Loving Lady Lazuli (London Jewel Thieves Book 1)

by Shehanne Moore

  “I know what a bloody poultice is. Just not that I’m obviously one too.”

  “I’m glad we agree on something, Lord Hawley. I got the ingredients from the kitchen. Carrot, calendula, and mustard. Some brandy too. I think if we apply it twice a day it will help. And you sit with it on for … some time anyway, too.”

  Some time anyway too? Chained to the bloody bed? She was clever wasn’t she? Because if he was here, he couldn’t be anywhere near her. Although the way his body itched, maybe that was as well.

  ***

  For the third time in as many days, Cass stood stock still, a bowl in each hand, obliged to remind Devorlane Hawley of the rules of this particular game.

  “Sorry.” He shifted his lean frame in order to adjust the robe. At least he’d learned that much, even if he didn’t adjust the robe. “I forgot.”

  “Thank you.”

  She set the bowls down, aware as she pushed them where she always put them that the stare he’d fixed on the opposite wall was intent enough to burn holes in the lathe and plaster. Why? Because she might have placed the contents of one of these bowls somewhere other than the bedside cabinet and he expected to suffer agony? Or, he was so addicted to sex, he longed for her? A man who could have any woman he wanted, and probably had?

  So long as he didn’t need help with that addiction next. Especially when all this skivvying she was doing kept her so far from her goal, that square of land didn’t properly exist any more. Not that the papers had exactly proved anything so far.

  What were today’s revelations in that ledger she’d waded so painfully through she’d thought she was standing on nails? What Mrs. Pennycooke’s burned Twelfth Night cake had cost the estate. What Mrs. Hailes had done about it when she discovered the “theft” of the ingredients from her kitchen—Mrs. Pennycooke wasn’t the cook apparently. What that had then cost the estate for a new apron and mob cap when Mrs. Hailes tore Mrs. Pennycooke’s to shreds. It was enough to make Cass tear her hair.

  “You’re welcome, Miss Armstrong, even if I don’t know exactly what you’re thanking me for.”

  Like hell he didn’t. As much as her heart, beating like a set of melodeon hammers upon which havoc was being played, didn’t know either. Even the way he perused her without moving his face, nearly caused a collision of hammers in her inner core. A multiplying of them too.

  “Lord Hawley …”

  “Oh, you’re meaning my robe. Very well. There.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So now you’re going to remove the poultice?”

  She peeled back the edge. “Yes.”

  “You know, I was beginning to think you’d forgotten all about me.”

  She placed the poultice in the empty bowl. “Now that would be difficult, the trouble you give.”

  It was true. Last night he’d been—again, not so bad as that first night. In fact, nothing had been as bad as that first night. It was just very difficult to stay shuttered to him and do this. Difficult when he was swept by chills and his body juddered, not to place her hand on his forehead. She had so many urges to reach out and touch him in these moments.

  Of course, it reminded her of Matthew. But it wasn’t just that. He seemed so alone for all he was a magnificent profligate. Tame in ways he wasn’t when the fever receded. Not that she wanted him tame. In fact she preferred him untamed, sneering, carping, nasty, horrible, demanding.

  “More complaints?”

  Ungrateful. So those glimpses didn’t open windows in her heart. She set her jaw, dabbed the wet cloth against his skin. She’d play this game to the end if it meant getting through these papers. The duration of the search. The wound looked much better. Not such angry red. She squeezed the cloth. Dabbed a little higher. What if the search ended in a blank? What did she do about this?

  He raised his head, one tendril of sable hair falling over his forehead. Close, close enough to her, for his breath to be a distraction when this situation was distracting enough. The business with Mrs. Pennycooke that was. Oh, and Lady Tweadle—Maud—some geriatric aunt of ninety who’d run up that same amount of gambling debts, Lord Armstrong had felt obliged to pay for, as well as her funeral, after she’d popped, what Ruby called her soddin’ clogs, after viewing her ninety first gambling bill. Ninety one bills was a lot to wade through--no wonder Cass had nearly popped hers. Of course people had their own peculiarities. Had it really been necessary for Lord Armstrong to keep every single bill though? The four pages of instructions to the vicar about the funeral too? As if he knew Cass would come looking?

