Oh, the gall of him, speaking to her in the tone one used when addressing a recalcitrant child. “What makes you think I haven’t?”
Then she took her tightly balled fist and delivered an uppercut blow to that well-defined jaw she’d once peppered with kisses that had him dropping her rapier and reeling back two steps. She was rather certain the punch would have felled any other man, but he was all sinew, muscle, height, and breadth. However, her actions had momentarily stunned him, which provided all the distraction she needed to swiftly snatch up her weapon and close her fingers securely around it. Before he fully recovered, she lunged forward and pressed the tip of the blade between the part of his coat, against the linen of his shirt. She took immense satisfaction in how still he went, how he barely breathed, watching her, waiting. The temptation to skewer him had her fairly trembling with the possibility of gaining retribution against him. He deserved it for proving himself a scoundrel of the first water by stealing her heart and then crushing it beneath his boot heel once he’d gained what he wanted, what she’d willingly surrendered to him because she’d loved him so madly.
Tightening her hold on the weapon, she fought the memories bombarding her, memories of the kind and gentle fellow she’d once known, the one with whom she’d begun falling in love when she was a mere fifteen.
Chapter 2
London
1861
At First Blush
“Send for the slaughterer.”
Her father’s words had sent a bone-numbing chill through Lavinia, and now she stood near the stall with her forehead pressed to her mare’s, the hand of her uninjured arm brushing over Sophie’s gorgeous white coat. She’d pleaded with her father not to send for the horrid man who would take Sophie away.
“I’ll not keep a horse that throws a lady off its back,” he’d said sternly before marching toward the residence.
She’d known it would be fruitless to argue, but still she’d raced after him, trying to explain the truth of what had happened—but he wasn’t having it. The horse was a danger, and he’d not risk his only daughter’s safety. He would be rid of this one and purchase her another, his tone brooking no further arguments.
It wasn’t fair, wasn’t fair at all. It hadn’t been Sophie’s fault. If anyone was to blame it was the Duke of Thornley—known as Thorne to his intimates—for inviting Lavinia to go riding with him along Rotten Row, then inviting her brother as well, paying far more attention to Neville, who was nine years her senior, than to her. At birth, she’d been promised to Thorne, but that didn’t mean she didn’t require some level of wooing, didn’t yearn to be his sole focus. But no, in spite of her presence, the two men had been discussing some new gaming hell that was rumored to be “just the thing” and how they might go in search of it, because in spite of being “just the thing” it was apparently hidden away somewhere.
As always, they were treating her like a child, to be humored, not a girl on the cusp of womanhood, whose body had been changing for some time now in preparation for marriage and childbirth and who had recently acquired a lady’s maid. Feeling jealous and petulant, she’d given the usually docile Sophie a stinging slap on the rump with her riding crop, intending to send the horse into a frenzied gallop in order to pretend to have lost control of the beast so her future fiancé would dash after them and rescue her. However, instead of bolting, Sophie had reared up at the abuse and unseated Lavinia, who had then landed hard on her arm, which had landed even harder on a rock. She’d screamed at the pain that had torn through her and then stared stupidly at the shard of white just above her wrist that protruded through her sleeve and the red that was soaking into the lime-colored fabric of her riding habit.
She couldn’t remember exactly—being in shock, she supposed—how her brother had lifted her and she had ended up in Thorne’s lap as he sat astride his gelding. Holding her close, while urging his horse to canter at a fast clip, he’d escorted her home, leaving Neville to retrieve her mare. In spite of it being the most excruciating journey of her life, she’d welcomed Thorne’s arms about her, his nearness. He’d even carried her into the residence, up to her bedchamber, as though her leg and not her arm was broken.
He’d make an exceptional husband, even if he was eleven years her senior, and presently in no rush to marry, apparently. He hadn’t officially asked for her hand, but their fathers had signed a contract upon her birth giving Wood’s End, a small estate that bordered up against Thorne’s much larger one, to the duke upon their marriage. So her future was settled and done, without poetry, flowers, or grand gestures. The entire arrangement was all so dashed boring, lacking in passion, desire, and mad yearning.
