She answered his smile with her own, almost unable to believe her good fortune.
“Have you any other arguments that might prevent your attendance?”
A teasing note had entered his speech, and it flustered her a little. “Ah, no, I can’t think that I do.”
“Then I shall see you the three days hence at seven o’clock. Here is my direction.” He handed her a card and turned on his heel, but not before…winking at her?
Had a gentleman just winked at her?
She tucked the card into her reticule and set out once again. What an unusual day.
An unusual, satisfying day.
Chapter Eleven
“Don’t be nervous.”
“There’s no way not to be nervous!” Lucy protested as she watched Catharine pour a generous splash of brandy into a cup of tea.
“Drink this quickly before we go in,” the older woman ordered. “And as for the nerves, simply tell yourself to stop.”
“Of course you’re going to be nervous,” Emily said soothingly, accepting her own cup of doctored tea. “We don’t all have your ironclad nerves, Catharine.” She turned back to Lucy. “But do drink, won’t you? I agree on that point. You know that’s exactly what the gentlemen are doing upstairs.”
It was almost time for the party. The guests would start arriving any time, and Trevor and Lord Blackstone were huddled in his apartment with the investors, having worked their way upward on a tour. Trevor had been planning to tell them about her, to introduce her, but all this talk about how conservative and cautious they were was making her uneasy. It was one thing to stand her ground in the abstract, to insist that a woman could oversee the hotel as well as a man, but quite another to stand under their judgment and proclaim it. It was better, she thought, to let him introduce the idea of her without her being physically present.
So she’d taken the cowardly way, hiding before the men arrived, pretending to Trevor that she was needed in the kitchen on an urgent matter. She knew she’d have to face the investors sometime, but surely after a successful opening party would be better. So she’d fled and, much to Monsieur Bellanger’s chagrin, refused to leave his domain as he put the finishing touches on a buffet for three hundred. And there she remained, trying to stay out of the way of the kitchen maids, until Catharine and Emily came looking for her and coaxed her out to a small parlor adjacent to the main ballroom.
“I’m not sure about the dress,” Lucy said as the women towed her forward. She wouldn’t attend the party herself, but the ladies had convinced her that as manager, she should dress for the occasion should a matter arise in the ballroom that needed her attention. The deep green silk had seemed quite the thing in the planning, a celebratory nod to the namesake hotel. But now the low bodice her friends had assured her was daring but not scandalous seemed positively shameful. She patted her head gingerly, sure the dozens of pins that had been shoved into her chignon by Emily’s maid would all tumble to the floor at any moment and expose her for the imposter she was.
The women ignored her repeated protests, and Catharine threw open the doors to the ballroom. Lucy’s breath caught, though she had already seen the room—indeed she’d seen almost nothing else all day as she supervised the adornment of the grand space. But it still amazed her. The chandeliers were ablaze. The rich, well-oiled cherry-paneled walls gleamed. The deep green ribbons she’d festooned the place with contrasted beautifully with the pink peonies that cascaded from every surface. She’d worked hard to strike the perfect balance. Trevor might not be able to articulate it in exactly these terms, but he wanted the Jade to be beautiful but not contrived. Luxurious but not stuffy. Rare but not aloof.
“My dear,” Catharine said, spreading her arms wide as she stepped into the magnificent space, “look at this place. You simply cannot fail. It’s impossible.”
Trevor had wanted to see Lucy before the party began—and before he had to start probing the army officers Blackstone had added to the guest list—but by the time he and the investors made their way downstairs, the place was already beginning to fill up. Between the espionage and the investors, Trevor could use a dose of Lucy’s soothing competence.
The investors were more jittery than he’d anticipated over the news that he’d hired a female manager. He had planned to introduce her to them, to give the female manager a name and face. Once they understood that the “female manager” was a real person, a calm, capable, intelligent person with the Jade’s best interests always front of mind, he was confident they would accept her. They would have to. He just needed to find the female manager in question.
