by Jade Lee
Muttering a curse that reddened his sister's ears, he dropped unceremoniously into a chair. "Just tell me what has been happening here in the last week."
Lottie settled gracefully into a nearby chair, carefully serving tea. "What do you think has been happening? We have had dress fittings, dance lessons, deportment lessons, French lessons, shopping, and basic instruction in things I thought everyone knew. Did you know she had not the least clue what an oyster was or what one did with them?"
Marcus took his tea from his sister and immediately set it down. "Yes, yes, I could have guessed that. But how has she been faring? Is she happy? And where is she?"
"My goodness! She is upstairs practicing her curtsies. You can see her at her first ball and not before."
Marcus ground his teeth, but his sister was firm.
"I have precious little time to bring her up to scratch, Marcus, and I do not want you upsetting the balance. There is still a lot for her to learn."
Marcus grumbled into his teacup, understanding the wisdom of not distracting Fantine, but resenting it nonetheless. Finally he turned his sour expression on his sister. "But is she happy? Have you told her why I have stayed away?"
Lottie nodded. "I have explained it, and she seemed to understand. She also appears happy. Lord knows the servants adore her. She always seems to know just what to say to them."
Marcus sighed, somewhat reassured. "What about her manners? Was there a great deal for her to learn?"
"No, not learn. But these things must become habit. She cannot forever be slipping into Cockney when she is frustrated. Though I must say she handled Mr. Thompson quite well."
Marcus straightened his spine as he focused almost painfully on his sister. "Mr. Thompson? Mr. Edwin Thompson whose father is Baron Thompson of Birmingham? She has seen him but not me?"
Lottie set down her own cup of tea with a frown. "He merely came by to speak with Christopher. You know our estates border one another."
Marcus waved away the history. "Yes, yes, but what happened?"
"Nothing happened! He stayed for tea. And Fantine was quite charming." Marcus watched as a slight smile formed on his sister's face. "In fact, he seemed quite taken with her. He is in London hunting for a wife, you know. I begin to think that he and Fantine would do quite well."
"Good God, Lottie," gasped Marcus, "she has only been here a week, and you already have her walking down the aisle!"
His sister's smile broadened. "It is not I who would have her walking down the aisle, but Mr. Thompson."
Marcus shifted irritably, nearly knocking over his teacup with his movements. "It is much too early to be thinking of Mr. Thompson," he snapped. "Let her go to some balls and parties—"
"Well, of course I shall!" she responded with a grin. "I was merely commenting that Mr. Thompson seemed quite taken with her. And she with him, for that matter. He has already returned for tea twice more, and we are having him to dinner tomorrow night. And no, you cannot come," she said before he could ask. "I do not think you are in the appropriate mood for such an event."
Marcus would have said something scathing, but he held his tongue. Lottie was enjoying his ill humor too much for him to indulge it further. But Mr. Thompson! It was not that the man was objectionable. In fact, he was the epitome of stalwart English fare, as moral and upright as they came. "He simply will not do for Fantine," Marcus groused.
He had not realized that he had spoken aloud until his sister cut into his thoughts, her voice soft with reprimand. "I believe that is for Fantine to decide, is it not?"
Marcus pressed his lips together, refusing to be drawn into an argument. He pushed out of his chair instead, pacing to the cold fire grate as he spoke. "What about her dancing and deportment and such? Is she doing well with that?"
Glancing back, he saw Lottie shrug, her manner slightly guarded. "She has thrown herself into it like a woman possessed."
"So she is doing well? She is learning."
Lottie sighed. "She is constantly watching me, learning heaven alone knows what. I swear she mimics me in her sleep."
Marcus nodded as he carefully studied his sister's expression. "But that is all to the best, is it not?"
"Of course," she said slowly. "I am perfectly pleased with her progress." But her voice belied her statement.
"Tell me, Lottie. What is it?"
