“If they were beholden to you, they could hardly tell you what they thought of you,” she pointed out. “Servants, shopkeepers, ladies who, er…”
She floundered a bit at that point.
“Whores, you mean.” He was watching her still.
She nodded stiffly, refusing to look away from him. “Yes. Mistresses and streetwalkers. They are paid companions and thus are hardly likely to speak ill of you.”
“No woman has ever had occasion to speak ill of me.” His eyelids lowered, his face impossibly voluptuous.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Except me.”
“Except you.” He cocked his head mockingly. “But then you haven’t seen the best of me.”
“No, I haven’t,” she replied, leaning forward as the carriage swayed around the corner. “If—if—there is a good side to you. If there is something redeeming within you, why haven’t you shown it to me? Why did you hide your kindness to Sam?”
He shrugged, glancing away from her stare. “I don’t hide anything. I’m surprised you’re interested in the boy.”
She inhaled. “You think I wouldn’t care about the welfare of a small boy?”
His lips twisted. “A small poor boy.”
She felt the insult like a blow to her stomach. “I assure you,” she said, “that Sam’s station in life doesn’t matter to me.”
“Doesn’t it?” His expression was cynical.
“No.”
“As you will.”
She fumed silently as the carriage rattled through London. Why would he think so badly of her? Or did he have the same jaded view of everyone?
“I don’t understand you,” she burst out. “I can’t tell if you are simply a villain or if you’re something more.”
His upper lip lifted as he drawled, “It’s easier for you to think of me as a villain, isn’t it?”
“It is.” She stared at him. “I’m still not sure you’re not the villain, frankly.”
“Mm. Have you noticed that villains have no thoughts of their own?” He spread his hands and tilted them toward his own chest. “They are there only to be hated.”
“Is that what you want to be?” she asked softly. “Hated?”
He thought and then shrugged. “It doesn’t matter if I wish to be hated or not. I’m not the one who decides.”
She bit her lip, glancing down at her lap. Had she wronged him in thinking him a villain? But his actions toward her were villainous. This might be only a ruse to confuse her—a more subtle form of persuasion than the puppy. She simply couldn’t tell.
She looked back up at him. “What happens if I decide that you’re not a villain?”
He blinked—a small sign, almost unnoticeable, but she caught it. “Nothing.”
She cocked her head, feeling as if she’d scored a point in this obscure game. “Truly?”
He simply watched her, not answering, but his black eyes seemed puzzled.
Messalina smiled at him, suddenly feeling quite cheerful.
The carriage stopped, and she glanced out the window and saw they were back at Whispers.
Hawthorne helped her from the carriage and accompanied her into the house, where he hesitated a moment.
He seemed to come to a decision. “I want to show you something.”
He held out his arm, and though she was a bit suspicious, her curiosity won out.
She placed her palm on his arm.
They walked back through the house, past the mysterious door she wasn’t allowed to open, and to the kitchens.
As Hawthorne ushered her into the kitchens, a young redheaded man caught sight of them and jumped up from the stool where he’d been sitting.
“Guv!” the young man exclaimed. He was tall and thin and carried himself awkwardly, as if he didn’t know what to do with all his long limbs.
Beside him was a girl who couldn’t be more than twelve or thirteen. She simply gawked at them, her hands tangled in her apron.
“Stand down, Hicks,” Hawthorne said.
But Messalina was distracted by what she saw near the fireplace. She walked over, Hawthorne following her.
Curled up there was Sam, asleep on a pallet with the puppy draped over his chest, the animal’s small head nestled into the boy’s neck.
Messalina turned to Hawthorne and whispered, “You are shameless.”
Hawthorne cocked a brow.
She huffed, turning back to the sleeping boy and puppy. They were simply adorable.
“Shall I wake them?” he asked.
“No, let them be,” she said. “I’d rather talk to your cook instead. Where is he?”
His lips twitched as if he knew a joke she did not.
