In the corridor, she flattened her hand against the note concealed in her pocket. She had fully intended to share the message with Valcour, enlist his help. But how could she add more worry to that pain-ravaged face? How could she force him to battle her demons when he was still so raw from the confrontation with Aubrey, so stunned by her declaration of love?
After all that had happened, she couldn’t bear to bring any more worry to this man who had stolen her heart.
She would slip out tonight and find some way to finish this entire matter the way she had so many other adventures: alone. It wasn’t as if the stranger she had seen at the gaming hell could hold any danger for her. She was the Raider’s daughter. She had been neck deep in intrigue and skullduggery while other girls were still stitching samplers at their mama’s knees. She would put an end to this mysterious haunting that had begun when she opened the box in Blackheath Hall. And then she would begin the greatest challenge the Raider’s daughter had ever faced.
Teaching the Hawk of Valcour to love again.
Chapter Seventeen
Valcour struggled with his work until well after dark, not even bothering to stop to eat. He had told himself it was imperative he finish what he had started, complete the necessary tasks. But in that place buried in his gut, where he couldn’t lie to himself, he knew that the dread earl of Valcour was hiding from a slip of a girl with golden curls and eyes blue as a fairy stream. A woman who had pressed soft lips to his chest and murmured words that had wounded him, defeated him, entranced him.
I have decided to love you. Just like that, with a snap of her fingers. Without doubts or fears or any inkling of the heartache she had opened herself to. Without any idea that she had just made the most devastating mistake of her life: giving her heart to a man without the courage to love her in return.
Always, Valcour had faced his own shortcomings with the same ruthless clarity he did everyone else’s. He didn’t cringe from the knowledge that he was ruthless, cold. That he was unforgiving and sometimes cruel. But he hadn’t expected that there was another shortcoming lurking behind it all: cowardice.
But the truth was that after Lucinda’s confession of love, even his library was not far enough, not safe enough a haven for him to hole up in. No, he was damned certain he should go upstairs, have his valet dress him, then go off to one of his clubs. Spend the night in one of those familiar male bastions, as far away as possible from Lucinda’s magic. Her silky seduction, not woven of her generosity beneath the coverlets, but rather the heady seduction of being loved, of being needed. Of letting go of all the shields, all the defenses, and being not Valcour the ruthless, the cold, but Dominic—a man who needed this woman who loved him.
Valcour swore, then stood and took up the single guttering candle. He paced up the stairs and into his own room. But before he could rouse his valet, he heard a sound. A soft moan drifted from where the door between the earl’s chamber and that of his bride stood ajar.
“Lucinda?” Valcour called softly, his brows lowering as he flattened his hand on the panel and shoved it open.
“Dominic?” Her voice seemed so faint, so fragile, Valcour’s heart plummeted. Candlelight spilled across the pathetic figure huddled in the big bed. Her face was flushed and warm above the lacy edge of the shift that rippled beneath her chin. Her eyes were half closed in the faint light of a single candle, while a hot brick wrapped in flannel was cuddled close to her middle.
He had seen his countess enraged and spouting defiance; he had felt her tenderness, her anger, and her scorn. Never had he seen this vibrant, animated beauty look so listless.
“Lucinda, I’m going to summon up Mrs. Bates at once. She has some skill at physicking—”
“No!” Lucinda cried out, looking alarmed. “No, please don’t! It would be so humiliating. I will be fine, Valcour. I promise you.”
Valcour sat carefully beside her on the bed. “Ho now, Countess. There is nothing humiliating about being ill.” He stroked back a silken strand of her hair, felt it cling to his fingers the way her loving curled about his soul. “I insist that you—”
“No!” Her lips quivered, and Valcour felt a wrenching in his chest.
“Countess, let me help you. At least…” He stumbled over the words. “Perhaps it would be comforting if I were to lay down beside you? Hold you?”
“You can’t! You mustn’t! Oh, do go away!”
For a woman who had just been making tender declarations of love, she seemed rather unobliging. Valcour couldn’t fathom why her words stung so badly.