She took her time answering, and Marcus had to wait as she sipped her tea. Finally, she set down her cup. "Fantine and I have been in each other's company almost constantly, you know. Yet, after all this time, I still know nothing about her." She reached for a tea cake, then set it back down again and fussed with the crumbs on her fingers. "Marcus, she has thrown herself into her lessons like a woman studying a role. She has become a model of behavior. But I do not know if it is part of her." She frowned, her expression awkward. "Do you understand what I am trying to say?"
"I believe so," he said with a sigh. "Fantine's manners are like everything else, like a gown put on and easily taken off again. They are not her."
"Exactly!"
Marcus took a few steps, found himself in front of his seat, and then awkwardly settled back into it. "I know too well the uncomfortable position you are in. You want to know more about her, to share with her, to find out who she truly is—"
"You do understand!"
"Only too well." He picked up his teacup and stared pensively into the dark water. "Unfortunately, Fantine does not reveal herself easily to anyone. Even her own father is not very sure of her."
Lottie leaned forward to add a bit more hot water to his teacup. When she spoke, her tone was casual. "Who is her father? Why has he not brought her out? Fantine has never spoken of her family."
Marcus shook his head. "And neither can I. But to answer your question in part, she is of noble blood, but he cannot bring her out. Circumstances prevent it."
"A bastard then. I feared it was so," Lottie said.
Marcus's breath caught in his chest. His family could be rather prim in their notions. Was Lottie about to cancel their arrangement? She could with perfect propriety, and as the seconds ticked by, Marcus became positively alarmed.
Finally, he shifted in his seat so that he could take hold of her hand in an earnest plea if necessary. "Lottie?"
"Hmmm? Oh! Pray do not look so terrified. I was merely trying to guess her father's identity. She has such distinctive features, but I suppose she got them from her mother."
"Then you will bring her out?"
"Of course I will." Lottie gave him her most mischievous smile. "I tell you, it is a sister's fondest dreams to see her brother tortured. And tortured, my dear brother, is exactly what you appear. Good Lord, I have not seen you fidget so much since you were still in leading strings."
"I have not fidgeted!" Marcus returned, firmly planting his hands by his sides. But then he realized he needed his tea and had to reach forward for it, which necessitated a shift in the position of his legs. Then when he balanced the teacup on his knee, it began to tilt, and he...
His sister's laughter reddened his ears with mortification. In the end, he put the teacup back on the table and tried, quite unsuccessfully, to appear stern. "Well, Lottie, you may be used to this nonsense of bringing out a girl, but I have never done it before. It is somewhat wearing on the nerves."
"Clearly," responded Lottie, her voice still brimming over with mirth. "Well, dear brother," she added in a more serious tone, "one thing you can cease doing is your nightly rendezvous with Fantine. Aside from the impropriety of the situation, she has been destroying the ivy beneath her window. It is most unsightly, even if it is the back of the house."
If he had been fidgeting before, Marcus was suddenly very still. "Midnight rendezvous?"
"Oh, you cannot fool me. I know she climbs out of her window nearly every night. Who else would she visit but you?"
"Who, indeed?" he responded dryly, a number of possibilities running through his mind.
Lottie was quick to pick up on his tone.
"Do you mean you have not been meeting her?"
He shook his head. "I have not seen her in a week."
"Good Lord, I thought it must be you. I even gave her a key and told her she could come and go by the front door. It was not necessary to risk her neck climbing the brick."
Marcus pushed out of his chair, suddenly alarmed. "You encouraged her in this madness?"
"I thought she went to see you! It has been hard enough on her these days, I thought I could count on your good sense not to abuse the poor girl. It never occurred to me—"
"That she was off with someone else?"
"But who?"
Marcus took a quick turn about the room, his thoughts churning with possibilities. "It is not a lover," he said harshly. "Fantine cannot have found one so quickly."
"Do not be too sure, brother dear," responded Lottie. "She is quite lovely. No doubt the men find her."
Marcus clenched his teeth, his thoughts grim. "You are no doubt correct. Still..." He shook his head. "There is no help for it. I shall have to follow her." He spun back to face his sister. "She goes out every night?"