“Actually, I was about to introduce you to him.” He took her hand and turned her around so that she faced the redheaded youth. “This is Hicks, my cook.”
“Ma’am,” Hicks said, nervously fiddling with a wooden spoon and then dropping it.
He hastily bent and retrieved it, his cheeks now redder than his hair.
Messalina felt her eyes widen. Hicks couldn’t be more than twenty or so. No wonder he had no idea how to make a proper breakfast—or indeed anything other than pies, it seemed. This morning she would’ve berated the cook and told him that his services were no longer needed.
But that was before her afternoon with Hawthorne. Before she’d found out how dire it might be for a person out of work in London.
And before she’d seen Hicks’s wide blue eyes.
Messalina took a bracing breath and said to Hawthorne, “Would you excuse me, please? I’d like to discuss the meals with Hicks.”
Hawthorne seemed to search her eyes for a moment, and then he leaned forward, murmuring in her ear, “Don’t forget I’m taking you to the theater tonight.”
He was out the door before Messalina had fully recovered from his hot breath against her cheek. She stared after him, absently touching her fingers to her cheek.
Hicks cleared his throat awkwardly. “’Ow can I be of service, ma’am?”
Messalina turned to him. “I thought we should discuss breakfast.”
Hicks gulped, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing. “Yes, ma’am?”
She smiled. “Have you ever made shirred eggs?”
“Uh…”
“What about kippers?”
His eyes widened in what looked like alarm.
“Chocolate? Buttered kidneys? Porridge?”
Hicks shook his head at each item.
“Well.” Messalina felt her smile slipping a bit, but she continued briskly, “Time enough for you to learn those dishes. Perhaps we should start with something more—”
She was interrupted by the patter of tiny paws. The puppy came gamboling over, his tail wagging so madly his entire rear end wriggled.
“Oh,” Messalina said softly, and bent to catch him in her arms. His little body felt almost boneless, his puppy fur rippling beneath her fingers as she scratched his neck gently. “You are terribly beguiling.”
The puppy licked her fingers and then tried to nibble.
“No biting,” she said sternly, tapping him on the nose.
The puppy looked confused and then began squirming.
She put him down, and he raced back to his pallet, where Sam was sitting up sleepily.
Sam caught sight of her and his eyes widened. “Ma’am.” He scrambled to stand, looking worried. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
“That’s quite all right.” Messalina made sure her voice was reassuring. “Has he been good today?”
Sam looked down uncertainly at the puppy, now wrestling one of his shoes. “’E’s been doing ’is duty mostly in the garden.” The boy looked at her earnestly. “’E’s right clever and ’e’s trying not to bite.”
The puppy lost his grip and fell over before taking an interest in his own tail.
“He does seem very clever,” Messalina said gravely. “I wonder what I should name him.”
Sam opened his mouth and t
hen shut it.
“Hmmm.” Messalina tapped her finger against her lips, making a show of considering the matter. The boy stared at her urgently. “Sam, do you have any ideas?”
“Daisy!” Sam exclaimed, as if the name had been bottled up in his throat and he’d just uncorked it. “Cause ’e likes to sniff them in the garden.”
Messalina blinked and looked at the puppy, who was now attempting to catch his own tail. The puppy toppled over again with a squeak.
Messalina’s lips twitched. “Then Daisy it is.”
Sam grinned happily up at her and Messalina felt warm. As if she’d single-handedly brought joy to the little boy.
At that moment Daisy began circling and sniffing the floor with purpose.
“Erm,” Messalina began, alarmed.
“Daisy, come ’ere!” Sam ran for the door leading into the garden.
Thankfully the puppy chased him.
“Sorry, ma’am,” Sam said at the open door, “’e’s going to—”
“Yes, yes, go on.” Messalina waved him out the door.
When she turned back, Hicks looked surprised but respectful. “Thought that dog would never learn to go outside for ’is…erm, duty.”