  Now here was Devorlane Hawley breathing all over her cheek, calculation behind the dark measurement of her. In the hope of what? She’d kiss him? Over her dangling dead body.

  “Touch me and I won’t help you,” she said, without looking up.

  “Me?”

  “You heard.”

  “Well, I’m not going to touch you.”

  “Really? Then you better sit back. Thank you.” Hot water. Vinegar. That was what she must reach for. She did reach for. Calmly, methodically. After all, whatever else she was, she wasn’t a plaything. Break her own rules by giving an inch to the man who would take ten miles? Oh, that would be shiny bright.

  As for what rose, at his heated proximity?

  “No. I’m going to kiss you.”

  “In your dreams, Lord Hawley, because I mean what I say. I will leave here. I will walk from this place. After what I saw in that box today believe me, there is nothing to keep me. Now … ”

  “Kiss you. Like you did to me that Christmas Eve.”

  “Ah, a moment’s sweet pleasure for a lifetime of torment. Translates to a fat soddin’ chance in other words.”

  “You know, you have no idea how true that is, Miss Armstrong.”

  “Well then, take your—”

  ‘Lips off me’ wasn’t the thing to say when they weren’t technically on her. His hands either. But his breath was. Breath didn’t have quite the same ring, although she wished hers wouldn’t hitch just because it mingled effortlessly with his.

  “How, if I’d said that to you that night, I might not be here, you might not be here,” he said.

  “Well, I hardly thought you were saying it because you wanted me to think I was worth it in some way.”

  “No. Just that the thing is, we are here and when a life of torment’s what’s been, the fat chance is nothing. Sodding, or otherwise.”

  He leaned forward. My God, please don’t let him kiss her. Don’t let her lips meet his because the day hadn’t been the best and despair was her master. Please don’t let her lips part at least, his fingers clasp the back of her head, to bring her closer still. Please let her throw the bowl of water over him, not feel her heart pound, her throat clench, herself unfurl. Not hear his breath turn to groans of suppressed desire, feel his fingers cup her face, let him kiss her fully.

  Please let her care about not choosing to sleep with him, not choosing to help him either, about every thing she’d said, not about him tasting like a forbidden dish. Let her not think as he tore off his robe, they’d never both been naked together. Not properly. There had always been something, a shirt, a stocking, something. Please let her not do any of these things that only a stranger to herself would.

  “Let me,” she gasped, reaching for the buttons on her dress.

  Let her remember he was a roué—he must be to desire her in that—that something in her shouldn’t thrill to the fact he did desire her and she desired him. The dress landed on the floor, followed by her stockings, her chemise, her petticoat.

  “Touch me. Do it.” Let her not gasp.

  His mouth found hers. Never mind his mouth, his body found hers, skin on skin, fire on fire. The hot spark his lips ignited became a flame. She wrapped her arms around his neck. She wouldn’t just risk everything for the sensation of his mouth on hers, she would die for it. Her mind whispered words, filthy, coarse. At the same time, as his mouth moved down her body, things slowed, slowed in a way that left
her hungrier to grab the moment. Her breath was a ragged saw, cutting the air with steel teeth. She splayed her knees. The resentment, the anger, that had festered in her veins like a viper? She let go of all of it.

  Now and forever.

  Later was time enough to worry about getting it back.

  ***

  He remained where he was, his eyes inches from hers, probably still liquid warm. He certainly was, his breath stuck somewhere at the back of his throat for what seemed an eternity.

  “I—”

  “Lord Hawley, about—about me helping you—”

  His throat tightened, so his breath came in tattered rags. “Miss Armstrong, when a moment’s so perfect—”

  “Perfect?”

  “Yes, perfect.”

  Because it was. Well, apart from one moment there where he damn well nearly forgot to do a certain thing. So now, now when images still rocketed through his head of her, of him, of everything they’d done--must have--for him to nearly forget, she just had to start, didn’t she? This demand. That demand. Jab. Jab. Jab. Like a seamstress sewing a seam. In his brain. About where this went from here. Well, he couldn’t hear it. He was done in hearing it. With a muttered curse, he sat up.

