It was because Felicity knew her friend so well that she merely lifted a brow and waited.
Scarlett sighed.
“Very well, I may have mentioned that it would be a good idea for Owen to send one of his men to look in on you and make sure you were not murdered in your sleep. Had I known he was sending Mr. Spencer I would have asked him to drop off my hair comb first.”
“Please see to it that your husband does not send him again.”
“He would not have to send anyone if you just moved in with us. It would not have to be forever,” she said hurriedly when Felicity frowned. “A few months. Half a year at the most. Just until you decide what you’re going to do. Come to think of it, what are you going to do?”
It was a question Felicity had been asking herself every single day since Ezra showed her the door. There was no clear answer. At least none that she could see.
She couldn’t remarry again. Even if a man of means would have her – which was very doubtful – she wasn’t ready. She would make an excellent governess, but then what would she do with Henry and Anne? A governess was supposed to raise someone else’s children. Not bring her own along. The only thing she knew for certain was the money she’d managed to set aside by selling her jewelry was not going to last forever. It would run out and when it did she needed to have a plan in place.
“I do not know,” she said honestly. “But I am confident that I will come up with something.”
“Felicity–”
“No.” She held up her hand. “I will not endanger my children. If it comes down to it, I will gladly accept your offer. But I have to try to make a go of it on my own. For once I – I need to do something for myself. I never have before. I know you, of all people, can understand that.”
The ghost of a smile touched Scarlett’s lips. “We thought it was going to be so easy, didn’t we? Marry a handsome lord, move into a grand mansion, have a few well-behaved children. The dream of any young debutante.”
“We did.” Felicity hesitated. “But if it hadn’t been difficult you never would have ended up with Owen.”
“You raise a very good point.” Not so very long ago Scarlett would have bristled at the mere mention of Owen’s name. Now her entire face glowed with happiness. “And I do understand why you are so damn insistent on doing this on your own. I do not agree, but I do understand.” Her eyes lit with an impish light. “Who knows? Perhaps it will lead to your own knight in shining armor.”
Felicity huffed out a breath. “That is precisely what I do not need.”
But if that was completely true…why did she suddenly think of Felix?
“Another pint for me and my friends. Thank ye kindly, love.” Felix winked at the pretty barmaid as she handed him three metal tankards. Ale splashed over the sides and ran down across his knuckles in frothy ribbons of white while he worked his way back to the table he was sharing with two fellow Runners. Not so long ago the Captain would have occupied the fourth chair, but since he’d tied the knot his visits to The Pony had become far and infrequent.
It baffled Felix that a man would prefer the company of a woman to that of his mates and a cold mug of ale. Then again, he supposed it depended entirely on the woman. There was no denying Owen’s new wife was a fine piece, although he could think of one who was even finer. A delicate brunette with tip-tilted violet eyes, a rosebud mouth that practically begged to be kissed, and the smoothest ivory skin he’d ever had the pleasure of touching.
Had Felicity asked he would have gladly exchanged a night of drinking for a night spent wrapped in her silky embrace. Hell, he would have traded ten pints just for the chance to fall asleep beside her.
If that wasn’t true love he didn’t what was.
“Here ye are gents. As promised.” He slid two of the tankards across the circular table and kept the third for himself.
“Damn well took you long enough.” To look at Lord Grant Hargrave slouched comfortably in his chair with his arm around a buxom blonde, one would never guess he’d grown up in the lap of luxury as the third son of a duke.
A tall, lean man with piercing green eyes, black hair, and sharp, aristocratic features, he’d been bred for the ballroom but had made a home for himself on Bow Street instead. He was second-in-command and would have been the captain if he hadn’t foisted the position off on Owen. While most men would have clambered at the chance to be in charge (particularly if they’d had the great misfortune of being born third in line to a dukedom), Grant had no interest in leading. It was one of the few things he and Felix had in common.