“Then Sam must be doing a good job,” she replied. “Now. Why don’t we start with something simple? Have you ever boiled an egg?”
When Hicks’s face fell, Messalina took a deep breath. Good thing she’d watched her nursemaid make soft-boiled eggs almost every day in the nursery.
She set to work. Her smile was wide, her attention seemingly all on Hicks…or so she hoped. For inside, her mind had turned to the problem of Hawthorne. She was letting him in, finding herself too interested in how his mind worked, becoming sensitized to his nearness, his eyes, the wicked way he smiled at her. And all that?
Was dangerous.
* * *
Julian doffed his tricorne as he entered the small inn. Water spilled out from the curled brim and spattered into the puddle already on the flagstones.
He huffed and made his way to the tiny private room at the back of the inn.
“Well?” Lucretia immediately asked as he entered.
Quinn sat beside her with a tankard in his fist.
Julian shook his head and pulled a chair closer to the fireplace. “The road’s a river. The coachman refused to drive on it, and there’s no other road that will take a carriage.”
“Oh, but we can’t wait another day!” Lucretia looked near tears.
“I’m sorry.” Julian took a moment to wipe his face with an already-sodden handkerchief. He hated the delay just as much as she, and were he alone he might try riding to London.
But he wasn’t alone. He had Lucretia and Quinn with him, and while Julian ought to be able to leave his sister with his brother…Julian glanced at Quinn’s nodding head. How many tankards had he drunk already?
Julian sighed. If only he could find out how Aurelia had died that night fifteen years ago. How was the duke involved, had Ran truly killed her, and had it been murder or an accident? Perhaps if he discovered the truth, Quinn could have some peace.
He shook his head and glanced at Lucretia. “I’ve ordered dinner. We’ll stay here the night and leave when the roads are drier in the morning.” He caught Lucretia’s disappointed look. “I’ll save her from whatever nefarious plans the duke has. I promise.”
Chapter Six
The tinker felt for his purse and spilled its meager contents into his palm. “I’ve money.”
The fox grinned. “What good is your money to me?”
The tinker spread out the bundle holding his tools and wares: hammers, shears, nippers, a tin cup, two pie pans, and various bits and pieces of solder and tin.
But the fox shook his head before the tinker could speak. “I have no use for such.”…
—From Bet and the Fox
That night Messalina frowned at herself in the small mirror on her new dressing table. She’d spent the rest of the afternoon with Hicks and the little scullery maid, whose name turned out to be Grace. Fixing the problem of their meals had turned out to be relatively easy. She’d shown Hicks how to boil an egg and set about finding a more experienced cook to teach him the craft.
Hawthorne and her feelings for him presented a bigger dilemma.
Which was why she frowned now.
“Is the way I’ve dressed your hair not to your liking, ma’am?” Bartlett asked from behind her.
Messalina met the maid’s eye in the mirror and hastened to smile. “It’s quite lovely. I was thinking of something else.”
Bartlett nodded and resumed placing two jeweled pins.
Messalina’s smile slowly drooped. Ridiculous to spend the beginning of the afternoon enjoying her husband’s company like some brainless ninny. She could not forget that Gideon Hawthorne was using her. He kept secrets. She still didn’t know what was in that locked room by the kitchens. He hadn’t told her what Uncle Augustus wanted of him.
Really, she knew very little about Hawthorne.
Except…he’d been kind to Sam. He’d hired Hicks to cook even though the boy had hardly any skills. And what was more, he’d listened to her as she presented her case for buying furniture—truly listened, as if her ideas and thoughts were as important as a man’s.
As important as his own.
Men never did that. Oh, a gentleman at a social event might smile and nod as a lady babbled about frocks and gossip and the weather, but should she offer her opinion on something more serious—politics, philosophy, literature—his eyes would go blank. He’d gaze over her shoulder. He’d fidget. And—if he had nothing to gain from listening to her—he would simply walk away.
Men didn’t value women for their thoughts.
How odd to realize that even her brothers rarely engaged her in serious discussion.
