted with a sheepish grin. “It is merely the payment I demand for my services.”
“Oh-ho, your ‘services’? I wasn’t aware I was going to be serviced, my lady.”
“Oh, come, Billy, you have to tell me! I shall expire of curiosity!”
“All right, all right, if you are so bent on hearing my sorry tale, but first, I have one small, harmless question for you.”
“What is it?” she asked guardedly.
He stopped and turned to her.
“Don’t you think it’s a trifle heartless the way you are using that old man?”
His smooth accusation startled her, but she knew he was referring to Lord Drummond. “I am not using him.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not!”
“Don’t bother telling me you are in love with him. We both know what you’re really after. Your freedom.”
She stared at him uneasily. “You…realize my intention?”
He nodded. “It’s risky, you know. What if he should perceive your true motives?”
She turned away sharply, scowling. “It’s not like that. There’s no sentimental nonsense between us. Lord Drummond is no fool. It is merely a matter of companionship in his old age. Once, he was an admirer of my mother’s; now, he is a lonely old man with no one to take care of him. I make him happy.”
“Does he make you happy?”
“I don’t need a man to make me happy, Lord Rackford.”
“What of love?”
“Love?” She gave a short, wry laugh. “Why, that seems to be the one luxury I cannot afford.”
“My, my,” he said softly with a regretful gaze,
“what has become of my little romantic?”
“Oh, please,” she retorted. “You know the proverb, Billy. ‘Better an old man’s darling than a young man’s slave’.” She quoted the saying with a gleam in her eye.
Rackford snorted. “By all means, marry him, then, if that’s what you want—a dry, dull old man who makes you feel nothing. But I don’t understand why this notion of freedom is so blasted important to you.”
“I’ll tell you why. Because I’m not going to love someone only to have them abandon me,” she bit out. Realizing she had spoken more vehemently than she had intended, she quickly fixed her stare down the shady lane again and walked on.
He raised his eyebrow and followed her. “Abandon you?”
“Yes,” she replied in a prickly tone. She argued with herself to keep quiet, but could not hold back. “I know what Society husbands are like, Lord Rackford. They’re not much different than brothers, in fact. They give their wives a beautiful home, then keep them there as though it were a cage, all under the auspices of protecting them. Meanwhile, the men go striding off into the world—having adventures, doing interesting things, making a difference. For the wives, it’s nothing but card parties and social calls and gossip over tea. No, thank you. I will not waste my whole life pretending to be interested solely in the latest style of bonnet and the scandal of the month. I will chart my own course, go where the devil I please, and answer to no one—and if that means marrying an old man so I can be free all the sooner, so be it!” Her impassioned voice broke off abruptly; she realized she had nearly been shouting. Her chest heaved with the fierceness of her tirade; her cheeks were flushed. “I’m sorry,” she forced out tautly as she turned away, mortified by her outburst, but Rackford gently grasped her arm.
“If you were mine,” he said quietly, firmly, looking into her eyes, “I’d take you with me when I went ‘striding off into the world.’ ”
Her heart twisted painfully. “Don’t, Billy.” With a confused wince, she pulled away from his light hold. “Don’t look at me like that. Don’t speak to me of marriage anymore, I pray you. I’ll only hurt you. I’ve offered you my friendship; take it or leave it. If you can’t accept that—”
“Easy, sweeting,” he soothed in a deep, soft voice, staring into her eyes. “Don’t be afraid of me. I will do…whatever you want.”
She gazed at him intensely, clinging to the steadiness he offered. He nodded in reassurance and took her hand. He started to walk on, but she stayed.
He turned back to her in question, gazed at her for a long moment, then moved closer. Lifting his gloved fingertip to her cheek, he brushed a blowing curl back from her face.
She shuddered and closed her eyes briefly, leaning her cheek against his knuckles. “Billy?”
“Yes, Jacinda?”
When her eyes swept open, they stared at each other. Her wistful gaze sank to his lips.
She was unaware that she had been leaning toward him in breathless longing until a demure “Ahem!” sounded from a few feet away.
Lizzie’s tactful warning snapped them both out of the enchantment. Rackford dropped his hand to his side again. Jacinda glanced over in embarrassment, but Lizzie had buried her nose firmly in her book once more.
Blushing, Jacinda fidgeted with her blowing pink scarf and cleared her throat. “Forgive me; I can’t imagine how we wandered onto the subject of me. You were going to tell me how you came to be involved in the gang.”
He glanced at their chaperon, then smiled wryly at Jacinda. “Why don’t we call Miss Carlisle over to listen, too? That will save you the trouble of having to repeat it all later.”
At his words, Jacinda’s coral lips formed an O of guilty indignation, but to Rackford’s amused satisfaction, she did not attempt to deny the charge. Flashing him a playful scowl, she called her friend over eagerly.
Truly, the two young girls entertained the hell out of him, he thought sardonically, regarding them in protective affection as they took their places on a bench in the shade and waited in kittenish solemnity for him to begin.
He glanced warily from one lovely creature to the other, touched by how sheltered they were. For that reason, he masked the true brutality of his boyhood experiences behind a casual manner, as though he were relating the plot of some amusing fiction he had read. Breezing over that final, savage beating from his father, he spoke of how he had walked from Cornwall to London, staying away from the main roads and traveling by night to evade the men his father had sent to find him.
He told them of that first night on his own—how he had curled up among the roots of an ancient oak, wrapped in his coat, and had lain, bruised and shivering in the chill of the spring night, loo
king up at the crescent moon between the whispering branches. The broad bands of blue and indigo clouds around the moon had made him ache for his beloved sea with the seals and the mermaids and all the old legends, but no matter how it broke his heart, he vowed that night never to set foot in Cornwall again.
Instead, he had set out for London to find his fortune.
The girls listened with intent, softhearted gazes as his tale unfolded.
For several days, he had pushed eastward, traveling off the main roads through the fields and byways, refilling his canteen in country wells. He had discovered the small bag of coins that Mrs. Landry, their cook, had slipped into his knapsack, probably half her life savings. Though he had preserved his rations as best he could, his belly was grumbling the day he arrived on the rural outskirts of London. He had been a sorry sight, the April rain drizzling down on him, his eye still black from his father’s fist. He remembered his morbid fascination upon seeing the corpses of some criminals who had been gibbeted on the brow of a hill and left there as a dire warning to all who would contemplate evildoing. He had watched them swinging in their nooses, then turned his back on them and marched on toward London with determination, wondering what he should become.
He had considered enlisting in the army, but soon found out that he would have to show his birth certificate to the recruitment officer to prove that he was at least fifteen: He was only thirteen. He had applied at a fine stable as a groom, hoping to get work exercising the horses, but the jockeys there were grown men who only came up to his chin: He was too big. He had thought of taking up some respectable trade, only to learn that he would have to go before the magistrate and bind himself to a master craftsman for a term of seven years. For this, he was much too impatient.
Out of food, money, and ideas, he had stepped in out of the rain at a tavern where the kindly innkeeper had told him of the brickyard nearby where a boy could earn his bread and board along with a few shillings by working as an “off-bearer.” Following the old man’s directions, he had found the large, busy brickyard easily enough. His employment there, however, had only lasted one day.