“It’s a bleedin’ madhouse in here.” Felix braced an arm against the back of his chair and glanced over his shoulder. Stuffed to the gills and noisy to the point of deafening, The Pony was easily the busiest he’d ever seen it. Every stool at the bar was taken and every table was full. In one corner five drunks bellowed a bawdy sailor’s tune while a dozen half-dressed bit o’muslins worked the room with sultry eyes and sashaying hips.
“The match at Darby McCall’s just ended,” said Grant.
Ah, that explained it then. Boxing had always boasted a moderate following, but recently it had undergone a resurgence and, aside from horse racing, was currently the most popular and well-attended sport in all of London.
“Who won?” Felix couldn’t recall the last time he had attended a match, but he knew the main players, including the two that had been squaring off tonight at Darby McCall’s, a renowned gentleman’s club just outside the theatre district. All of the fights took place below ground in a large root cellar and were open for anyone to watch – just as long as they met the minimum bet. Even women were encouraged to attend, something which the other clubs frowned upon, but McCall’s ran a tight ship and thus far none of the violence had ever spilled outside of the ring.
“Belcher.” Ronan Hawke – Bow Street’s surliest (and largest) runner – grunted the boxer’s name from his seat in the corner. Built like a bull with a square head set on a thick neck, broad shoulders, and a body that struggled to fit through most doors, Hawke was a bruiser from top to bottom. He was also a man of few – if any – words and kept mostly to himself, although he did seem to enjoy coming out for a pint now and again. Not that you’d ever know it by looking at his ugly mug.
“It speaks,” Felix said with a grin.
“Sod off,” Hawke muttered into his tankard.
“Hawke’s right.” Looking amused, Grant tipped his drink towards the behemoth. “Belcher took it in the third round. Complete knockout. Hayworth never saw it coming.”
“How much did ye lose?” Felix wanted to know.
Grant’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you assume I bet against Belcher?”
“Because ye never pick the winner.”
“I could have this time.”
“But ye didn’t,” Felix said confidently.
Hawke nodded in silent agreement. It was well known that Grant couldn’t win a bet to save his life. No matter how high the odds were stacked in his favor he always lost. Which was why if Felix ever cared to place a wager he always asked Grant who he’d pick and then chose the exact opposite.
Worked like a charm every time.
“No.” Grant shook his head in self-disgust. “I didn’t. Cost me fifty pounds. Only would have lost half that if Hayworth had stayed on his feet but the bastard went down like a pile of bricks.”
Felix coughed into his tankard. “Fifty soddin’ pounds! Jesus. If ye wanted to toss your money away ye could have just given it to me.”
“Wasn’t Lady Irvine’s necklace worth three times that?”
“Aye, but a tight-assed bounder made me give it back.”
The two men exchanged unblinking stares that danced on the edge of animosity. They may have both been Runners, but they would never be friends. While they managed to maintain an air of civility (most of the time), Felix knew that if Grant had his way he’d be tossed into Newgate faster than he could say ‘Bow Street’.
“I don’t like boxing.
” The blonde perched on Grant’s knee gave a delicate shudder that threatened to spill her voluptuous breasts right over the edge of her flimsy bodice. “Too much blood for my taste.”
“That’s what makes it’s interesting, sweetheart.” Grant stroked her arm, an absent gesture that Felix had seem him duplicate a hundred times over. As far as he could tell women were Grant’s one and only vice. An unapologetic rake, his trail of broken hearts stretched all the way to Surrey and back. Every night he had a different woman on his arm. Or in this case, on his lap. “That’s what men pay to see.”
Her lips pursed in an exaggerated pout. “Well I think it’s vile.”
“Do you know what else is vile?” Grant asked with a roguish grin. When she shook her head he pulled her back against his chest and whispered something in her ear that caused her to gasp and slap at the hand sneaking its way up her skirt.
“You are so very naughty,” she cooed.