“Blast it, girl, I’m worried About you! You were fine a few hours ago, and now—now you look as if you’re at death’s door! I’m not leaving until you tell me what the devil has happened to you!”
She levered herself up on one elbow, glaring at him with some semblance of her old defiance. “I’m not at death’s door! But you may be if you don’t leave me alone! I’m not sick and I’m not sad. I’m…” Her cheeks went pink as peonies. “I’m having the Curse of Eve!”
“The… oh!” Valcour swallowed convulsively, feeling his own cheeks burn. Thunder and turf, he wasn’t some green boy to be aghast at such feminine mysteries. Why was it the girl was making him feel as if he’d been caught peeking beneath her skirts?
“Now will you leave me alone?” Lucy demanded, flinging her head back onto the pillow for emphasis. “I’m sorry I’m such a monster, Dominic. But this makes me exceedingly ill-tempered. I don’t want to see anyone—not you, not my maid, not anyone—until this first day of misery is quite over.”
Valcour had intended from the first only to bid her goodnight and stay far from her bed. Why was it that knowing it was forbidden to him made him feel as crotchety as his bride was evidently feeling. “As you wish. Is there anything else that can be done for your comfort?”
“Just don’t let anyone so much as open my door until morning, or I vow I’ll become violent!”
“No one has greater respect for your violence than I, Countess. I shall leave word that anyone who disturbs you does so at risk of life and limb.” Valcour stunned himself by leaning down and brushing her forehead with a kiss. For an instant he saw something flicker in Lucinda’s eyes, something like quicksilver, leaving unease in its wake. Then it was gone.
Valcour strode from the room to prepare for an evening at White’s faro table. He was dead certain his luck would be as abysmal as was the prospect of being banned from his countess’s bed.
*
The night had always been Lucy’s friend, a cloak to hide her mischief, a haven when the Blackheaths had curled up in the salon, chattering and laughing, quarreling and making music. She’d always loved the darkness. But tonight, as she traveled London’s streets, it was as if some unseen presence were waiting for her in every shadow, lurking behind every dim, ragged figure that shuffled along in the grinding poverty that surrounded Perdition’s Gate.
The only soul who even knew she had gone was Natty—her partner in stealing a horse away from Valcour’s stable. The boy had been delighted when he had first seen her slipping from the townhouse’s garden door, garbed in breeches, frock coat, and a jaunty tricorn with a scarlet plume. He had come to raid her pockets, hoping for sweetmeats or spice cake or some other rare treat. And he had shaken his head in a way that might have amused Lucy greatly under other circumstances as he confessed that he was still not able to get over his disappointment that his benefactor was not a boy.
However, the instant Lucy told Natty that she planned to go riding in the night, the little rogue had turned jittery as a colt in a hailstorm, his usual brashness oddly subdued.
“It’s an ill night to be abroad, milady,” Natty had said. “See the ring of red about the moon? Pappy Blood says that be the gateway to hell, glowing when the devil sets the damned souls free to torment us.”
“I can’t believe you give countenance to such faradiddle.”
“I did think it was nonsense, until I noticed that things happen on such nights. Bad th
ings, milady. Drowned bodies float up on the Thames. Not suicides, you know, but people who are murdered. Houses catch on fire and the men who go up to see the whores at the Gate are so mean they leave marks on ’em. I know it sounds mad, but it’s not. Surely you believe… believe in omens an’ dreams, milady. Believe that some nights the world is full of hauntings.”
“If that is true, this should be the perfect night to find a ghost,” Lucy had assured him. “That is, if you can tell me where to begin my search.”
With great reluctance, the child had told her all he knew about the location of the man who had given him the note. But Lucy had seen real fear in the urchin’s eyes. “I wish you’d let me go with you. I be a good man in a fight.”
Lucy had brushed her fingertip gently across Natty’s bruised face. “I think you’ve had quite enough fighting lately, my fine sir. The moment I return, I’ll bring out a whole plate of sticky buns and tell you the entire story, beginning to end. I promise it will be a grand adventure.”
