Jacquie D'Alessandro - [Regency Historical 04]

by Never A Lady

  “Who are ye and wot are ye doin’ here?” the boy demanded. “If ye think I’ll let ye steal from Miss Alex and Miss Emmie, ye’re dead wrong.”

  He wrested his gaze from the sickening sight of the purple bruise surrounding the child’s eye and found himself staring at the round lump in the boy’s pocket. “You mean the way you stole their orange?”

  The boy flushed under the dirt and bruises. “Ain’t stealin’. They leave ’em for me. ’Sides, I only took one.” The boy’s gaze flicked to Colin’s hands gripping his upper arms and undeniable fear flickered in his dark eyes. He swallowed, then said, “I’m allowed here. You ain’t.”

  That flicker of fear tugged on something deep inside Colin. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said softly.

  “Whys don’t ye prove that by takin’ yer hands off me,” the boy said, with a sneer Colin couldn’t help but admire.

  “If I do, I’ll expect you to answer a few questions.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because there’s a shilling in it for you if you do.”

  The boy’s eyes widened a fraction, then took on a sly look. His gaze slid over Colin’s tailored clothing. “Bloke like you can do better than a bob.”

  Letting go with one hand, Colin reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a gold coin. The boy’s eyes widened. “Very well,” he agreed, holding up the coin between his fingers. “A sovereign for your answers.”

  “Just fer answers?” he asked, eyeing the coin. “Nuthin’ else?”

  Colin’s stomach tightened at the horrific implications of the boy’s suspicious question. “Just for answers. You have my word.”

  It was plain that a man’s word meant little to this child. “I won’t let ye hurt Miss Alex or Miss Emmie.”

  “I have no intention of hurting them. Again, you have my word.”

  The boy considered for several seconds, then jerked his head and held out his grimy hand. “Coin first.”

  “One question first, as a show of good faith, then I’ll give you the coin.”

  The boy pressed his lips together, then nodded.

  “How do you know Miss Alex?”

  “She’s my friend.” He jabbed out his hand. “My coin.”

  Colin tossed the gold piece lightly in the air. The boy plucked it from midair, then, like a lightning bolt, he shot toward the door. Colin watched him go, not giving chase. Deeply troubled, he walked slowly to the door, closed and locked it, pushing back the dozens of questions bombarding him regarding the child and “Miss Alex and Miss Emmie.” Later. He’d have time to reflect later.

  He returned to the room behind the velvet curtain. After lifting the trapdoor, he slowly descended a rough wood ladder. The air was cool, dark, and musty. When he reached the end of the ladder, he carefully felt his way along a narrow passageway guided only by a thin sliver of light peeking through a hole about thirty feet in front of him. When he reached the sliver, he realized it came through a door which appeared boarded over. Applying his eye to the crack, he saw what appeared to be a deserted alleyway. He tried to open the door, but failed. Clearly there was a way in, which meant there had to be a way out.

  He felt carefully around and after a few minutes located a length of rope near the top of the door. When he pulled it, he heard a muffled scraping sound, as if something on the other side of the door were lifting, and he realized that a bit more light had flooded into the passageway near the floor. Bending down, he saw an opening. He lowered the rope a bit and the opening was covered over. An opening small enough for a child to fit through, but not a man.

  He slowly released the rope, watching the ray of outside light lessen to a sliver, then made his way back along the passageway and up the ladder. After a cautious peek through the trapdoor to ensure no one had entered the rooms, he quickly exited, then made use of the skills that had come in so handy during his spying days to lock the door from the outside. Less than a minute later, he stepped outside and began walking quickly in the direction of Hyde Park.

  Without breaking stride, he consulted his pocket watch. Madame Larchmont was due at his home right about now. While his brief look into her life had answered a few of his questions, it had spawned dozens more. Who was that child? He’d said Miss Alex was his “friend.” Did he live there? Other than the child himself, he’d found no evidence of a child’s presence—no clothing or trinkets. Just as he’d found no evidence of a man’s presence. Who was this “Miss Emmie” the child had mentioned? Just another piece of the mysterious puzzle that made up Madame Larchmont.

