Cecilia

by Bancroft, Blair

  Chapter 5

  Miss Cecilia Lilly, aided by one of Nick Black’s brawny footman, who was garbed in black piped in silver, descended from Lady Rivenhall’s crested carriage, closely followed by a maid of middle years and dour mien. Even with her foot on the doorstep, Cecy remained unsure why she had accepted Mr. Black’s decidedly odd invitation, but there was little doubt he had saved her life and Cecilia Lilly paid her obligations.

  As long as his needs did not include sharing his bed. And even Lady R had been willing to give him the benefit of the doubt on that one.

  From her first visit to the house on Princes Street, Cecy recalled only an impression of fine furnishings and surprisingly good taste. Today, however, as the butler led her through a hall tiled in jade and white marble and adorned with finely honed sculptures set into niches in the walls, then climbed a curving gilded staircase beneath a high domed ceiling, Cecy’s breath caught in her throat. Her impression of elegance and good taste increased as they walked through room after room adorned with paintings whose creators were among the finest artists the world had ever known, The only Nick Black she had heard of was a faceless puppeteer holding the strings at the top of London’s Underworld, and certainly the man who had rescued her fit the mysterious image of a master criminal. The house on Princes Street did not.

  The maid, when told to wait in a finely crafted Chippendale side chair just outside the final room on this side of the house, looked as if she might object. A second glance, which took in the two equally muscular men standing on either side of the door seemed to change her mind. With an apologetic glance to Miss Lilly, she sat, clasping her hands in her lap. One of the men rapped on the door, opened it, and announced, “Miss Lilly, Guv.”

  Guv. Nicholas Black did not look like a man one addressed as “Guv,” Cecy thought. Except for being the spitting image of the Devil Incarnate, he was as well dressed as any gentleman strolling down Bond Street or sitting in the bow window at White’s. Yet she shivered, clutching her reticule in stiff fingers.

  “Please sit.” He gestured toward a chair set directly in front of his desk. Still standing, he studied her for a moment—she’d swear he was not just stripping her bare but delving straight into her soul. It took every ounce of courage she had not to squirm. Or bolt for the door. Finally, he settled into his chair, though never taking his unfathomable eyes off her face. “Do you know who I am, Miss Lilly?”

  From somewhere a flicker of amusement bubbled up, aiding her effort to get her tongue working again. “Your name has crossed my hearing a time or two, Mr. Black. And Lady Rivenhall attempted to give me a hint, but she soon got lost in euphemisms and roundaboutations. I have always assumed you a man of mystery. Quite deliberately so.”

  A quirk of his lips. Was that his version of an answering smile?

  “Nothing else?” he inquired.

  Cecy considered the matter, wondering just how honest she was expected to be. “I presumed,” she continued carefully, “that you are a man who has made his own way in the world, evidently far more successfully than most. That you are . . .shall we say, familiar? . . .with the workings of London’s Underworld. That you have perhaps used it on your way to becoming what you are today.” She fell silent, quaking inside, waiting for his roar of anger.

  Silence thundered. Any moment Cecy expected the cherubs on the ceiling to crash down on her head.

  Instead, when she peeped at him from under lowered lashes, she found Nicholas Black leaning back in his chair, a tiny smile of what appeared to be satisfaction lightening his face. “I planned to use this interview to discover if you were more than a pretty face, Miss Lilly. I see that won’t be necessary. You are both intelligent and cautious. A rarity in females.”

  As if his words weren’t enough to incite her temper, he continued to study her, almost as if she were a rare painting. Cecy bristled. “Then perhaps you would be good enough to tell me what position you had in mind.” Truthfully, she could see no use a man like Nick Black could have for her except the one Lady R had sworn was not his intention. Cecy allowed herself another glance, this time attempting to see the man instead of a denizen of the Underworld. A rough-hewn face, pale as moonlight, steel-gray eyes, and dark hair cut unfashionably short as if, in this one thing, he made no attempt to imitate the fashion of gentlemen.

  Intriguing. She had to admit she’d like to strip away the enigmatic layers of Nicholas Black. But only if the effort did not include getting any closer than the width of the desk.

