The Lady and the Gent (London League, Book 1)

by Rebecca Connolly

  He disappeared, and Margaret divested herself of the horrid clothing she currently wore. She tossed both the remains of the dress and the sorry excuse for a shift on top of the screen and called, “Gent?”

  “Yes?” he replied at once, sounding a bit odd.

  She grinned. “Burn those wretched things, will you? They will be far kinder as ashes than clothes.”

  He barked a laugh and tugged the garments off the screen. “As you wish.”

  She slid the new chemise and petticoats on, which were lesser quality than she was used to, but fit her well enough. The stockings were worn, but clean, and she was hardly going to complain about it. She managed the dress on her own, the buttons easy enough to reach and though it was a trifle large in the waist, but as it fit her perfectly elsewhere, she was rather content with it. Her waist and ribs needed a reprieve as it was.

  She was rather desperate for a mirror, but ran her fingers through her now loose tresses, praying the curl from this morning’s styling would remain in place, and then, holding her breath, stepped out from behind the screen.

  Gent and Pritchard turned to see her, both looking surprised. Pritchard smiled, and Gent simply stared, rather frankly, and seemed without thought.

  Margaret smiled softly and, keeping her eyes on Gent, murmured, “Pritchard, would you introduce us properly, please?”

  Pritchard chuckled and came to her side, patting her hand. “Miss Margaret, might I present my good friend, the Gent? Gent, this is Miss Margaret, who wishes to make your better acquaintance.”

  “And I hers,” Gent finally managed, stepping forward. He took her free hand, bowed over it more perfectly than any gentlemen she’d ever met, and then brought it to his lips, his dark eyes searing hers with their intensity “A pleasure, Miss Margaret, and a long awaited one.”

  He kissed her hand, and Margaret was rather pleased she didn’t swoon.

  “The pleasure’s all mine,” she replied, too breathless.

  He grinned at her in a slow, wicked way. “No, Miss Margaret, truly I believe it is all mine.”

  Chapter Nine

  "Boots, my dear!” Pritchard said, clapping loudly and breaking the moment.

  Margaret jerked, her hand still in Gent’s heated grasp. “Wh-what?”

  Pritchard moved just inside the room beyond and reappeared with some very fine-looking ankle boots certainly sturdy enough to support her and not give her much grief with her present injuries. She took them from him wordlessly, stroking the fine leather and admiring the soft, buttery color. Even with all of her admittedly considerable pairs of footwear, she did not think she’d owned a pair of boots this fine.

  “Pritchard,” she breathed, her eyes fixed on the boots, “I couldn’t possibly…”

  Pritchard chuckled. “I’d like to hear you say that as if you mean it, and then perhaps I would consider believing you.” He pressed them more firmly into her hands. “Take them, love. My Annie wore them once, and did not care for the fit. A pity, that, as they were made by the finest cobbler in Venice as a gift.” He shrugged and grinned at her, the lines near his eyes more pronounced. “Someone ought to wear them, don’t you agree?”

  “I do,” Margaret said swiftly, moving to a chair faster than she thought she could on her unsteady ankles and sliding her feet into the boots. She bit back a squeal and looked up at Pritchard. “They fit perfectly!”

  “Of course they do,” he laughed. “Now lace them before you injure yourself further.”

  Margaret bent to do so, only to find Gent already there, lifting one ankle gently. “Allow me,” he murmured with a crooked grin that made her stomach turn over several times.

  She managed, somehow, to swallow. “If you like.”

  “Oh, I do like,” he replied in the same low tone. “I very much do.”

  Instinct told Margaret he was not speaking of tying her laces for her, and she suddenly forgot how to breathe.

  She clamped down on her lips hard as he finished, then nearly hiccupped when his warm hands encircled her now booted ankles.

  “How do they feel now?” he asked softly.

  “Perfect,” she breathed, her words catching in her throat.

  He grinned and sat back. “Let’s see you walk then, pet.”