He searched the room for her, marveling over the casual beauty of the ballroom. Emily was standing near the door beside Blackstone—they’d agreed she would act as unofficial hostess. Though Blackstone affected an air of boredom, Trevor had worked with him long enough to recognize that the man’s placid expression was a ruse. As his wife greeted guests, the spymaster searched the face of each attendee, taking stock of when the officers of interest arrived.
Catharine and James, meanwhile, were huddled in a corner, he whispering something in her ear that made her grin wickedly. Blackstone wouldn’t like that—Catharine had her marching orders, too, and was supposed to be working, just as Trevor was.
Everyone else was accounted for, but where in God’s name was Lucy? Truth be told, he didn’t even care if she met the investors this evening, really. He just wanted to look around the room and share a moment of triumph with her before he had to take up his spying duties.
He just needed to see her eyes. Because he had done it. They had done it. She’d been here a mere month, yet how could he ever have thought he could do it without her?
The Jade was open.
“Trevor.”
Ah, there she was. He turned.
It was so unlikely that she should be there, standing on the far side of the ballroom, and yet there she was. Unlikely Lucy, gleaming, a jade flame burning bright in a sea of mere diamonds. Polished and disheveled at the same time, her fitted, elegant gown contrasted with hair that looked as if it had been precariously arranged and might escape its pins at any moment.
He watched with rapt attention as she crossed the room. The ballroom she strode across so decisively was perfection and she its centerpiece. With each step she took toward him, she shattered a little bit more of the ice surrounding his lungs. Had it always been there? Had it always been this hard to breathe? He was biting back gasps as air, blessed air, whooshed into his lungs. It hurt, this thaw. Needles pierced his chest, and he began to sweat with the effort of staying upright.
She smiled. He saw the same triumph he felt in that smile, and something else, too. What was it? Tenderness, perhaps. Understanding. Despite his discomfort, he felt his lips quirking upward, working of their own accord to mirror hers. As she drew closer, she spread her arms out and looked up to the ceiling, rolling her eyes incredulously as if to say, “Will you look at all this?”
Indeed. Look at all this. Look at her. Look at them: Lucy and Trevor from Seven Dials. They had done it! The idea was so delightfully absurd suddenly that he laughed. It sounded different, this laugh, louder and more expansive than anything that had ever come out of his mouth before. Maybe this was what laughing was supposed to sound like, when one’s lungs weren’t crusted over with layers of ice.
“You lightskirt.”
She’d let down her guard. That’s why she hadn’t noticed him until he’d grabbed her elbow. She’d been too busy looking at Trevor. He’d been closeted upstairs with the investors so long that she hadn’t had a chance to see him before the party started.
When she finally caught sight of him, everything else fell away: the room, the rising din of the crowd, even her nervousness. Warmth flooded her belly, but that was nothing new. That seemed to happen involuntarily—and increasingly—when she caught sight of those broad shoulders, those intelligent green eyes. She was starting to wonder, given her brief conversation with Emily and Catharine the oth
er day, if this was desire. She’d thought it something only men experienced.
She shoved the thought aside to examine later because there was also something else happening, a new sensation triggered by his presence. As he strode toward her, the sight of him prompted her to take a deep, cleansing breath. She hadn’t intended it, but the pink peonies everywhere brought to mind that unlikely vine that had grown under the bridge she’d hidden under her last week in Seven Dials. They were a material symbol of how far they had come.
Can you believe this? she wanted to cry out. Instead, she settled for what she hoped was a knowing look that communicated the same sentiment. Another deep breath. Pride. Perhaps that’s what this new freedom in her chest signified. The Jade—Trevor’s long-held dream—was open. She was proud to have helped him realize it. But more than that, she was proud for her own sake. Her vision, her hard work, had been vital to getting them here. Certainly, she’d felt satisfaction before, often when one of her pupils mastered a difficult concept. But this kind of all-encompassing pride was new. It was a full-body experience, and it made her want to twirl and dance and laugh.