  He arrived home twenty minutes later and was greeted by Ellis. “Is she here?” Colin asked.

  “Yes, my lord. Arrived at precisely four o’clock. As you instructed, I gave your apologies for not being readily available and offered her tea in the drawing room. She awaits you there.”

  “Thank you.” Colin strode down the paneled corridor, tugging his cuffs and jacket into place. He paused in the open doorway of the drawing room and went still at the sight of her.

  She stood in front of the fireplace, gazing up at the portrait hanging above the white marble mantel. A cheery fire burned in the grate, dispelling the gloomy gray spilling into the room from the wall of windows behind her. He studied her profile, noting the slight tilt of her nose, the graceful arch of her neck as she looked upward. Her midnight hair was arranged in a simple chignon, with a pair of loose, glossy dark curls curving over her shoulder. Her pale green day gown highlighted the creamy texture of her skin, and lace gloves, similar to the ones she’d worn last evening, covered her hands. Everything about her looked soft and feminine, and his fingers twitched with a sudden, powerful urge to touch her, to discover if she felt as soft as she looked.

  His gaze ran down her form, and although her gown was perfectly modest, his imagination conjured up lush, feminine curves. She shifted slightly, tilting her head to the left, pulling his attention upward. Her tongue peeked out to moisten her lips, and his body tightened with an unmistakable grip of lust. As if in a trance, he found himself mimicking the action, his imagination ignited, burning with a mental picture of his tongue brushing over her plump lower lip while his hands explored the lush curves hinted at by her gown.

  A tiny part of his rational brain coughed to life and hissed out a warning that such thoughts about this woman—a woman who at best used to be a thief, and most likely still was—were totally inappropriate, but there was no stopping the sensual images bombarding him.

  Just then, she turned, and their gazes met. He tried to blank his expression, but suspected some remnants of his thoughts must have remained when her eyes widened slightly. As on each occasion their gazes locked, he felt slightly off-balance, a puzzling phenomenon he neither understood nor liked.

  Her expression smoothed and, appearing completely unruffled, she inclined her head. “Lord Sutton. Good afternoon.”

  When he opened his mouth to speak, he realized with a jolt of annoyance his mouth was already opened. And he’d been holding his breath. Bloody hell. This woman’s effect on him was simply…out of the question. He’d never allowed his passions to enslave him—he controlled them, not the other way around—and he wasn’t about to start now. Snapping his lips together, he arranged his features into a mask of regret and walked toward her.

  “Madame Larchmont. Forgive me for keeping you waiting. I was unavoidably detained.” He paused in front of her and made a formal bow, irrationally disappointed when she did not offer him her hand.

  “As I was provided with such lovely surroundings and delicious refreshments while I waited, I’m not likely to complain, my lord.” Her lips twitched. “At least not overly much.”

  He glanced at the silver tea service set up on the cherrywood table in front of the settee, noting her empty teacup and the tiny crumbs left on her plate. “Would you care for another cup of tea? Some more tea cakes?”

  “An offer I fear I cannot refuse. The tea cakes were heavenly.” Again her lips twitched, drawing his attention to
their ripe fullness, fascinating him. “I’m afraid I harbor a tremendous affection for sweets.”

  Good God, he was gawking as if he’d never seen lips before. Thoroughly irked at himself, he jerked his gaze back to her eyes, only to find himself distracted by the realization that her irises were flecked with shades of paler brown. As if cinnamon had been sprinkled over rich chocolate. Damn. He had a particular fondness for cinnamon sprinkled over rich chocolate.

  He cleared his throat. “A tremendous affection for sweets…something we have in common.” He indicated the settee with his hand. “Please sit.”

  She turned and moved past him, leaving a scent of oranges in her wake that had him all but salivating. “What are your favorites?” she asked, settling herself on the brocade cushion.