  She shook her head a little, wondering where her mind had gone. He was perfectly composed, while she was near to swooning. She ought to be more collected than this. She focused her energy on rising without faltering and found that, although she was rather sore, she could indeed walk. An occasional twinge of pain, but nothing like the weakness and agony from before.

  She flashed a smile at Gent and Pritchard, watching her with pride. “I can walk so well I daresay I could dance.”

  Gent barked a laugh and shook his head. “Don’t overtax yourself yet. We still must decide what to do with you.”

  Ah, yes. The small matter of her being in parts of London that no gently bred woman ought to be in after running away from her chaperone with no proper stitch of clothing to her name.

  She swallowed harshly. “Well?” she prodded, folding her hands neatly before her.

  Gent’s eyes twinkled, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Well…?” he echoed in much the same tone.

  “Oh, Gent, don’t tease the gel so,” Pritchard scolded with a laugh.

  Gent didn’t even spare a glance for the old man. “Do you want me to take you home, Margaret?”

  Her stomach clenched at the thought. To face Miss Ritson would be a horrible punishment, beyond anything she could comprehend, and she knew for a fact that she would have no freedom of any kind until her parents returned, which would mean she would never see Gent again.

  She was not willing to take that chance.

  “No,” she said fiercely, her hands forming tight fists at her sides. “No, I don’t want to go back there at all.”

  Gent’s smile warmed her so completely her apprehensions about the future positively melted away. “Fine by me. I can entertain you well enough for a day or two. Perhaps longer.”

  The words were innocent enough, but suddenly she sensed a deeper meaning. She might have run away and been rash and impulsive, but she did have a reputation to consider.

  “How?” she asked with suspicion.

  His smile spread and crinkled his dark eyes. “Come with me and find out.”

  She wet her lips and her fingers rubbed against each other anxiously. “And how can I trust you, sir? I ran away from being compromised once, I would rather not do so again.”

  He sobered at once, his face tightening and his eyes deadly serious. “Margaret, I am called the Gent not only as a joke, but in sincerity. I may not have a proper chaperone for you, but you will not suffer any mistreatment at my hands, nor will I treat you with so little respect. You have my word of honor.”

  Well, that was enough to make the heart flutter, but how much honor did a man such as him have? He was no gentleman in truth, though he spoke well enough for one, and there was kindness in his eyes, and he had already been very protective and respectful.

  She might not know him, but she had a sense about him.

  And who would see her to find ruin within her anyway?

  Only him.

  And he saw no ruin.

  She felt her lips part on a wide smile. “Then lead me away, Master Gent, and show me the sights.”

  Pritchard hooted a laugh and clapped Gent on the back. “Then you would be with the wrong sort, Margaret. Gent here knows London, sure enough, but not the sort of sights you would wish to see.”

  She softened her smile and tilted her head at Gent. “I have seen my sights. Now I wish to see his.”

  She might have imagined it, but she thought the steady breathing he had been doing so naturally might have faltered in his broad chest as he stared at her in surprise. Then it all melted away into a smile, warm and soft, his eyes twinkled at her, and suddenly she felt as though she would have followed him to France if he’d been so inclined. Which was just a further sign
of how very far she had fallen. Pathetic creature, what in the world would become of her?

  “Is there anyone you need to reassure of your safety?” Gent asked as she picked up a thick, cream-colored shawl that Pritchard had brought for her.

  Margaret paused as she adjusted the shawl around her. There was a thought. She would never want to advertise her unchaperoned and ruined-by-association state, but neither could she let Helen or her aunt worry when word reached them of her escape. She had already missed her appointed tea time with Helen and Rosalind, without any sort of note or excuse. They would know something was wrong.

  But how would they respond? Her uncle Dalton was a well-respected man, and he had always liked Margaret a great deal. She couldn’t bear to wound him, but she could not bear the thought of him sending Bow Street or some other men to find her. They might injure Gent, and she would be returned to Miss Ritson.

