“And so we shall, handsome.” Josy started to sashay over to him, but Lucy caught the harlot’s arm.
“Please, you must have some idea where I could start.”
“You can start by getting your bum out of my way so I can get back to work. That is, unless you want to make a few coins yourself.” Josy chortled. “There are customers who’d pay a fortune to take the first dip in your tup.”
“A boy to play with too, Josy?” the frog-faced man asked, those round eyes peering at Lucy in a way that made her skin crawl.
Bile choked her as she wheeled and stomped down the stairs. She slammed out the door of the gaming hell and leaned against the wall, trying to steady herself. Her whole body trembled as she looked again at the note.
She heard the door open, then jumped at the sound of Natty’s voice.
“Does it help?” The boy was regarding the note warily.
“The note? No, Natty. It doesn’t help a damn bit.”
She stopped, disgusted with herself as she looked down into the child’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m just so frustrated. I feel so helpless.”
“Makes a body right crotchety, I know. That’s the way I feel when ol’ Pappy Blood is beating on me.”
The magnitude of the little boy’s troubles in comparison to Lucy’s own made her ashamed of herself. She knelt down until she was at eye level with the little rogue.
“Natty, I’m sorry.”
“For what?” the boy asked, perplexed. “Not as if you darkened my daylights or anything. Course, I’ll be damned if I’d ever hold still for being hit by a girl!” He looked up at her a little wistfully. “Are you sure you’re a girl? I just can’t seem to ’custom myself to the notion.”
“I’m sure.”
Natty heaved a heavy sigh. “I s’pose you can’t help it, even if it is a disappointment to me. I just wanted to tell you that, well, that I’ll keep an eye out for Mad Alex for you. You might not think it, but I’m a man o’ some importance hereabouts.”
“I don’t doubt it a bit,” Lucy said. Her mouth tugged into a smile, her heart wrenching with sudden homesickness for Norah. “I’ll pay you well for any information you can find.”
The boy nodded.
“Natty, even if you don’t find the slightest clue about the man I’m seeking, you can still find me. If you ever need anything—anything, a place to sleep, or food, or just someone to hug you—I’ll be at Ambassador Wilkes’s townhouse. Tell them you are a friend of Lucy’s.”
“Hope I’m not some sniveling Nancy-boy who runs crying for help from a girl! A girl!” He gave her a mournful look. “I don’t know if I’ll ever quite get over my disappointment.”
Lucy reached out, brushing back a tendril of carroty hair then she fished in her pocket and took out a purse full of guineas. “Natty, give the gentleman upstairs back his watch and take this instead. I don’t want you getting in trouble for stealing.”
“Do it all the time. He’d never guess. And besides, I don’t take charity. I told you that already.”
“But you helped me escape a week ago, and now you’re going to help me again. I consider it a debt of honor. Besides, then you can pay for a hackney cab to bring you to the Wilkeses if you should find anything out.”
“Been traveling around this city since I was three years old and never once had to pay for the trip,” Natty bragged. “I’ll find you if I need to, Lucy. That is, if you’re sure you want me to.”
“Of course I do. I have to find this man.”
“Do you?” Natty suddenly looked wise beyond his years. “There was a swell who came here once and dropped his stickpin under a step that was half mired in the mud. Dug under there until he found the pin, but something bit him. Maybe a dog. Maybe a rat. We never knew. Heard later he went crazy from it and died. Bet he wished he’d never started poking around after the pin at all.”
Something in the boy’s story made Lucy cringe long after she had mounted up and ridden away. Three times she almost cast the note into the gutter, certain that Natty was right.
She should never have come to England in the first place. She should have thrown the box of objects into the fire and burned them to ashes. She should have gone to Ian, told him everything. He would have known what to do.
She should have done anything besides taking up this insane quest as if a medieval gauntlet had been flung in her face.
But she wanted to know Alexander d’Autrecourt, the father she barely remembered. She wanted something tangible to add to her beautiful “Night Song.”