  “Favorites?”

  “Sweets. I’ve a fondness for frosted cakes and a dreadful weakness for chocolate.”

  “I wouldn’t say no to either of those.” Or anything else for which you might have a fondness…

  Swallowing a sound of self-directed disgust at his wayward thoughts, he settled himself in the leather chair opposite her. Six feet and a table now separated them. Excellent. “I also have a weakness for marzipan.”

  Her eyes slid closed and a sound that could only be described as a purr came from her. “Marzipan,” she said softly, reverently. He watched her lips form the word, and found himself transfixed. And in need of shifting in his seat. Did she have any idea how bloody aroused she looked? Her eyes slowly opened and fixed on his. “Yes, that is lovely,” she murmured in a husky voice that did nothing to dispel the discomfort occurring in his breeches. “Especially with a cup of chocolate.”

  “I agree. That happens to be my favorite before-bed snack.”

  She raised her brows. “Indeed? Not brandy or port and a cheroot?”

  “No, I’m afraid it’s chocolate and marzipan for me.”

  She smiled. “How very unfashionable, my lord.” She inclined her head toward the tea service. “Shall I pour?”

  “Please.” He sat back and watched her serve with a deft skill that gave no indication she’d spent time picking pockets rather than taking deportment lessons. She appeared perfectly calm and relaxed, completely at ease in his presence, a fact that irritated him more than he’d like to admit since he had to struggle to maintain his outward calm. Indeed, in spite of his suspicions regarding her motives, he couldn’t help but admire her cool exterior. But then, it was an excellent, and much-needed, trait for a thief.

  “Sugar?” she asked.

  “Two, please.”

  After passing him the cup and saucer, she picked up the delicate silver tongs. “Tea cake?”

  He smiled. “Is that a rhetorical question?”

  She smiled in return, revealing a pair of shallow dimples that flanked her lips. They formed a perfect triangle with the indentation on her chin, a shape he felt an overwhelming desire to explore. “No, as I wasn’t so much asking if you wanted one, my lord, but rather how many you wanted.”

  “Hmmm. It seems I made a tactical error in revealing my weakness for sweets.”

  “Surely a man in your position would know that revealing any weakness is a tactical error.” She placed two of the tiny frosted cakes on the plate, then raised her brows in a questioning manner.

  “I’ll take three.”

  She added another confection to the plate and passed it to him. Watching her carefully, he deliberately brushed his fingers against hers when he accepted the plate. If she experienced the same heated tingle as he at the brief contact, she gave no indication of it.

  Pushing back the unreasonable irritation that rippled through him, he asked, “What do you mean ‘a man in your position’?”

  It took Alex several seconds to answer because in spite of the barrier of her lace gloves, the brush of his fingers had seriously undermined her concentration. How could a mere touch affect her so? After clearing her throat, she said, “A titled gentleman looking for a wife. I imagine if the young, eligible Society misses were to learn of your penchant for sweets, you would be overrun with offerings of confections.”

  “Now why didn’t I think of that? I believe I’ll take out an advertisement in the Times proclaiming my love of all things sweet.”

  She laughed and deftly served herself a tea cake.

  “Only one, Madame Larchmont?”

  “I’ve already had two.”

  “I hope that won’t stop you from indulging further.”

  “It would be a social faux pas of the first order if I were to eat more than my host.”

  His gaze slid to the silver platter on the tea tray where a trio of cakes remained. “Well, I do not intend to leave this room until that tray is empty. I hope you won’t be shy in helping me eat those.”

  “I have many faults, my lord, but believe me, shyness is not one of them.”

  A slow smile curved his lovely mouth, coiling warmth in secret places she had no desire to feel warm and making her wonder what that lovely mouth would feel like brushing over hers.

  “A fascinating tidbit of information, Madame Larchmont, although perhaps a tactical error on your part to admit it.”