“I believe that is my cue to leave. Gentlemen,” Grant said, his clipped nod towards Felix noticeably shorter than the one he gave Hawke. The blonde squealed when he stood up and tossed her over his shoulder. Squealed again when he gave her a hard slap on the arse before heading out the door.
“Bloody nob,” Felix muttered, tilting his tankard back.
Hawke just grunted.
It was well past two in the morning by the time Felix stumbled out of The Pony. He hadn’t intended to stay out so late, especially since he was expected at headquarters bright and early in the morning, but Hawke had been surprisingly conversational. In the span of three hours the behemoth had uttered five complete sentences; a new record.
Whistling a merry tune under his breath, Felix walked in more or less of a straight line as he cut through the middle of Fountain Hill, a shabby collection of pubs and shops. With the exception of a few lady loves out looking for one last tup of the night, the cobblestoned streets were empty and the lamps were dimmed, casting everything in a layer of murky shadow and fog.
It was even quieter in the East End. Those with any brains in their head had long ago locked their doors and closed their shutters. Even the whores were in hiding. Felix ventured forth undeterred by the silence, or the ominous warning it carried with it. Other men would have thought twice before going within spitting distance of London’s most nefarious rookery once the sun went down, particularly with any coins jangling in their pockets, but Felix was not like other men.
He’d been raised on these streets. The twisted alleyways had been his parlor. The rows of tenements his bedchamber. The abandoned warehouses with their crumbling walls and broken windows his ballroom. He may not have lived in the East End any longer, but there was comfort in visiting the familiar. Confidence in knowing that even half sotted he could take down any young pup foolish enough to go sniffing after what was his. And what he intended to claim as his.
His pace increased as he neared Felicity’s flat. It was tucked away on a corner, shielded from the worst of the rot and decay. All in all it wasn’t a terrible place, especially considering what surrounded it. Certainly it was a far cry better than where he’d grown up. There were even flowers blooming in the cracks in the cobblestone.
The ground around the yellow daffodils was damp, as if they’d been recently watered. Felicity’s doing, he wagered, for who else would have the presence of mind to nurture what shouldn’t have even been growing?
He slipped through the darkness with the grace of someone born into it. Tested the door to ensure it was locked. Pulled at the window ledge to make certain it was secure. Doors and windows were flimsy barriers that would do little to prevent a thief from entering, but he imagined the act of bolting them shut gave Felicity peace of mind. Just as he was given peace of mind by leaving his mark.
It was a small thing. Nearly inconspicuous. Felicity wouldn’t see it, but then it wasn’t for her. It was for the serpents that lived in the shadows. The rats that thrived in the squalor. One glance and they would know this flat and everyone in it was under his protection. Just as they would know the fate that awaited them if they dared touch that which belonged to Felix Spencer.
Chapter Seven
Felicity woke the next morning none the wiser as to who had been lurking outside her window during the night. A faint smile touched her lips when she glanced down and saw Henry and Anne nestled on either side of her, Anne with her thumb in her mouth and Henry with his head buried beneath the covers so only a pale tuft of hair was visible.
There were not many good things that had come out of her separation from Ezra, but this was one of them. He had never allowed the children into her bed. It had been one of the few things they’d actually argued about. Now she could do as she pleased and it pleased her to have the children close.
Careful not to rouse them – although she suspected nothing short of a trumpet would wake Henry – she slid off the thin mattress and padded barefoot into the other room, leaving the door open a crack. Then she stood indecisively in the middle of the kitchen/parlor/dining room, bottom lip tucked between her teeth as she studied the dormant fireplace.
On their way back from Hyde Park the day before she’d stopped and purchased a few necessities. Eggs, bread, and the like. But having never actually started a fire of her own she hadn’t any idea how she was going to cook breakfast, let alone serve it as there wasn’t a single piece of chinaware to be had. Something she probably should have considered when she was buying the food.
Blast it all. Could nothing be easy?