But she should have known better than to expect it could be so simple. Believing that hard work and a little help from her oldest friend could straightforwardly yield pride and gratification and happiness—and no consequences—had been foolishly naive.
The yank on her elbow was so hard, she feared he would dislocate her shoulder. “Lightskirt. Bit-o’-muslin. Slut.” The voice, the hot breath on her cheek, was sickeningly familiar as he drew her toward a curtained alcove near the back of the ballroom.
“What are you doing here?” she breathed, even as the truth slammed against her chest, choking off the newfound freedom there.
Why had she never asked Trevor the names of his investors? The bitter truth was that she had not been interested. His description of them as “conservative men” coupled with Emily’s distain for them, brought to mind a type of person rather than a specific individual. Tedious, faceless men to be used for their wealth.
But of course the Viscount Galsmith was a perfect example of the type.
He jerked her arm again and forced her to step toward him. She stumbled but righted herself.
“I might ask you the same thing,” he snarled. “This is my hotel.”
She looked around wildly as he closed the curtain, metallic acid flooding her mouth and fear animating her limbs, exactly like that night in his study. But she wasn’t alone with Galsmith this time. She was in a ballroom. She had only to scream, and on the other side of that curtain were people who would help her. Her person, if not her reputation, was safe, for now at least. And Trevor would—
Another yank, but it was on Galsmith’s arm this time, though she felt the violence of it, reeling as he was forced to unhand her.
“What the hell is this?” Trevor demanded, invading the dim, curtained-off space. Galsmith started to sputter, but Trevor paid him no mind, turning his attention to her, eyes unreadable. “Is this him?”
“Him?” she heard Lord Blackstone echo as the earl appeared in their niche, too.
“I should be asking you the same question,” Galsmith spat. “Is this her? Except I already know the answer. This is the manager you spoke of, isn’t it? You’ve got a lightskirt running the Jade.”
Stricken, Lucy could not speak. She looked at her shoes, humiliated. There was no way to defend herself without making it worse. She was going to ruin it all, all her hard work. And Trevor’s—years of work on his part. Who had she thought she was, just moments ago, as she walked with her head held high, surveying the ballroom as if it belonged to her—as if she belonged here?
Well, she could at least sell her dresses. That would get her enough to get set up somewhere. Or perhaps Catharine would still honor her offer to allow Lucy to teach at her school. If she were lucky, all she had ruined was her own life and not the hotel.
Emily’s gasp drew Lucy’s attention back up in time to witness Trevor retracting his arm, fist clenched, silent fury written all over his face.
No. Her lips formed the word, but she couldn’t command the sound to accompany it. If, so far, they had been lucky enough to escape scandal, a brawl at the Jade’s opening night would not bode well for its future.
Lord Blackstone grabbed Trevor’s arm. “Not here, man.”
Trevor struggled, which only prompted Lord Blackstone to clamp both arms around him, as if he were intervening in a pub fight. Lucy heard people laughing at something Catharine was saying. She recognized her overly gay tone as an attempt to distract the guests from what was unfolding mere feet away from them in the alcove, and sent a silent prayer to the heavens that it would be enough.
“He’s right,” she whispered urgently, finally able to choke sound past the tight lump of fear lodged in her throat. Then, the ability to speak deserting her as quickly as it had arrived, all she could do was shake her head at him and try to transmute how urgent it was that he not make a scene. Her own reputation against that of the Jade? There was no question.
Trevor didn’t break eye contact with her, but he stopped struggling. “Did he…?”
Instantly transported back to Galsmith’s study that night, Lucy knew what he meant. She shook her head. “No. I got away…before that happened.”
Trevor looked up at the ceiling then, and the moment of inattention was enough for Lord Blackstone to escort Galsmith out of the ballroom. Trevor, after sending Lucy a look she could not decode, followed.