  She was not in danger, but no one would know that.

  And if she were honest, she probably was in danger.

  Not from Gent. But perhaps because of him.

  And it was London.

  She found herself nodding before she was aware of it. “Yes,” she murmured. “I need to send word to my cousin.” She looked up at Gent with a bit of an apology, perhaps not quite the free and refreshing woman he had once thought her.

  He smiled fondly. “Of course, pet.”

  “She won’t say anything,” Margaret reassured him as Gent led her to a small writing desk.

  “I wasn’t worried.”

  “Why not?”

  His look was a trifle difficult to decipher, some mixture of amusement and pride and chagrin. “Because I have long since learned that I have nothing to worry or fear where the general populace is concerned. And beyond that, Miss Margaret, I trust you implicitly. If you have faith and trust in your cousin, then so do I.” He shrugged and gestured towards the desk.

  She went to it, frowning in thought. Well that was the most absurd thing she had ever heard. How could he possibly trust her at all when they had known each other all of two hours, at most?

  His words from only moments ago echoed in her mind. Don’t tell me that all of those moments didn’t give us a certain knowledge of each other.

  He was right. She trusted him, though she had no reason to and probably ought not. Why should he feel any less for her?

  Because she was simple, plain, rather unassuming Margaret Easton, who couldn’t drum up an admirer even for her fortune, and did not fit anywhere.

  Except, it seemed, for here.

  She felt her cheeks blushing as she jotted down the vaguest sort of reassurance to Helen, her eyes barely reading the words. She would go mad with the complete lack of information the note contained, but it would suffice, and Helen hated Miss Ritson as much as Margaret did, so there would be no chance of betrayal.

  She folded the note and rose from the desk, pinching the letter between her fingers. “There, I am ready now.”

  Gent and Pritchard had been talking in low voices, and both turned to look at her in midsentence.

  She fought a smile, despite her nerves. “That is, if you are.”

  Gent smiled easily. “I am.”

  She looked down at the note in her hand, frowning slightly. “I am not sure how we will… That is…” She looked up at Gent for the words.

  “We’ll take it to some friends of mine,” he assured her, still smiling. “They will see it safely delivered.”

  Margaret released a small sigh of relief. “Thank you.” She smiled as he gestured for her to lead the way towards the door. She turned back as they reached it. “Thank you, Mr. Pritchard,” she murmured, kissing his cheek fondly. “I will never forget your kindness.”

  The grizzled man seemed to blush and kissed her hand quickly. “Think nothing of it, Miss Margaret.” He winked at her. “You let me know if Gent here misbehaves at all, you hear?”

  She giggled as Gent groaned, and nodded. “To be sure, I shall.” She cast a suspicious glance at Gent, then back to Pritchard. “Is that likely?”

  Pritchard shrugged. “Never known it to happen, but I don’t know how he behaves without adult supervision.”

  Margaret choked a laugh and could barely manage a farewell as Gent took her elbow and turned her out of the house, muttering under his breath.

  He closed the door behind them, then gave her a long, searching look.

  “What?” she finally asked, squirming under his intensity.

  “If you come with me now,” he murmured softly, “and we are seen by anyone of your acquaintance, you will likely be ruined. I can’t do anything about that. There is still time for you to avoid such things, if you wish.”

  She tilted her head at him, giving his words some thought, but not precisely feeling warned off. “I have no wish to be ruined,” she said simply, “and I don’t exactly feel as though that is a danger.”

  “Margaret…”

  She swallowed back the flash of delight at hearing her name from his lips. “Are you planning on parading me on Bond Street or in Mayfair?”

  He looked faintly startled. “No.”

  She shrugged a shoulder. “Then I do not see the problem. No one looks twice at me, so even if I am seen, it shall not be marked.”

  His brow furrowed and his jaw tightened. “I did.”

  Margaret folded her arms, confused. “Did what?”