  “It wasn’t so much an admission as a warning, my lord. So as to prepare you for when I dispense with polite conversation and move on to the topic of your paying me for reading your cards.” When he raised his brows, she added, “I thought it best to be straightforward, given our conversation of last evening. I wouldn’t want you to think I was saying one thing and meaning another.”

  “In this instance, I don’t believe anyone could accuse you of such. Are you normally paid before your services are rendered?”

  “Yes. Based on my experience, that is best. I’ve found that if I tell someone something they don’t particularly like—”

  “They don’t wish to pay.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Are you planning to tell me something I won’t like?”

  She lifted her chin. “I don’t plan to tell anyone anything, Lord Sutton. I only relay what the cards themselves indicate.”

  He made no comment, instead raising his teacup to his lips to sip, watching her over the rim. She forced herself to hold his gaze, feeling as if they were locked in some silent battle of the wills that she refused to lose by looking away first. After lowering his cup to the saucer, he rose and crossed to the mahogany desk by the window. He opened the top drawer and removed a leather pouch from which he spilled coins into his palm. After counting out the amount he wanted, he withdrew another, smaller pouch and placed the coins in it. He then placed the larger pouch back in the drawer and returned to stand next to her.

  Holding out the pouch, he said, “I believe this is the amount we agreed upon.”

  She took the bundle then set down her teacup. “If you don’t mind, I’ll count it. Just to make certain.”

  He resumed his seat and picked up one of his tea cakes. She felt the weight of his stare while she quickly counted the coins.

  “All’s in order?” he asked, when she finished.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re not a very trusting sort.”

  She met his gaze squarely. “I meant no offense, Lord Sutton. I just find it is better not to leave anything to chance.”

  “No offense taken, I assure you. I was merely making an observation. Indeed, I admire your caution, especially where money is concerned. A shocking number of thieves wander about our fair city, you know.”

  “Sadly, I’m aware of that,” she said, keeping her voice even, despite the quickening of her heart rate. She tried to read his expression, but his features gave away absolutely nothing, making her feel once again a mouse to his cat.

  “Oh? You haven’t been the victim of footpads I hope?”

  “Not recently no. But I meant that it is impossible to live in London and not be aware of the sad state of poverty in which so many citizens live. And sadly, poverty can drive good people to do bad, desperate things.”

  “Such as s
teal.”

  “Yes.”

  His green gaze rested on hers. “But some people, Madame Larchmont, are simply bad.”

  “Yes, I know.” God help her, she knew only too well. Wanting to change the subject, she nodded toward the huge portrait over the fireplace. “Your mother?”

  His gaze shifted to the painting, and Alex turned to look at the image of a stunningly beautiful woman dressed in an ivory gown. She stood in a garden filled with pastel blooms, an invisible breeze touching her skirts and glossy dark hair. A faint smile played around her lips and a hint of mischief glittered in her green eyes. She shifted her attention back to Lord Sutton. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and his throat moved as he swallowed.

  “Yes,” he said softly. “That is my mother.”

  “She’s beautiful.” In a way she’d always imagined her own mother looking. Happy. Healthy. Well dressed. Cared for. Certainly cared for by more than a scraggly, hungry, frightened child who hadn’t known how to make her well once the illness came upon her.

  He pressed his lips together for several seconds then nodded. “Beautiful…yes, she was. On the inside as well. The portrait was finished just before she died.” Deep sorrow edged his voice, and when he looked at Alex, she was struck by the bleakness in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, not sure how to respond, yet understanding all too well the agony of losing a mother. “She was very young.”

  A frown shadowed across his face. “The same age as I am now.”

  “You have her eyes.”

  His gaze wandered back to the painting. “Yes. I inherited her love of sweets as well.” Silence swelled for several long seconds, then his eyes took on a faraway look. “She used to bring my brother and me to Maximillian’s Confectionary on Bond Street. We’d spend forever making our selections, acting very serious and proper.” The hint of a smile whispered over his lips. “But the moment we entered the carriage to go home, we’d tear into the packages and eat and laugh until our sides ached. Her laughter was magical. Contagious…”