  “You should learn not to spoil it with petty demands. Trivia about what you will and won’t do. When what you’ve almost made me do—”

  Now it was her turn to tear a breath, difficult for him to hear when his heart thudded like a hammer.

  “I’m sorry? As I recall I never said a—”

  He kicked the covers loose from the bed. “But maybe that’s as well since you never let me finish.”

  “Finish?”

  “What I was about to say before you pounced.”

  “I pounced? What do you mean I—”

  A joke surely? Which was why her lips creased, although he swore she lost what little connection she had to reality.

  “If I can’t have my pleasures with you, then I’ll just take them elsewhere. So whether we do this again, or not, is no odds to me.”

  Take them elsewhere? No odds to him? He didn’t know what he was damn well saying, just that however this had started out, what cut to the very core of his being, and beyond--right into his heart--was where it finished. She wanted him. She didn’t want him. She played with him. Well, she played with fire.

  But maybe, maybe she’d give him something to remind him, when everything disintegrated around him, including himself, that what was beguiling could still play straight? Face him with something other than cool indifference and that couldn’t give a damn expression? That scornful chin tilt too as if he was madder than a hatter.

  “Then you must hope she will look after you, Lord Hawley, and put up with all your damned nonsense during the night.” She slid off the bed.

  “Fine then. Because it’s more than you do.”

  Did she freeze behind her eyelashes? Think of how she’d helped him? Hadn’t slept in nights? Because, for all he sat here day after day, the epitome of cool, it was a cool he mustered.

  “Good,” she said. “Because you’ve no idea how much I like my bed to myself.”

  He stood up and wrapped the bed sheet around him. “Your bed? It’s my bed. But let’s not quibble about so minor a detail when you’ve already stolen … ” He cursed beneath his breath.

  “Go on, say it.”

  His gaze swept her, for a moment too long. What flickered in that second, flickered along his veins, was the chance to tell her, everything. He could, couldn’t he? So just maybe, at last, she’d understand why he was the way he was. He tilted his jaw, fixed his gaze on wall behind her, parted his lips.

  “Now that would be telling.”

  ***

  Telling? As the door shut, Cass stared at the ceiling. Ruby … Ruby was right wasn’t she? About her. About him. She wasn’t made for this. In any way. She’d just thought she was there just now, when she’d been about to tell him, she’d help him whatever. She’d been ready to open her heart to him. No point saying otherwise. And she’d thought her legs were bad enough.

  She glanced sideways. The faintest glint of gold in the candlelight caught the corner of her eye. Not a tear. No, just because she could cry, didn’t mean she would. God, no. Anyway what was there to cry about except her own stupidity. His things were all of the best. Even his blasted damned cufflinks. And look at that one lying there where he’d been a few seconds ago, so potently she could still smell his imprint on the sheets. She picked it up. Held it between her thumb and forefinger to the candleflame. Fine gold. She’d always been the best judge of that. Everything else, too, but gold especially. Worth? A tidy sum.

  The beauty of it was she’d sworn never to steal again. But this must have fallen out of his dressing gown pocket. Snapping her hand shut, she squeezed tight. Squeezed until it wasn’t just droplets of sweat that formed in her palm.

  Opening her palm she examined her handiwork. This wasn’t stealing. This wasn’t even another scar to add to all those she already had. This was something that was hers to control in all this mess. Vital when she hadn’t completed her search.

  ***

  Light snow powdered the lawn and much of Chessington’s driveway, making white fingers of the tree branches and sprinkling the stone lions, as if by a pastry chef. Cass thrust her fingers deeper into the pockets of her coat—anything to mask what crept up her spine.

  “'Ow, for the love of soddin’ Christ, Saff, just another week or so?”

  Ruby’s imitation of her was so startling, it dragged Cass from her contemplation. Not of the stone lions. If only. “Whot the bleedin’ hell is goin’ on here? Yer mind tellin’ me that?”

