by Candace Camp
He smiled, his face relaxing, as he flashed a look at her. "Are you trying to make me feel better, my lady?"
She lifted her chin. "I am simply telling the truth."
"Well, the truth is that I was a street urchin," he said.
"Yes, but obviously you became something much more than that," she pointed out. "As I understand it, even before the Duke of Rochford tracked you down, you had done well for yourself."
He looked at her. "I made a good deal of money, that is true."
"Well, that is admirable in itself, is it not?" she persisted.
"That you got out of the situation you were in, that you got away from that man you told me about—"
"Jack Sparks."
"And you stopped being a thief." She paused, then added, with a touch of concern, "Didn't you?"
Gideon laughed. "Yes. You need not worry that the Runners are going to track me down and toss me into gaol. All my business concerns are now legitimate. They were not always so, but I managed to become legal a good many years ago. I had no desire to end my days hanging from a gibbet."
They continued in silence for a moment, then Irene asked, "How did you do it?"
"Get out of the business of thievery, you mean?" he asked, looked surprised. "Do you really want to know?"
"Why, yes, why wouldn't I? It must be a most unusual story, I should think."
"It is not one that my family has been interested in hearing. Their main concern is to keep me from talking about my past, not encourage it."
Irene shrugged. "Well, I am interested in it. It would seem to me that it must have taken wits and courage."
"I think it was more bloody self-interest than anything like wit or courage," he responded. "I started thinking, why am I doing all the work, then giving this fellow all my money? Why do I have to settle for crumbs from him? So I started hiding some of the money I took from people, not giving it all to Sparks. I managed to get a bit of thread and a needle, and sewed a secret pocket inside my pants, and I'd take a bit out of each purse and hide it there. I had to take a caning a few times because he thought I hadn't brought back enough cash, but I considered it worth it to keep something for myself. Later I got big enough that when he tried to beat me, I was able to stop him."
He paused, and for a moment Irene thought that he had decided not to tell her any more. But then he said, "And after a while I went into business on my own."
"As a thief?"
"I was not perhaps always entirely honest, but no, my skills were not best suited to thievery. I grew too large to do well climbing into windows or slipping unnoticed through a crowd. I was bigger than most, and stronger. I knew how to fight. So I hired myself out to protect people."
"Protect people? Who?"
"There are always men whose lives are lived on the edge, who have enemies and no recourse to the authorities. They need someone they can count on to keep others from stealing from them or hurting them, and if you can do that well, they are willing to pay you a good deal of money. That was when I was still a lad, before I learned things. Before I figured out easier and better ways to make money."
"How did you do that?"
"I made it a point to learn from the men I worked for. I saw how they made money, and how others made money from them. I saw how the chain ran, and how those at the top used their brains instead of their muscles. And how those who made the most money made it legally. More importantly, they didn't wind up in gaol or dangling at the end of the hangman's noose."
"So how did you make the move from illegal to legal business?"
He shrugged. "Gradually, I suppose. I had my store of money, and I saved most of whatever I was paid. I wasn't going to be like the other lads I knew, spending every ha'penny they earned on gin and women. I lived lean. The last man I worked for owned taverns and gambling dens, along with some less savory businesses. I spent a good deal of time at them, too, and at one of them I got to know a chap who worked there. In fact, I saved him from having his throat slit by a dissatisfied customer."
"Really?" Irene turned wide eyes on him. "That sounds like more than dissatisfaction."
"Well, he was a rum 'un. One of your 'gentlemen.'"
"He doesn't sound like any sort of gentleman I would claim," Irene retorted.
"He resented losing all his money to Piers."
"Piers? The man you invited to the party?"
"Yes. He was the one who had won the money. Ask him—he'll be happy to show you the scar. An inch long, right here." He pointed to one side of his neck. "The fellow had a sword tip hidden in his cane. He waited outside until Piers left the place, then twisted the cane, and this thing popped out of the end. Piers was quick enough to bring up his hand and knock the thing aside, but he slipped and went down on the wet cobblestones. It would probably have been the end of him, but I happened to walk out right then, and I saw what was happening. So I took the cane away from the customer and sent him on his way."