  “Looked twice.” He looked away quickly. “I looked a great deal more than twice.”

  She did not even try to hide her smile, even as her heart raced. “And that is why I am coming with you.”

  “It’s probably why you shouldn’t.”

  She huffed and put her hands on her hips, amused and exasperated by whatever he was trying to do. “Well, are you the Gent, or aren’t you?”

  He laughed and looked back at her, matching her pose. “Aye, I am,” he told her, taking on a more common accent. “For my sins, Miss Margaret, I have the honor of two toffs, and if you’re sure of yourself, I’ll take you along.”

  Margaret beamed. “I am always sure of myself, Master Gent. Let’s be off. Unless you wish to try and talk me out of it again?”

  He chuckled. “No, I am done.”

  “Good. I was beginning to think you wanted to be rid of me.”

  His gaze became warmer and his smile softer. “No, pet. Not in the least.”

  Goodness, the day was suddenly warm. She exhaled a rush of air without shame. “Right, then. Lead on.”

  Gent looked amused by something or other, but he gestured towards their path, and fell into step beside her, letting his arm brush hers, despite keeping his hands clasped politely behind his back. He prodded her into conversation and no matter what she said, he listened, smiled, and responded as though she had said something important or interesting. She had no idea how her various escapades as a child could entertain, but she never saw any indication that he tired of her.

  He most certainly was a gentleman, despite whatever common breeding he had, and it was the sweetest thing. She tired of her own voice and attempted as best as she could to turn the tables on him, but he was far too evasive and always managed to turn the conversation back to her.

  She might not follow all of the usual behaviors of proper misses, but she did adhere to the rule that one should not monopolize conversation, and certainly not about one’s self.

  But talking with him was far too easy and comfortable, so talk she did.

  Eventually, they came to a very small alley that she would have missed but for turning down it, and then it opened up into a narrow cobblestone street with the sort of dank corners that reminded her of the first alley of her day, except this one had less filth and clutter. It was empty for the moment, but the sounds of rattling carriages just beyond echoed off of the walls of the buildings, giving the impression that things were happening, despite the vacancy.

  Gent took her hand in his almost absently and strode forward to one of the doors, rather plain and simple, and the building h
ad no sign or indication that anyone lived or did business there.

  “What is this?” she asked quietly, shifting her fingers slightly in his hold.

  He looked down at her with a smile. “This, pet, is where I work.”

  She knew she did not hide her surprise well at all. “You have employment?”

  He laughed once and squeezed her hand. “Sort of.” He did not knock, just opened the door and pulled her along behind him.

  A wiry young man sat at a desk, barely looking up when they entered. “Gent, you missed your passel.”

  “I thought I might have.” He sighed and rubbed his free hand over his face. “I’ll deal with them later.”

  The young man shrugged. “Makes no difference to me, so long as they don’t come inside. Have you seen them lately?”

  “Don’t be a ninny, Hawkins. Children play, children get dirty.”

  That drew a shudder and he looked back up at Gent, shaking his head. “Not like that.” His eyes landed on Margaret and his mouth fell open, quite literally, eyes wide.

  Margaret was not used to reactions quite like that, so she blushed far too much and murmured, “Good day.”

  He looked at Gent, then back at her, his mouth working absently now.

  Well, this was awkward. “Mr. Hawkins, was it?”

  He shook himself and rose. “No, ma’am, it’s…”

  “Don’t tell me!” Gent squawked, covering his ears.

  The young man rolled his eyes and leaned against his desk. “Gent and the others don’t want to know my real name,” he explained patiently to Margaret. “They call me whatever strikes their fancy.”

  Margaret looked at Gent in disapproval. “Why would you do that?” she scolded.

  He grinned without apology. “Because he answers to whatever we call him, so why bother with politeness?”

  She shouldn’t have laughed, she really shouldn’t, but there was no help for it. She giggled and covered her mouth, looking back over at the other man, who was smiling himself.