And now she had it.
A crazy person who penned bad music and called a harlot by her mother’s name. A haunting face that vanished like a will-o’-the-wisp whenever she got near enough to touch it. It seemed impossible that the man who had woven the magic that was captured in Lucy’s cherished lullaby, could be twisted into a pathetic madman wandering through the London stews alone.
And the only clues she had at the moment were the book tucked in her pocket and the enigmatic expression she had seen in Valcour’s eyes.
Lucy reined her mare through the gate to the Wilkeses’ townhouse, the windows still glowing with light, the confusion of the ball. Her eyes stung hotly as she rode to the rear of the stable, and she scrubbed the salty wetness away.
Damnation, what a fool she was. What had she expected? A reunion like something from a fairy story? To run into her father’s arms and have him understand that hidden part of her that no one else could reach? The place where the music lived.
She grimaced. At least the fates couldn’t torment her with any worse catastrophe after all she’d endured tonight, Lucy thought, dragging her fingers away from her eyes.
She was wrong.
The stable’s interior drew into focus and she froze, her gaze locked with that of John Wilkes. He stood in the lantern light, his face wreathed with puzzlement and a very real disappointment, the silver-tissue gown Claree had chosen for Lucy with such loving care crumpled in his fist.
*
Lucy gripped the paintbrush so hard it threatened to snap, sweeping vivid colors across the vellum with the savage industry of a frontier general fending off a hoard of Iroquois on the warpath. Her enemies were the halcyon beauty that enveloped St. James Park, the swans that drifted, living clouds upon sky-blue water, and the unrelenting tension that clambered inside her until she felt ready to burst with sizzling energy.
The whole blasted aura of civility that wreathed London snapped against her nerves like tiny whiplashes, a feeling only exacerbated by the Wilkeses’ stoic kindness and the sorrowful expression and hurt in their eyes.
Lucy would have relished the Blackheath family tradition of a nice, predictable row: some angry bellowing, perhaps a little stomping of feet or a few rare tears, then the storm over, everyone’s emotions aired.
But during the week that had passed since the fateful night of the ball, the whole incident lay there between them, festering, along with the memory of a moonlit garden and the earl of Valcour’s ruthless kiss.
Lucy stiffened, the memory rising up yet again in her mind so clearly she could still smell the roses, still see the moonlight drizzling over Valcour’s dazzlingly handsome face. She could still feel the imprint of his hard mouth, as if Valcour had only just lifted his lips from hers. And most distressing of all was the knowledge that she wanted to tunnel her fingers deep into the midnight hair at his nape and draw his mouth back to her.
Curse the man! Every time she closed her eyes to sleep she tossed and turned, feeling the flames he had loosed inside her lick at her skin. Every time she passed the ballroom she remembered Valcour’s animal grace as they moved in the minuet.
She found herself searching for his broad shoulders and glossy black hair at the theater, in the park, and in grand carriages that flooded the London streets. She found herself listening for the slightest mention of his name. And she woke up after a night of dreaming, her skin steamy hot, her mind befuddled with dreams so vivid, so sensual, that even
here in the park her cheeks burned at the memory.
There was a simple explanation. She was going mad.
Mad with frustration as she waited for another communication from the mysterious stranger. Crazed at the strange emotions the earl of Valcour had unleashed in her with his kiss and with the odd reaction he had had to the miniature of her father.
With a muttered oath, Lucy slammed her paint box shut, drawing a startled gasp from Claree. “Is something amiss, child?”
Only everything, Lucy thought, but she said only, “I just need some time to walk. The day is so lovely.”
“Would you like me to join you?” Claree started putting away her drawing utensils.
“No!” Lucy burst out so hastily she could see a hurt light dart into the older woman’s eyes. “I don’t want to interrupt your pleasure in painting. And I’m afraid I’m quite a despicable, temperamental wretch at the moment. Not fit company for anyone.”