Once he’d deposited her on the bed, Thorne had respectfully taken his leave, turning her care over to the servants who scurried about with words of worry as though she were not long for this world. Although she knew full well a gentleman did not remain in a lady’s bedchamber if he was not married to her, she was still so deuced disappointed that he hadn’t hovered over her himself. The physician had been sent for, the bone reset—a process that had pained her immensely—and a splint secured about her forearm to prevent the bone from moving again until it was properly healed.
Slightly woozy from the laudanum she’d been given to dilute the pain, she’d made her way to the stable in order to check on Sophie and ensure she was unharmed. She’d arrived just as her father made his proclamation. And now there was no hope for it. Her beautiful Sophie would be led to slaughter.
“I’m sorry, so sorry, sweet girl,” she whispered, over and over, with tears welling in her eyes. “I was incredibly stupid, and now you’ll pay the price.”
If she weren’t hampered with a broken arm, she’d saddle Sophie, mount her, and ride away, a fantasy that overlooked the fact she’d never saddled a horse in her life and had no idea how to go about it. The advantage to having servants was that tasks were done, and she didn’t have to bother with learning the intricacies regarding how they were done. Except for the slaughtering of horses. Neville, intrigued by the ways in which London rid itself of its numerous aging and ill equines, had visited a slaughter depot. He’d then returned to regale her with the horrors of the slaughter and aftermath. She’d been all of seven, he sixteen, and she’d awoken with nightmares for an entire month. And now a horrible, ugly, hunchbacked man was coming to do the unthinkable to Sophie, and she hadn’t the ability to save her.
“M’lady?” Johnny, one of the grooms, said quietly at her back. “The slaughterer’s here. We need to retrieve Sophie from her stall.”
With anger, frustration, and grief all warring for dominance, she swung around, and her gaze fell on a stranger, no doubt the slaughterer. Only he wasn’t hideous and old and looking to have a heart made of stone. He was young. Perhaps half a dozen years older than she, if that. Beneath his brown flat-cap, his dark blond hair curled about the collar of his plain brown jacket. His white shirt and brown waistcoat were clean, but wrinkled, and she suspected his labors prevented them from remaining pristine all day. But it was his brown eyes that drew her, eyes that didn’t look to be those of a killer. “How can you do it?” she asked, her voice rough, her throat raw from all the tears that had made their way down it and clogged it. “How can you murder her? She’s not old. She’s not wicked. She didn’t intend to throw me.”
“We do what we’re paid to do.” His voice echoed resignation, as though it wasn’t the first time he’d been forced to address the accusations.
“Surely, you can spare her.”
He nodded toward her arm. “Did she do that?”
“No, the ground did, when I fell.”
“So she tossed you.”
“But it wasn’t her fault. I goaded her into it. Normally she’s a very docile creature.”
“She is that,” Johnny concurred.
“My father is stubborn. He won’t listen.” She took a step nearer. “But surely you will see the truth of things. Spare her.”
“We risk losing our lic
ense if we cheat the customer.”
“But you’re not cheating my father if he never learns of it. You’re cheating death. How marvelous that would be.”
“Sorry, m’lady. Now if you’ll be so good as to move aside.” He made to edge past her.
She balled up her good hand and smacked his shoulder, certain she’d injured herself more than she’d hurt him. He was solid rock, but at least he stopped and looked down on her, lording over her by several inches. Were he to hold her in his strong arms—which she most certainly would not allow—the top of her head would come to rest just beneath his collarbone. “She won’t suffer. I’ve a way with horses, so I can see to that. The end comes quick. She won’t even know.”
“You’re a monster! How can you do this?”
“Have you any idea how many horses are in London? Do you think people want to be stepping over rotten and smelling carcasses everywhere they turn? We provide a much-needed service.”
She heard the defensiveness in his tone, which made her feel peevish because she knew the truth of his words, knew something had to be done with the ancient and feeble steeds. “But Sophie is neither rotten, smelly, nor near death.”