"You make it sound so easy."
"He had little experience fighting. I did. The sword-cane did not improve his odds much. After that, Piers and I became friends. And eventually we went into business together. With a loan from my employer and the money I'd saved up, I bought a little place and turned it into a gambling den. Piers ran the place. Another friend of mine worked there, as well. And it was a success."
"Was it then that you met my father?" Irene asked.
He nodded, casting a sideways glance at her. "Yes. Lord Wyngate was a frequent customer ... at least at first."
"Until you tossed him out."
"Yes."
"It seems that throwing him out must have been something of a risk," Irene commented. "He and his cronies would have been valuable customers."
"It was more important to establish control of my business. I had no intention of allowing anyone to dictate how I ran it. Nor did I have any interest in letting noblemen, or anyone else, abuse my workers." He shrugged. "In any case, it did me no harm. I might have lost a few customers, but my policy attracted others who appreciated knowing that the house was free of the rowdiness and low behavior with which many of the gambling dens were riddled. And those customers, it turned out, were generally more plump in the pocket than Wyngate and Haughston and their group."
"Then you knew Lady Francesca's husband, as well?"
He nodded. "Enough to know that she is better off being a widow."
"I imagine you're right," Irene agreed.
They continued to walk. Irene was very aware of the quiet around them and of Gideon's presence beside her.
"Odd, isn't it?" Gideon mused. "She did not manage for herself what she is apparently well-known for doing for others."
"'Tis easier, I suppose, to see clearly when one is not personally involved," Irene surmised.
"Or perhaps she learned from her own mistake." Gideon glanced at her. "It seems that ladies often do not take their opportunity to ensure financial success for themselves when they marry."
"It is looks and honeyed words that all too often sway them. It was so with my mother. Perhaps it was so with Francesca, as well. Lord Haughston was a handsome man. Desire can blind one to one's own best interests."
She cast a sideways glance up at Gideon, thinking of the way her own desire kept leading her astray with him, beckoning her into making the mistake she had always sworn not to. He caught her look, and a smile touched his lips.
Then he stopped and turned to face her, taking her hands in his. "Desire," he told her softly, "does not have to be a mistake. One can make the wisest decision and still take the path that passion leads one to."
"I am not sure that one's vision can be clear in that regard," Irene retorted. "Emotions and uh ..." She cleared her throat, turning her gaze away from his eyes, for she found it difficult to speak looking up into their dark depths. "Sensations can make it difficult to think. To see one's way."
Gideon raised her hand and gently pressed his lips against the back of it. "Irene ... I think in this instance that
your 'sensations' give you a very clear picture of what this marriage could be. You have only to let yourself believe it."
He turned her hand over and laid another breath of a kiss in her palm. She felt the trembling in her hand—and the way it spread insidiously throughout her body. She looked at his head, bent to press his mouth to her skin. She saw the thick darkness of his lashes against his cheeks, the sensual curve of his mouth. His hair brushed against her wrist.
Had she always thought him this handsome? she wondered. When she met him, had other men paled beside him, as the thought of them did now? She could not remember any other man whose gaze had enthralled her as his did, or whose smile she had awaited with such anticipation. When and how had her heart taken to tripping like a hammer whenever she saw him?
She thought of the way she had held herself aloof from him the past few days, hoping to avoid a repetition of the kisses they had shared the other afternoon. And yet, after those days, those hours and hours of avoidance, all it took was a look from him, a smile, a kiss upon her hand, and she felt once more as if her knees were turning to jelly, that simmering burn beginning to bubble again deep in her abdomen.
It was frightening to feel so little in control of herself, scary to know that someone could affect her so effortlessly, so quickly, slipping past her defenses with the ease of smoke. And yet ... and yet ...