And yet Hawthorne—a man without education, from the streets of St Giles—had valued her enough not only to listen, but to be swayed by her argument.
Such consideration was seductive.
The thought made Messalina uneasy. She had to remember that her plan was to leave Hawthorne. To get as far away from both him and her uncle as she could. It was her only chance to live her life freely.
Wasn’t it?
“There now.” Bartlett stepped back from Messalina and examined her handiwork. “I think that’s quite elegant, if you don’t mind me saying so, ma’am.”
Messalina turned her head from side to side to better examine herself in the mirror. Bartlett had pulled most of her hair into a simple knot at the back of her head, but the hair near her face had been curled into loose ringlets. The butterfly pins set with diamonds, garnets, and yellow gems were placed to highlight the curls.
Messalina touched one of the little pins. “You’ve done a superb job as always, Bartlett. I quite like how you’ve used Mama’s jeweled butterflies.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Bartlett replied briskly. “The pearl earrings?”
“Yes.”
Bartlett went to the open jewel box and retrieved the earrings, then bent over Messalina to affix them. “Had I two more lady’s maids, we would’ve dressed you within an hour or less.”
“I know,” Messalina replied, wincing. They’d been in the bedroom for two hours. “You’ve done a marvelous job on your own.”
Hawthorne really needed to hire other servants. A large house simply could not be run without them. She made a mental note to try again to persuade him.
Except…she was leaving. What did it matter to her if his house collapsed from lack of servants?
She suddenly wondered if Bartlett would want to come with her and Lucretia. The lady’s maid had never protested travel, but of course they always returned to London. If they journeyed abroad, would Bartlett be willing to leave England? Did she have family?
“Bartlett?”
“Ma’am?” The maid was busy positioning a curl.
“Where do you come from?”
The maid glanced up into the mirror, l
ooking startled. “Why, I was born near Oxford, ma’am. My mother was a maid and my father a butcher.”
“Do you still have family there?”
Bartlett smiled. “A sister. She writes me often and tells me of her children—a boy and a girl.”
“Sisters are so important, aren’t they?” Messalina said softly, thinking of both Lucretia and Aurelia, forever lost to them now.
“Yes, indeed,” the maid replied.
Had Lucretia reached Julian yet? Or was she still trying to find him? Messalina sighed and rose. “We shouldn’t be too late. A little after midnight, perhaps?”
“Aye, I’ll be waiting, ma’am,” Bartlett replied as she busily put away the toilet items.
Messalina paused by the door. “Thank you, Bartlett.”
“Ma’am.” Bartlett bobbed a curtsy.
Messalina started down the stairs, contemplating how many years she’d employed Bartlett without knowing she had family in Oxfordshire. How could she have been so unaware of Bartlett? It was as if she’d gone through life wearing a scarf wound round her eyes, and now that scarf had fallen.
Or rather, Hawthorne had pulled the scarf from her eyes.
She saw him then, waiting in the entryway of Whispers, and for a moment her breath caught as she was struck anew by how magnetic he was. Hawthorne stood there, his long legs braced apart, his arms crossed, his full mouth curving just slightly at the sight of her.
She must remember that she couldn’t trust him. That if she did, all her hopes and dreams not only for herself, but for Lucretia would be lost.
She braced herself as she descended the last steps. She would not react to him.
Belatedly she noticed what he was wearing—the exact same suit he’d worn that afternoon. At least it looked the same. Black coat, waistcoat, and breeches without any ornamentation at all. Did he have any other suit? Whyever hadn’t he changed for the theater?
He walked toward her, moving with a feline sort of grace that made her swallow.
He held out his hand. “You are beautiful, Mrs. Hawthorne.”
Her silly, silly heart leaped at his words. She’d heard the same thing or similar from countless gentlemen, usually in much more flowery terms, but when Hawthorne said it with his black eyes glinting wickedly…
When a Rogue Meets His Match Page 9