Then Lucy had ridden away, hating the unease Natty’s words had spun about her, hating the guilt she felt every time she thought of how she had deceived Valcour.
The earl would not be amused when he discovered what his bride had done, but the entire affair would all be over by then. There would be nothing he could do but rage and sulk and lambast her with that delightfully tyrannical voice of his. But Lucy was certain she wouldn’t have to endure his fits of temper for long. If she put her mind to it, she could find another deliciously sensual way to distract him.
She reined the horse into a twisted lane of gin shops and rookeries, taverns and brothels. The dregs of humanity littered the street like horse dung, ragged, stinking bundles with sly eyes and bone-thin bodies.
When Lucy reached the building Natty had directed her to, she was half tempted to spin the horse around and ride the other way. But she steeled her courage and dismounted. Her fingers felt numb as she tied her horse to the post, doubtful it would still be there when she returned. Then she shoved open the door to a gin shop disgusting beyond description.
The stench alone nearly flung her against the wall, and the crowd of customers looked as if they would like nothing better than to steal everything she owned, including the teeth from her mouth.
Lucy feigned a bored arrogance and paced to a toothless old hag slopping Blue Ruin into tankards. “A thousand pardons, milady,” Lucy growled in a masculine tone. “I am searching for someone. A gentleman—”
“If you be looking for a gentleman, you come to the wrong place, laddie,” the woman cackled. “Nothing but layabout bastards here.”
“I would be willing to pay anyone who could help me find him. I’m a generous laddie.”
The crone’s eyes glittered like jet buttons in the loose folds of skin. “How am I to know one man among all these others?”
“He is tall and slender, with pale gold hair and eyes that are vague. He spends his time scribbling music. Some think him mad, but he seems gentle enough.”
The crone’s eyes disappeared into slits, and she sucked her lips over toothless gums. “You be looking for Mad Alex, do you, laddie? I can’t say that it would be a good idea to go barging in on him right now. He’s been a trifle beside himself the past week. Ever since he found that notice of an earl’s marriage in the Gazette.”
Threads of unease uncoiled in Lucy’s middle. “Can you tell me where to find him?”
“Sure’n I can. He’s got a room out back, ever since his brother chased him from Perdition’s Gate. Sir Jasper be hunting him down—you don’t be working for that bastard, do you? Maybe I should have ol’ Dickwilly there slit your gullet just in case.”
“No,” Lucy said hastily. “The truth is, Alex has been searching for me.”
“If you’re lyin’ to me, I got a dozen men who would murder you cold for the price of one tankard of me finest.”
“I understand.”
“Who should I tell Mad Alex is calling?”
“Tell him I bring him word about Jenny.”
The woman scowled. “Jenny? Is that one of those whores he has visiting?”
Lucy cringed inwardly. “No. Just tell him. He’ll know what it means.”
The crone returned moments later, eyeing Lucy with patent curiosity. “Go on back. He’s pure perishing to see you. Last door on the left.”
Lucy started away, but the old woman stepped in front of her. “Just to be safe, you can leave your sword with me. Mad Alex is a good-paying customer, and I’d take exception to losing him.”
Lucy wanted to protest, but she saw two burly men close ranks with the crone. Slowly, Lucy slipped her sword from the scabbard and handed it to the woman.
“Pistol too. Now, laddie.”
Lucy set her teeth then gave up the weapon. She was going to see a man who claimed to be her father. An impostor, no doubt. A weakling attempting to extort money from her, or involved in some other mercenary scheme. If he had wanted to do her harm, he would have come to Virginia himself, found her there, and…
Plotting out the most reasonable course to her own murder did nothing to keep at bay the prickles of foreboding that slid like slivers of ice beneath her skin. Lucy drove away the thoughts and made her way through what seemed almost a rabbit warren of close, foul-smelling chambers littered with straw, stray cats, and starving children. When she reached the appointed door, she knocked.
“Come in.”