Where, she wondered, was the harm in taking a husband who could make one feel this way? Was what she felt the foolishness of women like Francesca or her mother, who had married those they had come to regret wanting? Or was this merely one of the benefits of a wise marriage—an extra dollop of sweetness on a practical course of action?
Gideon raised his head and looked into her eyes. She wondered if he could see the thoughts that danced in her brain, confusing her. She rather thought he must guess how he disturbed her. She could see the trace of male satisfaction in his eyes even through the heat that flamed in them.
He drew closer, his body only inches from her now. He still held her hand, and now he brought it up to his face, cradling it against his cheek. She felt the flash of heat, the smoothness of his skin, the prickles of the dark stubble that was beginning to roughen his flesh. She thought about feeling his cheek against hers, of his mouth pressing against her lips.
She remembered the way his hands had stroked her body that afternoon after their first dance lesson. Her breasts tightened at the thought, her nipples budding with yearning.
"You think that you have fooled me the last few days?" he murmured, and there was a raw ache to his voice that stirred her. "That I cannot see past the plain clothes? That I do not remember how full and soft your hair is, or how it curls around your face? I have seen how you dressed, how you have stifled your curls into a governess's knot." He bent close to her, his breath brushing against her hair as he talked, and Irene could not suppress the shiver that snaked through her.
"But I know you, Irene," he went on, his voice low and gravelly. "I have kissed you, and I have held you in my arms. I know the passion that lies within you."
He hooked his forefinger beneath her chin and tilted her face, so that she looked up into his eyes. She drew a shaky breath, unable to speak or move. He was going to kiss her, she thought. He would bend down and take her in his arms, and his mouth would lay claim to hers once more. She trembled, scared and excited and utterly uncertain.
For a long moment Gideon simply looked at her. When at last he moved, it was not to seize her in a fierce kiss, but to lean down and merely brush her lips with his.
"Do not deny us what we could have," he whispered, pressing his mouth gently to hers again. She found herself leaning into him, prolonging the contact.
He raised his head. "Think well before you decide, my lady."
He brushed his thumb over her bottom lip, then turned and strode rapidly away, leaving Irene looking after him, every nerve in her body alive and tingling.
Chapter Twelve
Irene was not certain how long she stood that way, dazed and shaken by the feelings swirling within her. She turned and moved back down the path toward the house, her steps slow, her face pensive. Her brain buzzed with thoughts, the encounter with Teresa and Timothy tumbling about with musings upon marriage and her feelings for Gideon, until she felt as if her head might explode from all that caromed around inside it.
She wished that there was someone to whom she could talk, but she was afraid to enlist either her mother or Francesca to aid her. She was certain that Lady Claire would urge her to marry Lord Radbourne, and she suspected that Francesca would probably do the same, though her words of advice would doubtless be couched in subtler language.
Irene was not accustomed to being confused and uncertain, and she did not care for the feeling. But she could not seem to bring herself back to her usual decisive state. She washed and dressed for dinner, half listening to the maid's friendly chatter. It was not until she was dressed that she realized she had chosen one of her new, more flattering dresses and had directed her maid to arrange her tresses in a softer style.
She looked at herself in the mirror for a moment and wondered if she should change back into something plainer. But to do so, she thought, seemed even more foolish, and finally she left the room and made her way down to the anteroom where they gathered for supper.
She was surprised to find that Francesca was there before her. Usually Francesca liked to be the last to sweep into a room, but this evening she was here as early as Lady Odelia and her sister, and she seemed wrapped in a brown study, sitting by the window several feet from where Odelia and Pansy were talking together on the red velvet couch.
Irene crossed the room and sat down on a chair near Francesca, who looked up at her and smiled.
Ah, there you are. I was just contemplating where to seat Lady Salisbridge, who, I just learned, is feuding with Mrs. Ferrington, who had the audacity to wear a dress just like one Lady Salisbridge owns."