  That spoon she’d nicked this morning from the mustard pot, right beneath Belle and Eudora’s noses at the breakfast table was something. The tiny, scrolled silver one that, pushing her fingertips deeper into her coat pocket, she could reach. Just. It made a very shiny bright companion for Eudora’s silver brooch and Tilly’s lorgnette. Even better, the worn tip was razor sharp. As for the thrill she'd got taking it? Good as sex.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothin’ my sacred fanny aunt’s arse, tits, and uncle too. Have yer fallen fer him? Is that soddin’ it?”

  “Him?” Cass’s fingers clenched tighter. Her? Fall for him? To do that she’d need to be with him. And she wasn’t. No. Where she was was somewhere else. She squeezed the spoon, pressing the edge into her fingertips. “Sorry?”

  “Mister Toffee-Snout.” Ruby jerked her chin at Devorlane Hawley’s retreating back. “Oh, yer have, haven’t yer, and that’s whot all this soddin’ bleedin’ nonsense is about? Admit it.”

  “Leave off, Rube, Cass wouldn’t fall for no man what’s holding her a bleedin’ prisoner,” Pearl said.

  Cass drew her gaze back. Her own absence from Barwych must be noteworthy, certainly in terms of Pearl being left with Ruby. The cheap, gaudily colored woolen shawl, the patterned poke bonnet that actually made Pearl look jaunty, for Pearl anyway. Cass bit her tongue. Fallen? Her sacred fanny aunt’s arse too. This? The fact she couldn’t take her eyes off him? This was because she was here, no more, no less. And she didn’t like it.

  “Well? Would you, Cass?” Pearl shivered inside her shawl.

  “Me?”

  Yet if she hadn’t fallen, if she didn’t like it, why was her gaze magnetized by the sight of him striding across the lawn towards the driveway, her heart racing like a damned pony’s? When she finally had these precious snatched moments to speak to Pearl and Ruby alone—her first since she’d come here that Belle, or Tilly, or somebody wasn’t there with them.

  Whoever he crossed the snow-crusted lawn to speak to, he’d soon be back.

  “Absolutely not. Let’s not waste time saying so. He’ll be back in minute. Look, I’ll be leaving here quite soon. Any day now I should think.”

  “I bleedin’ hope so.” Ruby blew on her hands to warm them. “Yer got any idea whot it’s like trailin’ over here every other day just ter see yer all righ
t wif them soddin’ hoities? Specially in this bleedin’ cold.”

  Cass did, which was why she suffered another guilty pang, as well as a flushing of heat. Ruby had said hoities, hadn’t she? Because she meant Tilly, Belle, and Eudora, who were all indoors this morning. Of course she meant Devorlane Hawley too, although Cass’s classification there would have been different. Hotties. Where had she even learned such a word? In Starkadder’s obviously. It couldn’t be here.

  Pearl’s eyes widened. She clutched Cass’s arm. “You mean you found something out, Cass? About who you are? How good is that, Rube?”

  Cass’s throat tightened. Yes, she had. The journey had been anything but in vain. If only what she’d found out wasn’t how wantonly addicted it was possible to be to a man. Still, this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

  “No.” She shook her head. “But Lord Hawley asked me to stay till Christmas to—”

  She pushed a tendril of hair back from her face. While these were her friends, did she want them knowing what she had been helping him with when it was private? And his pride was higher than a mountain? How, since that awful night a few weeks ago, she’d been helping herself? To various things. How he’d asked her no such thing about staying.

  Fortunately he hadn’t pressed her about the missing cuff link. Probably because he hadn’t even noticed it was missing. But if he did and he did speak to her? Well, it was a start.

  “Whot? Christmas?” Ruby’s jaw dropped. “Are yer orf yer soddin’—”

  “What’s the problem? Tomorrow, isn’t it? I can be home soon after. It’s what I said, isn’t it, about the day or two?” She could be home now. But what if he didn’t follow her, like these other times.

  “I don’t care if it’s next soddin’ year, in twelve soddin’ months time, Saff, yer never came here ter agree ter terms like that. Yer came here ter look at papers. And if yer’d done whot I damn well told yer wif the laudanum in the first soddin’—”

  “Well, I did. I mean I tried.” Her breath hit the freezing air in a crisply starched puff. “But you have no idea how difficult that was.”