Was she supposed to go, too? Catharine appeared suddenly by her side, taking her arm and quite clearly planting her feet, as if to signal that they should let the men go on. Lucy was grateful for the cue, because she didn’t know what to do, what to think. She could only watch Trevor, who, before he stepped out of the room, shot her an another inscrutable look over his shoulder. She couldn’t decipher it, but it made her shiver.
Catharine watched Trevor, too, then swung her head around and made eye contact with Lucy, quirking a smile as she raised her eyebrows. “Well. This is getting interesting.”
Lucy had to work very hard not to cry. Catharine must have been able to tell, for she laid a hand on her shoulder. “Chin up, my girl. He’s a vile man, and we shan’t let him win.”
“This is not the time or place to argue about the morality of Mrs. Greenleaf,” Blackstone said as they entered a small sitting room adjacent to the ballroom.
“No,” Trevor said, feeling as though his jaw might explode, “dawn is the time.” He lunged around Blackstone and jabbed Galsmith in the chest. “Tomorrow. You name the place.”
Blackstone stepped between Trevor and Galsmith. “The two of you are not meeting at dawn.” He turned to Trevor. “I’ll prevent it by sleeping in your doorway tonight if I have to.”
Ahh! Trevor wanted to scream, but he knew Blackstone was right. There was no sense killing or being killed over some words—dueling was just another affection of the ever-impractical aristocracy. It’s just that he had nowhere to put the rage that was roiling inside him. Maybe he should embrace his rough background and just kill the viscount in his sleep.
“Probably you both ought to apologize to Mrs. Greenleaf,” Blackstone went on.
“It isn’t Mrs. Greenleaf, you know,” Galsmith sneered. “And if it were, I would note you’re awfully worked up over a perceived insult to another man’s wife.”
“Under the circumstances,” Blackstone said, “I think the best course of action is for Bailey to return your money, Galsmith. The two of you clearly—”
“I’m not going anywhere until you’ve been made to understand that you’ve hired the worst sort of doxy to be your housekeeper, or manager, or whatever the hell she is. Leave it to her to appropriate what is rightly a man’s job. That’s what reading all that—”
The growl that issued forth from Trevor’s throat was involuntary, but it served enough warning that Blackstone was able to intercept the punch Trevor had aimed to land on Galsmith’s jaw. I got away, Lucy had said.
But what had happened before that? How was he supposed to stand here and just let this man…continue to exist?
That he had the power to eliminate the viscount was a bit of a revelation. When he was a child, he hadn’t had the means to go after the men Lucy’s mother wanted to sell her to. So he’d gotten her out. But now…things were different. He was bigger and stronger than Galsmith—and he knew how to fight dirty. He wagered he knew a few tricks the milquetoast aristocrat did not.
Oblivious to the fact that Trevor was plotting his demise, Lucy’s former employer kept moving his foul mouth. “Of course, it doesn’t really matter what you call her because we all know that Loose Lucy earns her living on her back.”
“He isn’t worth it,” Blackstone said low in his ear. “We’ll handle this another way.”
“Fuck!” Trevor turned to the bell pull and yanked so hard the tasseled handle came off. He didn’t want to handle this another way—and that unsettled him. Hadn’t he spent the last several weeks lecturing Lucy about the importance of not courting scandal?
“There’s a great deal at stake here, Bailey,” Blackstone whispered.
Of course. We mustn’t endanger the mission. It would always come back to that for Blackstone, wouldn’t it? Never mind the hotel—there are army officers to chat with. Aware he was acting like an obstinate child but unable to stop himself, he hurled the tassel that had come off in his hand at the wall.
When a footman appeared, he rasped, “Viscount Galsmith was just leaving.” For a moment, he thought the bastard was going to put up a fight. Part of him—a very big part of him—welcomed it. Finish this now and be done with it.
Instead, Galsmith just curled his lip, coward that he was. “My condolences, Bailey. It’s not every day a man learns his mistress is a lightskirt.”
The Likelihood of Lucy (Regency Reformers Book 2) Page 14