  “As you have guessed, Miss Lilly, I am a man with an interest in a variety of enterprises. Some as tame as investments in shipping, canals, imports, exports. Others . . . more adventurous, shall we say?” He paused, his gaze surveying the room, clearly cataloging his assets even as his face feigned indifference. The tall oak bookcases, the neat rows of leatherbound books, the richly colored Turkey carpet, the finely carved green marble fireplace . . . and back to the high polish of the gleaming mahogany desk. He pinned Cecy with a gaze that stabbed to the bone. “Do you know what a mudlark is, Miss Lilly?”

  Cecy nodded. “They search the mud along the Thames at low tide, selling what they find.”

  “Do you have any idea how cold it can be in winter, Miss Lilly? A small boy up to his knees in muck amid the stink, forever on the lookout for boys bigger than himself, for full-grown men and women, all as desperate as he for some bit of flotsam that might be sold for a penny or two to buy the next meal. And the stink only worsens as the weather warms, particularly if there’s an animal carcass or a human body or two left by the tide.”

  He fell silent, clearly waiting for her to say something. Somehow she knew this raw glimpse into his past was a rarity, something put behind him and seldom mentioned. If ever. There had to be a reason . . .

  “I can never know how bad it must have been,” she told him, “but after close on two years on my own in London, I surely thought I was that desperate. When I was invited to join the Academy, I thought it the best day of life. At last I was on my way to the life I wanted. And look what happened.”

  “Do you think I suffered no defeats on my rise from Thames mud to Princes Street?” he returned quietly.

  “Of course you did,” she murmured, “but you are a man. It is so much easier—”

  “Agreed.” He cut off her protest. “You are right, of course. Our world leaves women little recourse but to succeed solely through their husbands’ wealth. Or on their backs.”

  “On our backs, no matter our class, or if we’re married or not.” Cecy’s determined poise wavered as bitterness erupted. “Even Lady R has power only because her husband left her more money than Croesus had gold.”

  He smiled—he actually smiled at her. The effect was bone-chilling, like a wolf eyeing a rabbit, but suddenly her nerves stopped jittering, settling into nothing more than a soft hum.

  “It may be years, perhaps centuries,” he said, “before the laws of the land grant women equal rights, Miss Lilly. And this is why I’ve asked you here.” A ray of sun slanted through an eastern window, finding a hint of red in his dark brown hair, adding a bit of color to his face. “I have a number of establishments that could use a woman’s touch,” he continued, startling her into wide-eyed incredulity. “No, not those kind of establishments. Homes for children of the street, for women cast off because they are increasing.”

  “You run orphanages and homes for unwed mothers?” It was quite possibly the last thing Cecy expected to hear.

  “Among many other things,” he corrected. “A man must make a living, after all.” With a negligible wave of his hand, Nick dismissed ninety-five percent of his activities. “As for my charitable efforts,” he continued, “I have men who oversee the establishments, check the accounts, etcetera, but I believe we can do better. Having a woman in my employ to observe and report, suggest ways for improvement, could be very helpful.”

  “W-why?” Cecy asked on a drawn-out whoosh of breath. “Why should you choose me for such a position? I mean, women a
re never offered supervisory positions. Or do you just mean for me to be a spy, flitting about in the shadows?”

  “You forget, Miss Lilly. I am what I am because I never fear to take chances. Because I think differently than most people.”

  Cecy gulped. “But I have no idea how to set about such a job.”

  “I will teach you.”

  She searched his face, which remained impenetrable. “Again . . . why?”

  “Because you need a position, and I am able to offer a suitable one?”

  And no doubt a hundred other reasons they would never discuss, she thought, her mind spinning.

  “Well?”

  “As you must know, you have made me an offer I would be a fool to refuse,” she returned carefully, still wary. “I can only hope I will be able to perform my duties in an acceptable manner.”