His voice. It was faint, a little grating. Frightening in a way Lucy had never expected. She lifted the latch and opened the door. Her vision was blurry from the dark, the blaze of candlelight making the figure before her shimmer and ripple like the surface of a stream stirred by her hand. She swiped her fingers across her eyes then opened them again.
From the moment she had left Virginia she had been working to this end—to confront this mysterious person face to face. But as she stared into the features of the man before her, a tightness began to close about her heart.
He was the man in the miniature. Could there be any doubt? Soft blond hair threaded through with gray framed a dreamy face. The mouth was less defined, the chin far weaker, but then the painted image had been that of an optimistic boy. This was a man on whom the passage of time had laid heavily.
Yet as Lucy stared into the man’s features, she couldn’t help but remember how miserable she had been as an abandoned child, how close her mother had come to burying her sorrows in the muddy current of the Thames.
“Who are you and what news have you?” the man demanded.
Lucy crushed the brim of her tricorn between her fingers and swept the hat off, a wealth of golden curls cascading down to frame her face. “I am Jenny d’Autrecourt.”
Even if Lucy had still clung to any doubts about the man’s identity, his reaction would have banished them forever. A fevered light came to those vague eyes, like a licking tongue of blue flame. The bony fingers trembled as if stricken with palsy.
“Jenny? You are my Jenny?” The man crossed to her, cupping his quaking hands about her cheeks. “Child, it is your papa.”
Lucy had always hated the thoughtless caresses some strangers seemed determined to lavish on anyone they passed. Every touch of affection was far too precious in her eyes to be flung out carelessly, without any love behind it.
But this was supposed to be her long-lost father. Why was it that each fiber of her body pulled whipcord taut, and she had to fight the urge to pull away from him? He was so close to her. She could smell the faint sourness of his breath, she could see the odd emptiness beyond the irises of his eyes, feel the surprising sinewy strength within his thin fingers.
Tears spilled down his face. “Jenny, don’t you remember me?”
She stared into his features, searching for any scrap of memory, but there was nothing except the haunting strains of her “Night Song.” Still, she didn’t want to hurt him. “I was only three years old the last time I saw you,” she said, “but my mother has told me many stories about you.”
Lucy’s cheeks heated. She looked away. “Mama is very happy. She fell in love and she has been wed for twelve years now to the most wonderful man, who adores her and takes care of her and loves her. After all that she suffered—losing me, and believing you dead, and… being cast out by your family—she deserves some joy, don’t you think?”
Alexander’s brow puckered. “Can Emily find joy in being an adulteress?”
“She didn’t do it on purpose! You were supposed to be dead! How could she have known? And now, after all this time, her whole life is in Virginia. She has a husband, children she adores. She has already suffered so much you can’t—can’t mean to take that away from her.”
Alexander seemed to consider for a long moment. “You are a good girl to defend your mama that way. Still, it is distressing to think of her sinning and sinning every time she goes to her lover’s bed. Emily would not like to sin. She was a vicar’s daughter, you know. I am certain I could find some way to remedy her dilemma if I put my mind to the task.” His eyes clouded, his lips tipping in a thoughtful smile. Then he caught a glimpse of Lucy’s face.
“Now, now, child,” he tsked. “You almost look afraid—afraid of your own papa? Silly goose! As long as I have you, my own little girl, Emily need never know that her other babes are bastards, that she is not wife but concubine to the man who shares her bed.”
Why was it that those words of reassurance only heightened Lucy’s unease? “No. She’s not a…” Lucy began, then stopped, sick with the knowledge that this man’s very existence made those horrible charges true. “Papa, promise—you must promise me that you won’t hurt her.”
“Hurt her? I would never harm to Emily. Even when she was a girl, I only wanted to take care of her. But I failed. I failed, I failed, I failed…” His voice droned, singsong, off key. Then his fists knotted. “I will not fail this time, I vow. Now that I have found you, my Jenny, I shall guard you like a treasure, where no one will ever be able to take you from me again.” There was a disturbing twist to the man’s mouth, a curl to his lip that reminded Lucy all too clearly of Sir Jasper.
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