“John will be back in a few moments. Perhaps you should wait for—”
“I’ll just walk around the pond. What trouble could I get into here? Especially at such an unfashionable hour. The only people about are children and their nurses.”
“That is why I like so much to come to the park now,” Claree said a little wistfully. “Did you see those engaging little boys over at the other side of the pond a few moments ago? They looked quite delighted with themselves, wading in the water with lengths of hemp before their nurse chased them away.”
Lucy stood up and shook out the folds of her gown. “Probably stirring up devilment of some kind. I’ll stroll over and see for myself.”
She walked along the pond’s edge, the restlessness so hot in her blood she could barely stand it. Yet even in her current temper Lucy couldn’t be angry with the Wilkeses. She knew that it would take only a word from her to change things back to the delightful camaraderie she had shared with them before the disastrous night of the ball. All she had to do was sit down with John and Claree and tell them everything, from the moment the box arrived in Virginia to her trip to Perdition’s Gate and her clash with the earl of Valcour. Then they would understand.
She grimaced, remembering the painful interview with John Wilkes, the kindly man giving her every opportunity to get out of trouble gracefully. But there was no way Lucy could tell him where she had been, what business she had been about. If she had done so, Wilkes would have taken matters into his own hands. Most likely he would have written to Ian and try to find the person who sent the box himself. Lucy would be fortunate if the overprotective ambassador would even let her out of the house without an armed guard.
And as for any chance Lucy might have of meeting this mysterious golden-haired stranger who might be her father, it would be gone.
She had had no choice other than to allow the Wilkeses to believe she had just been a careless, headstrong girl who had raced off on a crackbrained adventure without worrying about the consequences to anyone else. God knew there were plenty of other people in Virginia who thought worse of the Raider’s daughter. And only seldom did Lucy give a damn what people thought of her. But the Wilkeses were among those few whose good opinion she valued. It aggravated her no end to realize just how much.
A breeze tugged at her wide-brimmed bonnet, ruffling the blue ribbons that tied it in place. She passed a pair of girls who cupped their hands to their mouths, whispering and giggling, and a young mother and adoring father with a delightful toddler. The boy lay belly down at the edge of a blanket on the ground, a blade of grass clutched in his chubby hand. He eyed a rabbit blissfully nibbling clover, then attempted to copy the behavior.
Lucy smiled a little, remembering when she had caught Norah with a mouthful of oats out of her pony’s feed box. A lump of homesickness formed in Lucy’s throat and she turned away, hurrying around the gentle curve of the pond. The blue water and white swans blurred before her eyes, and she blinked furiously in an effort to drive back the tears that stung.
She missed them all so much. Her mother’s gentle smile, her papa’s laughter, the nights they had spent in the nursery, playing games and telling stories and stealing cakes from the pantry. Other girls Lucy knew had been eager to be rid of their little brothers and sisters and get on with their own life, but Lucy had been denied the simple pleasure of a bustling nursery for so very long that she bad often thought she would be content to stay at Blackheath Hall forever. She had never wondered about having a brood of her own, had never pictured little ones, the way Claree had obviously done.
Lucy closed her eyes, trying to imagine the new baby that might have already arrived in Virginia. But the child she pictured had night-black hair and eyes dark as jet buttons. “Of all the ridiculous notions! There isn’t a pair of black eyes in the whole family—except when Norah takes it in her head to jump from the stable rafters!”
She had barely muttered the words when she caught a glimpse of the gaggle of boys hiding behind a shrub. Lucy was well schooled enough in devilment herself to read all the signs in the children’s faces. Ruddy cheeks, parted lips, their eyes narrowed in anticipation. Lucy followed their gaze to where a swan and her fuzzy gray cygnet sailed toward the shore, scooping up crusts of bread floating in a suspicious trail atop the water.
She stopped to watch them, a strange sensation shivering to life inside her, a fragment of memory so faint she was sure she must have imagined it. She had so few memories of her life in England, and yet even as a child, she had remembered her “Night Song” that had comforted her, a fierce brass lion that had frightened her, and suddenly she was certain she had watched swans before, sailing across this very wisp of blue water.