"Oh, dear," Irene replied. "It does sound a serious matter."
"Yes. And made more so by the fact that the dress was rather more becoming on Mrs. Ferrington than it is on her ladyship. I just learned this by letter, and I now sincerely regret inviting both the Ferrington girl and Lady Salisbridge's daughters."
Irene shook her head, smiling. "I am sure it will resolve itself one way or another."
"No doubt. However, I would prefer that it not do so in a public hair-pulling." Francesca smiled, her cheek dimpling.
"I am surprised to see you down so early," Irene commented.
"Well, that is entirely your fault. You see, I had to escape from the drawing room this afternoon, so I had nothing to do except go up to my room and dress for dinner."
"And how did I cause that?" Irene asked.
"Ah, well, the reason I had to escape is that Lady Radbourne the younger was telling me, in great detail, about how she rescued Timothy from your clutches this afternoon. It seems that you and Lord Radbourne are corrupting her son."
Irene grimaced. "She was excessively insulting to Gi—to Lord Radbourne. I suspect the only reason he tolerates her is because of her son. He is fond of Timothy—who is such a winning boy that I can scarcely believe he is related to Lady Teresa."
Francesca chuckled. "I have not seen the lad. But it certainly could not be bad if he were corrupted from Teresa's ways."
"I would think she would be glad that the man spends time with Timothy. With his father gone, I'm sure it is good for him to have a man whom he can admire. But Lady Teresa told Radbourne that she did not want her son taking on his—manners and speech."
"Lady Teresa is a fool," Francesca replied dispassionately. "And I dare swear that her son is the least of her concerns. I have never met a less maternal woman. Lady Odelia is certain that the only reason she had the boy was because she thought she would be the mother of the Earl of Radbourne when Lord Cecil died." She smiled a little wickedly. "I would have liked to see her face when Rochford announced that he had located the rightful heir."
<
br /> "Francesca ..." Irene began, reminded by Francesca's comment of her conversation with Gideon on her first evening at Radbourne Park.
The other woman turned to look at her, her interest raised by the suddenly serious tone in Irene's voice. "What?"
"I have been wondering. Doesn't it seem a trifle odd that the family was unable to locate the earl all those years that he was missing, but then the duke was able to find him within a matter of months?"
Francesca looked at her for a long moment. "What are you suggesting?"
"I'm not sure. But the first evening we were here, Radbourne pointed out how easily Rochford tracked him down and wondered how it could have been so hard for his father. It ... well, I cannot help but wonder."
"You would understand if you knew Rochford," Francesca assured her. "That is simply the way he is. I have never known a more irritating man. He is always right." Her eyes glinted and her mouth narrowed as she contemplated the duke's annoying ways. "He will be the one person who thinks to take an umbrella on an outing. Worse, you will point out that the day is sunny and the umbrella quite unnecessary, and then, naturally, it will rain. Or you will have looked for a book or an earring or something everywhere for days, and he will sit down and reach in between the sofa cushions and say, 'Oh, look, here's a book someone mislaid.' He is exasperatingly competent."
"Oh."
"Also," Francesca went on, obviously warming to her subject, "he is so utterly single-minded and completely stubborn that he will continue to pursue a subject long after any more reasonable person would have given it up."
Irene blinked. "I see. Forgive me, I thought you and the duke were friends."
"Friends?" Francesca repeated, her voice laced with irony. "I doubt that 'friends' would be an adequate description of ... whatever it is we are." She paused, thinking, then said, "I suppose you could call us acquaintances—of a rather long duration."
There was more to this story, Irene thought, but at the moment she was too intent on the subject on her mind to pursue this secondary trail. "Still, doesn't it seem a bit strange that Gideon was not discovered before now? Even if the duke is a persistent man, one would think that Radbourne's father would have pursued his disappearance as diligently as a—what, second cousin?"