“You should have thought of that before you goaded her.”
His words stung more than her hand did after hitting him. “You’re horrid!”
Ignoring her outburst, he strode past her, opened the stall gate, and slipped a noosed rope over Sophie’s head and secured it about her neck, affectionately rubbing the area. “Come on, pretty girl.”
He led her out. Lavinia rushed forward and wound her arms around her mare’s neck. “I’m so sorry, Sophie. So very sorry. I’ll never forget you. I’ll always love you, sweet girl.” Then she looked at the young man. “Please don’t let her be frightened.”
Sympathy and sorrow wove themselves through his brown eyes. “I’ll sing her the sweetest lullaby ever heard.”
“She’ll like that.” After planting a kiss on Sophie’s neck, taking one final deep breath of her fragrance, Lavinia stepped back, nearly crying out at the pain tightening her chest.
She watched as he led Sophie toward the wagon with its wooden enclosure, suspecting not all horses were in a position to take themselves where they needed to go, and that traveling in what looked to be a small plain cottage provided them with a bit of dignity. He urged her up the plank and closed the partial door on her. Lavinia’s final look at her beloved horse was her rump and the swishing of her tail as she was being carted off to be summarily executed, like one of Henry the Eighth’s doomed wives.
As the wagon rumbled slowly through the streets toward the slaughter yard, Finn Trewlove shifted his backside over the wooden bench and tightened his hands in frustration on the reins. It wasn’t the first time he’d been called to a posh house to dispose of a horse that appeared perfectly healthy. The nobs didn’t like it when a mare tossed off a precious daughter or a gelding took a nip at their valued heir’s arse. Still, it irritated the devil out of him when good horseflesh had to be put down for stupid reasons.
But he’d told the lass true. He was paid ten shillings to dispatch the creature to heaven, and if it was discovered he hadn’t, his boss could forfeit his license and Finn would lose not only his position but his ability to find employment elsewhere, because who would trust him after not carrying out orders dictated by law? No cheating of the customer was allowed. The taking of a horse that was to be put down was theft. He wasn’t going to risk going to prison, no matter how pretty the girl, no matter how green her eyes—the greenest, prettiest he’d ever had the pleasure to look into. Even if they were filled with anger directed at him, when it should have been directed at herself. Silly chit, to hasten a horse’s end by goading her and then begging Finn to spare the beast, as though he had a choice in the matter.
He didn’t. At the depot, they were expecting the horse and the ten shillings. It would be killed with one swift blow of an axe. Normally he found comfort knowing that the end came swiftly and mercifully.
But the girl, blast her—he could still see the tears glistening in her eyes—made him feel guilty about his current occupation. It paid well, but it wasn’t where he planned to spend his entire life. He was one and twenty, had saved a good bit of money, and would soon be moving on to better things. But no amount of moving on was going to stop him from being haunted by the sorrow reflected in those green, green eyes.
That night, near midnight, in the mews outside the Earl of Collinsworth’s massive residence, Finn stood with his black burglary bag resting near his feet. In his youth, he’d gotten involved with an unsavory group of lads. He’d been fifteen when his mum had discovered what he was about and had nearly flayed the skin off his backside with her switch—even with his britches still covering the sensitive flesh. She hadn’t taken him in when no one else wanted him and kept him alive all those years to see him rotting in prison or dangling from a hangman’s noose. To placate her he’d left the trade of burglarizing but kept the tools he’d purchased as well as the skills he’d acquired, never knowing when either or both might come in handy.
He’d been studying the residence for a couple of hours now, striving to determine which bedchamber was hers, but the girl never peered out a window. Based on the glow occasionally coming from between the draperies, he’d been able to narrow the possible windows down to eight, but not knowing the size of the rooms, he couldn’t be certain he had the right of it when it came to their number. In a residence as large as this one, some of the chambers were bound to have more than a single window. Hedges lined the walls, but no trees were near enough to the house for him to climb up and take a peek inside.