Lottie nodded. "I believe so."
"Very well."
"No," she snapped, "it is not well at all. I had thought to attend our first party tomorrow night. Mother is due back any day and was to help me sponsor Fantine." She looked up, her expression fierce. "I will help her, Marcus, but do not forget she is your responsibility. Whatever she does at night, you must end it now."
"Believe me," he answered, "I have no intention of allowing any such nonsense to continue."
His sister nodded, apparently satisfied. "Now if only you could do something about her eating."
Marcus lifted an eyebrow. "Her eating?"
"I swear, she consumes enough for ten people. Why Cook took three extra trips to the market last week. Three! Yet, the girl is as skinny as a rail. I cannot understand it."
Neither could he. Then he frowned into his teacup. "I do not comprehend now, but I will before the night is over."
* * *
Marcus shifted his stance against the building and cursed as a lock of his hair caught on the rough brick. He despised this aspect of spy work—standing around in dark, uncomfortable places for hours on end. His feet had swollen, the wet had soaked clean through his trousers, and despite the coming spring, it was still damned cold.
But worst of all was the nagging suspicion that Fantine had discovered his presence and intended to forgo her midnight excursion. Or worse yet, had already given him the slip.
He should leave. He should go home to a warm fire and a brandy. But he did not. He remained by her window, wondering if the clouds would clear away from the nearly full moon. Even in the half-light, he could see how the ivy beneath Fantine's window had been torn or broken. Someone had certainly been climbing in and out of her bedroom, and he was determined to discover who.
Then came a thump. Not a loud thump, but a soft thud as a side of mutton dropped to the ground. It was followed by a rope and then a most darling derriere clad in tight breeches. It was Fantine, of course, climbing backward out of her window. She had a huge canvas satchel slung over one shoulder and banging awkwardly against her side.
The sight was quite delightful. The satchel caused her to wiggle in the most interesting ways as she descended, and Marcus nearly forget to move. Then when he did, it was hastily, without the subtlety he intended, as he half tripped, half jumped over the mutton to stand beneath her.
Fortunately, she was too busy cursing the awkward sack to listen for him. So when she finally dropped to the earth, he easily circled her with his arms, pulling her luscious body against his own.
"Sink me!" he drawled. "I say a burglar has robbed my sister's home! Shall I call the watch?"
Her body was tense, already beginning to fight him, but at his words, she relaxed, her back settling against him with erotic familiarity. "Marcus! You startled me."
"Oh, no!" he said as he shifted her, turning her to face him before pressing her back against the wall. "I shall not call the watch," he continued. "I should punish her."
He could see her eyes widen at his husky tone. Indeed, he could not blame her. He was as startled as she. But over the last hour, a strange anger had taken hold of him. He was Lord Chadwick, a future earl, and yet he waited for hours in a damp alley for a street girl who had not the brains to take the opportunities offered to her.
So when she dropped so unceremoniously into his arms, he wanted to punish her—just a little—for the damage to his dignity. Or perhaps he simply liked the feel of her in his arms. And against his chest. And pressed hot against his groin.
"Marc—!" Her word was cut off as he claimed her mouth.
His kiss was hard and hot, and though she began stiff and unyielding, she soon softened. A heartbeat later, she returned his passion. The more he demanded of her, the more she struggled, not against him, but with him, taking what he could give her, and urging him on.
Her pelvis rocked against him, and he groaned. He pushed his arm beneath the satchel and took her breast, pinching her nipple as she wrapped her hands around his back. Her shirt was a rough fabric that he could easily rip apart, but he did not bother. He lifted it up, letting both his hands slide beneath the shirt to grope and explore like the veriest cad.
She was the one who pulled the shirt open, exposing her flesh to the silvery moonlight. Then she arched against him, her own hands slipping down his back until she gripped his hips and ground him against her. He could not help thrusting, again and again, in a movement that was as hungry as it was frustrated. There were too many clothes between them, they were too exposed.