  “Excellent.” He stretched out a hand, as if she were a man. Cecy eyed the long powerful fingers with some trepidation before she accepted his grip. At his touch a shiver flitted up her spine. Had she just shaken hands with the Devil? “Mrs. Mackey will show you to your room. I’ll send a note to Lady Rivenhall, asking her to pack up your things and send them here.”

  Half way out of her chair, Cecy froze. “Here?” she whispered. “I’m to stay here?”

  “All my assistants live here, Miss Lilly. I assure you it is the most secure house in London—more so, I daresay, than Carlton House or St. James.”

  Never mind that it seemed to be a house chock-full of men, it was a mere block from Longmere!

  Cecy’s legs gave way, plunging her back into her chair with a decided thump.

  It all went exactly as Nicholas Black planned. Of course it did—Cecy expected nothing less. She was assigned a spacious, well-appointed bedchamber on a floor between the one occupied by her employer and his minions and the more stark architecture of the servants’ rooms on the floor above. In deference to Cecy’s anomalous position in the household, the dour-faced maid had been persuaded to stay on, and was given a cot in the dressing room adjoining her mistress’s bedchamber, rather than being thrust into the attic with Mrs. Mackey, Cook, and the housemaids. By evening all Miss Lilly’s possessions had followed her to Princes Street and the house had gone quiet, the men vanished as if the fog had swallowed them up. Cecy dined alone in her room, vaguely disconcerted, wondering if this is how it would be from now on. The sole female assistant—yes, that’s what he’d called her. Assistant. Forever isolated from her male counterparts . . .

  Thrusting the remains of her meal aside, Cecy went to her window, shoved aside the draperies, and looked out. Four stories above the ground, she looked down on a sea of fog so thick not a thing was visible but a fluffy gray blanket stretching forever, the only light the glow of candles from the upper stories of the houses across the street reflecting eerily off the swirls of mist. What had she done? How could she possibly trust herself to a man whose very name was probably made up out of whole cloth. A mudlark! No doubt a pickpocket, handkerchief-snatcher, and cracksman as well.

  Cardsharp? Oh yes.

  Assassin? Unfortunately, that role fit him as well.

  Yet she was in his house, eating his food. She had agreed to help him look after orphans and whores . . . and their bastards. She, Chastity Singletary, whose father had preached the wickedness of nearly every pleasure in life, promising hellfire and brimstone if his congregants indulged in singing, dancing, theatricals, and fine clothing, as well as the heinous sins of drinking, gambling, and sex for anything but the procreation of yet more stultifyingly repressed evangelicals.

  Dear God, she feared Nicholas Black expected her to be charitable. When, for all she’d railed against the repression her father preached, she had never had a charitable thought in her life. She found the women of London’s rookeries beneath her touch—the ragtag bobtail whores of St. Giles unfit to touch the hem of her gown, the unwed mothers appallingly careless, their hordes of children bastards. Yet somehow, if Nicholas Black had not been lying through his teeth, she was to become their mentor, the person who smoothed their lives as if they had never sinned.

  Cecy put her tray outside the door and carefully turned the key in the lock, opening the door only when Emerson, her maid, came back from dining in the kitchen with the rest of the household staff. Much more companionable, Cecy thought grumpily. Not that she’d be caught dead eating in a kitchen!

  She allowed Emerson to prepare her for bed—it was, after all, far warmer under the covers, particularly with the velvet curtains pulled tight around the bed. But sleep didn’t come. She waited, ears finely tuned to the sounds of the night. To the muffled rumble of an occasional carriage, the call of the watch. The men coming home. Would their voices and footsteps stop on the floor below or continue on up, down the hall, pausing before her door . . .?

  Only in the final hour before dawn, after the last rustle from the floor below had died away, did she finally sleep. Providentially, not to awake until near noon. When the fog had been swept away and the sun peeked through the clouds, doing its best to tell her that for Cecilia Lilly a new day had dawned.

  Chapter 6

  Scrawled orders came in a note on Cecy’s breakfast tray, delivered at five minutes short of noon: Carriage wear. Warm, inconspicuous. Boots. Be ready by one. NB

  To which she promptly replied: Mr. Black. I must decline your gracious invitation. I own nothing inconspicuous. CL.