She caught her lip between her teeth, unnerved at the vivid image: water and sunshine and her mother’s laughter, swans that seemed like magical fairies she wanted to touch…
At that instant Lucy was shaken from her thoughts as her gaze locked on something strange beneath the surface of the rippling water. A web of hemp the boys had woven through a submerged branch. Lucy cried out in an effort to startle the birds into going the other way, but it was too late. A squeak of alarm came from the cygnet as it bumbled into the snare, the mama swooping to its aid. In a heartbeat the two were hopelessly tangled. Worse still, the baby’s head was being dragged beneath the water.
Lucy heard a gruff masculine shout and glimpsed the boys scattering in abject terror. But she was already scooping up her skirts and plunging into the water.
She knew full well that the big birds could be dangerous, strong. The mama swan was already hissing and beating her wings furiously in an effort to protect her baby. But all Lucy could think of was the tiny ball of gray fluff drowning in the grip of the snare.
She reached them in a moment and tugged furiously on the hemp, but all she managed to do was get the gasping cygnet’s head above water for a moment. A sharp pain stabbed her arm as the mama’s beak found its mark, but Lucy didn’t release the baby bird. A sob of frustration rose in her throat at the knowledge that she had nothing with which to cut them free. That she couldn’t begin to untangle them while they thrashed about.
“Help!” she cried out. “Someone help!” But it seemed that no one else dared approach the swan, especially with the papa swan sailing toward Lucy in a fury, as if she were the one who had attempted to harm his baby and ladylove.
“Get away! Lucy, you’ll be hurt!” Claree cried in alarm, running toward her. But at that instant Lucy glimpsed a flash of massive equine shoulders thundering toward her and a dauntingly masculine figure flinging himself from the horse.
The mother swan struck again, and for an instant Lucy lost her balance. She fell in, shoulder deep, the ropes entangling her as well, but she couldn’t worry about that as the little gray head dipped beneath the water again.
A splash of crystal-blue water in her face obscured the figure splashing toward her until all she could see were polished boots, form-fitting blue riding breeches, and flashing black eyes.
Lucy choked and sputtered, suddenly
aware that she was now trapped as well. Just as she sucked in a mouthful of water, she felt a steely arm catch her across the breasts, hauling her upward as the rope that held her snapped free. Then another rope snapped and another. Lucy heard a black curse in a stunningly familiar voice as the cygnet sailed free, swimming off in a cloud of distressed little cries. A moment later its mama joined it, swooping to where the papa swan had just reached the cygnet. As if exhausted from its adventure, the cygnet climbed onto its mama’s back and lay pillowed on the white down, shivering.
The stinging in Lucy’s arms and the discomfort of her sodden skirts vanished as she watched them sail away. But at that instant, a strong arm curved beneath her knees and shoulders, and she was lifted against the earl of Valcour’s iron-hard chest.
He splashed his way to the shore, then both of them collapsed onto the grass. Lucy stared down at the penknife Valcour had dropped on the blanket of green.
“You little fool!” he grated, looking decidedly shaken. “What the devil did you do that for?”
“The baby was… caught. It would have died.”
“I don’t suppose you considered that if you’d been pulled under you might have drowned yourself!”
Lucy stared up at him, amazed that he still held her. Amazed that she wanted him to. “I didn’t think about it. I just… the baby was so tiny and helpless. I—thank you for helping. I can hardly believe that you—”
“That I didn’t let you drown? Helping damsels in distress happens to be a weakness of mine. I try to cure it, but I suppose we all have our frailties of character. Now let me see that hand!” He took her fingers in his, examining the small bite. It was bleeding. He dabbed it with his handkerchief, then gently bound it up.
“What are you doing here at all?” Lucy asked in an effort to keep her mind off the stirring brush of his fingers against her skin, the bewitching contrast between his strong, darkly tanned hands against her smaller, paler one.
Lords of the Isles Page 160