Hence the tools. He was going to break into the lord’s manor.
He’d considered stopping by tomorrow afternoon and asking to talk with the girl about the fate of her horse but had decided he was safer with a clandestine meeting because absolutely no one except the girl could ever know what he’d done. A lord who sent a horse to its doom for tossing his daughter from the saddle might not take too kindly to a commoner asking to speak with said daughter, especially when Finn was hoping their little meeting would result in her traveling with him. The rationale had all made sense when he’d been tossing back beer in his sister’s tavern, although he suspected come morning, when a clearer head was to be found, he’d realize he was every manner of fool.
But that was for tomorrow. For now, he wasn’t so far into his cups he couldn’t sneak stealthily into the house. He’d watched the lights going out one by one until not a speck was visible, so he was rather certain all the inhabitants, including the servants, were finally abed. The larger the residence, the better it was for burglarizing because so much of it was abandoned at night that a thief could easily wander about, lifting goods without ever running into another soul.
Hefting his bag over his shoulder, pulling his cap down low, he crept toward the massive manor that was the sort he planned to live in when he was older, when he’d made something of himself. As much as he hated his current occupation, he loved working with the horses and hoped, with a bit of luck, to own a horse farm someday where he could breed and train the noble beasts. It wasn’t a fancy dream, but he’d rather be his own man, work for himself, not have to answer to another. However, dreaming was for another time. At that precise moment he needed to focus on not getting caught.
When he reached the servants’ door, he quietly lowered his bag to the ground, opened it, and pulled out a small lantern, enclosed on three sides, with a tiny hole on the fourth that allowed only a minimum of light to escape. After using a match to light the candle within, he held it up to the lock, grateful to see it was one he was quite skilled at unlocking. He had the tools to pry open a window or to cut away glass when prying wouldn’t work, but opening a lock was always the better choice, especially in this case. If the unlocked door was discovered, a servant would be taken to task for not securing the home properly, but that was preferable to leaving glaring evidence that someone had indeed ent
ered uninvited. Removing the small satchel containing his picks, he went to work and less than a minute later he was through the door. He left his bag on the stoop because he wouldn’t be taking any treasures with him.
Although it was tempting, so damned tempting, to lift a vase here or an ornate box there as he made his way quietly through the residence, holding his lantern aloft to guide him. Now and then the light would shine on some fancy object he knew probably wouldn’t be missed. The nobs had so many blasted knickknacks, as though filling their house with useless things would disguise the fact their lives were lacking in some regard. On occasion, after he’d ransacked a residence, no one ever noted the absence of the silver candlesticks, trinkets, or figurines he’d nicked. Coppers had never been sent for. He’d known because he’d taken perverse pleasure in keeping an eye on the house just to see if any frantic activity occurred the following morning. He’d prided himself on getting away with the thievery, had thought eventually he could become the greatest burglar who ever lived—but then his mum had discovered his antics and put a quick stop to them.
If she hadn’t, he wouldn’t now be creeping through the residence, up the wide swath of stairs. He imagined the earl’s daughter descending them in a ball gown of clover green that matched her eyes. He suspected her dance card would be filled within a few minutes of her arriving in the ballroom. He knew all about balls because they were good for a burglar’s business, especially when the guests stayed over. More jewelry to rob because it was seldom locked up when people retired late and were too weary to properly see to things. The gang boss had sent him to case out a few balls, then ordered him to rob one of the residences. It had been the most terrifying and exhilarating night of his life. Until now. His heart was thumping hard, not from fear but from anticipation.
At the landing, he turned down a hallway, and when he reached the first door, he paused, pressed his ear to the wood, and listened. Heavy snoring, male snoring. The next door revealed nothing but quiet on the other side. Probably the lady of the manor, but he needed to check. Slowly, ever so slowly, he released the latch and then inch by inch eased open the door. Fancy houses also tended to have silent hinges, the servants keen about keeping them oiled.
The Scoundrel in Her Bed Page 2