Once again tears threatened and once again she pushed them back. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t. She’d faced worse than this, hadn’t she? Overcome more than this. Why, compared to the likes of Rodger Sherwood lighting a fire was like a teeny tiny little rut in a vast, bump riddled road. How hard could it be?
But twenty minutes later Felicity’s face and hands were streaked with soot…and the eggs were no closer to being cooked than they had been when she’d started.
In a rare fit of temper she threw the useless tinderbox across the room. The circular metal tin bounced off the wall and broke open, spilling out the tufts of gray goose feathers that had refused to catch fire.
She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, forcing herself to recite a poem before she went about the task of gathering up the useless feathers. It was something an old governess had taught her to do; a tried and true trick to recover lost patience.
“For did those eyes as planets roll,” she murmured under her breath as she knelt onto her hands and knees and peered under a built-in shelf. “Thy sister-lights would scarce appear – there you are. Got you.” Triumphantly grasping the last feather, she sat back on her heels and dusted off her hands. The sudden creak of a floorboard had her stiffening.
“Easy love,” came Felix’s voice was directly behind her. “I don’t want to startle ye.”
It was too late for that. On a muffled shriek Felicity jumped to her feet and whirled around. “How did you get in here? Never mind,” she snapped. “How easily I forget that you are a thief. Breaking into places is your forte!”
His grin was unrepentant. “A reformed thief, love. Reformed being the operative word.”
The feather Felicity had gone to so much trouble to pick up fluttered lazily to the ground as she placed her hands on her hips. “What are you doing here, Mr. Spencer?”
“I’ve brought ye breakfast.” He glanced down at his right hand and for the first time Felicity noticed he was carrying a basket filled with all sorts of delicious looking pastries, from blueberry scones to buttery saffron buns.
“Why would you do such a thing?” she asked even as her mouth watered.
He looked at her oddly, as if the answer should have been obvious. “I’m courting ye, Miss Atwood.”
This nonsense again? She thought she’d dispelled any foolish notions of courtship when he’d had her pinned against the lilac bushes. Perhaps she merely needed to be a bit more blunt. “I am not going to be your mistress, Mr. Spencer.”
&nb
sp; He rubbed under his chin. “I don’t recall askin’ ye to be my mistress.”
“Because you already have one, no doubt.”
“Would it bother ye if I did?”
Yes.
“No.” She lifted her hands off her hips and crossed them in front of her chest. “Absolutely not. You are nothing more than a swindler, Mr. Spencer, and your mistress is welcome to you.”
Although she did rather hope he left the basket.
“Swindler now, is it?” An unruly lock tumbled across his brow when his head canted to the side. “And what exactly is it that I’ve swindled from ye?”
Common sense, she nearly blurted aloud. You’ve taken all of my common sense.
How dashingly handsome he looked this morning with his hair lightly tousled and the top two buttons on his linen shirt undone, revealing a swarthy V of tanned flesh. He should have been wearing a cravat. No respectable man left the house without one. But then hadn’t she learned firsthand that Felix was anything but respectable?
She had thought – she had hoped – they’d seen the last of each other yesterday afternoon. She should have known better. Like a dog with a bone, Felix was not the sort to give up on what interested him. And for reasons that defied explanation she seemed be what currently interested him.
“It is what you will swindle that concerns me, Mr. Spencer. I know your sort.”
“Do ye now?” he drawled.
“Yes,” she said decisively. “I was warned to avoid men like you before my first season ever began.”
One brow lifted. “Men like me?”
“Blackguards. Rakes. Scoundrels. The name varies, but the intent does not. You use women as playthings and discard them the second your interest wanes.”
“That’s true enough,” he agreed, once again catching her off guard with his candor. Felicity was accustomed to men who hid their dark intentions behind a crocodile’s smile, as Rodger had done. Not ones who admitted their faults as if they were things to be proud of.
A Dangerous Proposal (Bow Street Brides Book 2) Page 7