And the damned sack kept bouncing against his elbow, as if trying to push him away.
"I want you, Fantine," he gasped, in a desperate bid to regain his thoughts. "God, I need you." Then he dropped to one knee before her and began kissing her breast, teasing the nipple until her breathing came in loud pants.
The sack rolled with her movements, bumping him in the head. He heard a crack, but it barely registered in his thoughts. Pushing irritably at it, he resumed his place, using his hands to mold and shape her tender flesh.
Then he felt her knees spread, and he let his hands slide lower, over her belly, and down.
Thud. The sack again, landing against his temple. He pulled angrily at it, but she had wrapped it securely about her. If he ripped it off her, he risked choking her with the rope. He had no patience with the knot, indeed he had no patience with anything but her body, still writhing enticingly.
He leaned forward to take her breast again.
Thud. Only this time the thud felt more like a wet splat.
"Fantine," he gasped, pushing the sack away.
Splat. It returned harder against his temple.
"What the devil—"
His words were cut off as the sack again rolled against him. He reared away, wiping some sort of slime from his forehead.
"Marcus?" Her voice was low and husky, a siren call despite the confusion in the word.
"What the devil is in that sack? Can you not put it down?"
"The sack?" She straightened, pulling away from the wall as she inspected the offensive item. "Ugh! You have broken the eggs. Damn, Marcus, they are all over everything!"
"I have broken the eggs!" he cried, unsuccessfully trying to wipe the slime from his hands onto the nearby brick. "I was not the one who packed eggs in a ridiculous sachel! My word, it is all over me! Take the damned thing off!"
She twisted against him, her face flushed, even in the silvery moonlight. "Take it off! But then what am I to do with the eggs? I need those eggs!"
"Well, you cannot have them," he retorted hotly. "They are all over me! My entire coat is ruined!"
"Your coat? What do I care about your coat. The eggs—"
"Hang the eggs!"
"Hang your coat!"
They stared at each other, frustration and anger tightening their expressions, while shadows chased across their bod
ies.
Then suddenly Marcus laughed. It was not a full bellied laugh. It was more a snort as he looked down at the slick goo all over his hands. Fantine let her gaze slide away, but he saw the pull to her lips as she too fought a smile. It was all he needed for his snort to become a guffaw.
"Shhh," she said urgently, though the sound was cut off by her own giggle. "We shall wake the entire neighborhood."
"Let them wake," he said, unable to contain himself.
"Hush!" she admonished. "Your reputation will be ruined."
That sobered his laugh into chuckles. "Since when do you care about my reputation?"
"Since it is your family sponsoring my coming-out!"
He straightened, though he still felt mischief like a potent liquor in his blood. "Is your coming-out so important to you?"
She nodded, a curt slash of her chin as her smile faded.
"Good. Then get back in the house with your ridiculous bag of smashed eggs and do not come out again."
"But—"
"Go!"
He had not expected her to obey. She was nothing if not contrary. But she surprised him. With a smile, she pulled off her satchel, dropping it heavily on his foot. "Very well. Please be sure to give these to Nameless. Thank you for taking on this task for me. And do not forget the mutton." She gestured to the meat still lying in the middle of the alley. Then with a nod, she began to scale the wall.
"What? Fantine!"
She paused, barely two feet off the ground. "Yes?"
He groped for something to say. The lust had dulled somewhat, dispelled by their sudden humor, but still the erotic tension remained. She needed to go before he succumbed to his baser instincts.
"Marcus?"
"Uh," he stammered, wondering what he had intended to say. Finally, his gaze fell on the heavy satchel. "You take Nameless food every night?"
She shrugged, an amazingly graceful movement considering she was still hanging by a rope. "Him and the other boys. But Lottie says my evenings will be busy soon. I thought to take enough to tide him and his boys over." Then she paused. "I also have them listening for news of Teggie or Wilberforce, but they have found nothing."