  This brief exchange resulted in the delivery of a perfectly hideous cloak and broad-brimmed bonnet of boiled wool in an indeterminate color between brown and gray. With a grimace of distaste Cecy allowed Emerson to wrap it around her highly fashionable walking dress of a dark blue wool so fine it rippled like silk. The maid set the bonnet over Cecy’s perfectly arranged hair, tweaking a curl to fall over each ear, before tying the limp ribbons in a bow on one side—which fashionable touch did nothing to improve the impossibly drab creation, which resembled nothing so much as horse blinders! Cecy, rejecting so much as a glance into the pier glass above her dressing table, shuddered and drew on her gloves.

  “Well, miss,” Emerson declared. “You did say you wanted to leave your old life behind.”

  Cecy sniffed, grumbling, “’Tis like blinkers on a carriage horse. I can see nowhere but straight ahead.” Nor would she have to worry about any gentleman approaching her, having been overwhelmed by the sight of her beauty.

  “Perhaps ’tis just as well, miss. If you be going to the park, you’ll not want anyone to recognize you, particularly with that man. And if you be going to his part of town, then heaven forfend anyone should see your face.”

  “Indeed,” Cecy murmured as she drew on her gloves. Emerson might be more of a treasure than her unprepossessing demeanor indicated.

  Suddenly, the drab cloak and bonnet became her friends, a disguise in which she could hide from everyone she knew, particularly Longmere. “Thank you, Emerson.” Welcoming the anonymity, Cecy began her journey down several flights of stairs to the entry hall below.

  He was waiting in the hall, his gray eyes surveying her every step down the final flight of stairs. A scowl for her boots, which were undoubtedly too highly polished. A nod of approval for the cloak. A curl of his lips for the bonnet. Imperious fingers stretched out, ruthlessly tucking the two sandy brown curls out of sight. At his touch Cecy’s breath caught, her head swirled. She couldn’t have protested if her life depended on it. Nicholas Black had just eradicated her last bit of femininity, yet she had never been more aware of a man in her life. Or of her own fragility. Not even when Longmere was beating her half to death.

  Dear God, what had she done, coming to this place?

  Leaped out of frying pan into the fire, that’s what! mocked her inner voice.

  One good thing about the bonnet, Cecy discovered as her employer seated himself beside her in the shiny black closed carriage—its wide wings protected her from so much as a glimpse of her companion. She sat stiffly upright, picturing herself alone, on her way to some grand ton even
t, a party at Carlton House perhaps or a ball at Osterley. A delightful fancy full of lively chatter, brilliant colors, and might-have-beens, until a stern voice said, “Miss Lilly?”

  The carriage had stopped. She turned her head toward the door, and fear struck. The Devil beckoned her, hand outstretched, urging her toward the unknown, toward a job whose duties she could not understand, let alone perform. At least that’s what she thought they were doing at this dilapidated three-story building which sagged only slightly less than the other elderly buildings around it. He hadn’t said a word, of course, though he’d had several miles to prepare her for whatever she was about to see.

  Men!

  “Miss Lilly!” More demanding. Cecy, eyes narrowed, took his hand and descended from the coach, pulling the boiled wool cloak tight around her. Nicholas Black had been right, blast him. This place—this entire section of London—was no place for a carriage gown of blue superfine.

  Cecy gaped as a matron welcomed them with a warm smile—an unaccountable reaction to Nick Black. The woman led them down a central corridor with classrooms on both sides, filled with children whose sharp eyes slanted in their direction as they passed by. In some rooms the hum of young voices reading aloud faded when the children saw them, only to resume again full force as the visitors went out of sight.

  Orphanage. School. Plain but clean. Discipline strong but not rigid.

  Dear Lord! She was actually doing it. Inspecting, cataloging, accepting Mr. Black’s word that he actually wanted her opinion.

  Surely it was all a hum . . . Charity had no place in the world of Nick Black. And yet they were here. The matron knew him. The children as well. That wasn’t idle curiosity she’d seen on their faces. Of course with a man of Nick Black’s reputation, who knew . . .?