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In Debt To The Earl
Elizabeth Rolls
‘If you wish, I can take you out of all this. ’In his quest for revenge against a disreputable card sharp James, Earl of Cambourne, discovers the man’s innocent daughter. While her surroundings are impoverished, her dignity and refinement are unmistakable, and James faces an unsettling question – what will be her fate if he brings her father to justice?Although yearning for love and comfort, Lucy resists the Earl’s surprising offer of protection. That is until a price is made on her virginity, and James is the only man who can save her!


‘I must say I envy Hensleigh,’ murmured her unwelcome guest.
Lucy stiffened, but continued polishing so that the table wobbled noisily.
‘Lucky fellow,’ he went on, ‘having a wench willing to clean his lodgings and warm his bed.’
Everything inside her stopped as well as the polishing rag. And the temper her grandparents had tried so hard to curb slipped its leash. Slowly she straightened and faced him, the dusting rag clenched in her fist. ‘Wench?’ She restrained the urge to throw the rag in his face.
His brows rose. ‘A poor choice of words,’ he said. ‘You could do better than Hensleigh.’
‘Really?’ Rage slammed through her, but she kept her voice dulcet. ‘You, for example?’
He smiled. ‘If you like. If you tell me where he is.’
‘They say it’s a wise child who knows its own father,’ she said, her stomach twisting.
James wondered if he’d been hit on the head with a brick as the implications slammed into him. No one had suggested that the woman in Hensleigh’s lodgings was his daughter!
Author Note (#ulink_0dccd1b3-471d-5392-823f-80e93cdaeeb8)
This story takes place a little earlier than the rest of my stories, in 1802. Some years back I wrote a short story called The Funeral, and for various reasons needed an earlier setting. This was the genesis of James and Lucy’s story. A throwaway line about her father’s gambling debts gave me the lead into this book. I hope you enjoy it as much as I have enjoyed finding out more about them.
Readers familiar with the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century will recognise James’s godfather, Charles James Fox. Fox’s real-life love affair with the courtesan Elizabeth Armistead is one of the world’s great love stories, and I was delighted to be able to include them in this book.
In Debt to the Earl
Elizabeth Rolls

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ELIZABETH ROLLS lives in the Adelaide Hills of South Australia with her husband, teenage sons, dogs and too many books. She is convinced that she will achieve a state of blessed Nirvana when her menfolk learn to put their own dishes in the dishwasher without being asked and cease flexing their testosterone over the television remote.
Elizabeth loves to hear from readers, and invites you to contact her via email at books@elizabethrolls.com.
For Sharon.
For Sharon. We share a birthday and a love of tea. You share your daughters with me, and we’ve stood beside too many soccer pitches to count, cheering each other’s kids on. This one is for you.
Contents
Cover (#uf3e01ca1-4e74-5b67-8103-5fd87c833b8f)
Introduction (#uaa0162ec-44e6-5bab-81b5-f6ae4ad768dd)
Author Note (#ucecb81a7-d072-5439-af0b-375169041b22)
Title Page (#uf48166e8-1896-55e3-808a-b9772d1e6378)
About the Author (#u2da3fc55-ded4-52fd-b751-269e5aa6df77)
Dedication (#uab2b7fc7-0b65-5108-a764-ed710a2c2b20)
Prologue (#u5ca3929a-838a-507b-aa32-ea557a23be7e)
Chapter One (#u581ecd0c-8c24-5cc4-b8d2-e2e4f7148ded)
Chapter Two (#uf4673599-8525-52ed-ad57-2fba63fb7b64)
Chapter Three (#uc4aa6afd-8ebe-59d4-ba4f-81ea48fcf3cb)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#ulink_1783559e-91cb-5a35-b87a-187d8d5dfbc8)
March 1802
‘Damn it, Paget.’ James, Lord Cambourne, stared down at the battered, unconscious face of his young cousin, Nick Remington. ‘What the hell happened? Has the doctor been?’
Nick’s manservant, Paget, nodded. ‘Yes, m’lord. I sent for the doctor immediately. He’s just left.’
‘And?’
Paget tucked the blankets more securely around his young master. ‘Just bruising, a cracked rib and a knock to the head.’
‘Just?’ James took exception to the servant’s soothing tone. ‘For God’s sake, Paget! You’re taking it mighty calmly! Does the boy make a habit of this?’
‘No!’ Paget glanced at Nick, who shifted restlessly, and lowered his voice. ‘My lord, if we might go into the sitting room? Doctor Greaves said he ought to sleep—’
‘James?’ The voice was barely a whisper. ‘That you?’
The blue eyes, one distinguished by a black eye of impressive proportions, were open, if bleary. Under the scrapes and bruises, his face was nearly as white as his pillow.
‘Yes,’ James said. ‘What the devil have you been about, you idiot?’ Relief roughened his voice.
‘Being an idiot,’ Nick got out through a split lip. ‘Did Paget send for you?’
‘Well, of course I did, Master Nick,’ Paget said. ‘You were attacked!’
‘What?’ James had been assuming a falling out of friends that had got out of hand. ‘Attacked?’
Nick’s gaze fastened on Paget. ‘Tell me you didn’t send for the mater and pater. Please.’
‘No, sir.’ Paget’s tone was soothing. ‘Just his lordship.’
‘Thank God.’ Nick attempted to sit up and the bedclothes fell back, revealing his naked torso, even as he sank down cursing.
James’s eyes widened and he swore savagely. Nick’s body was livid with bruises.
‘Looks as bad as it feels, does it?’ Nick managed a weak grin.
‘Stay on the damn pillow.’ James enforced the command with a gentle hand on his cousin’s shoulder. ‘I can’t blame you for not wanting to see your parents, but unless you wish me to send for them, you will do as you are told.’
‘Bully,’ Nick said with a half smile.
‘Believe it,’ James said. ‘Who beat you?’ Because that was what it looked like—a deliberate and brutal beating.
Nick grimaced. ‘Did I mention that I was an idiot?’
‘You did,’ James said. ‘Unnecessary, but you did mention it. Go on.’
‘Well, I lost a bit of money.’
‘How much is a bit?’ James asked.
‘Er...quite a bit. A couple of monkeys.’
James bit back several choice remarks. No doubt Nick was already thinking them anyway. ‘A couple of monkeys.’ His voice expressed polite interest. ‘You lost a thousand at— What? Cards? Dice? A horse?’
‘Cards,’ Nick said. ‘The thing is—’
‘You couldn’t pay.’ James failed to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. A thousand was more than Nick’s entire annual allowance.
‘No.’ Nick’s voice was weary, his eyes closed. James glanced at Paget, who gestured to the door. On the whole James agreed. Nick was safe and the story could wait. But Nick’s eyes opened again.
‘I couldn’t pay and he sold my vowels.’
‘Who?’
‘Chap called Hensleigh. Captain Hensleigh,’ Nick said.
‘Never heard of him,’ James said. But Captain Hensleigh was going to hear from him. ‘Navy or army?’
‘What?’
‘What sort of captain?’ James asked.
Nick grimaced. ‘Oh. Sharp, I should think.’
A Captain Sharp. Wonderful. Nick had come up to town for the first time, lost more money than he could pay to a professional card cheat and been beaten up.
James glanced at Paget. ‘Is there any coffee?’
‘I roasted and ground beans earlier,’ Paget said. ‘But Mr Nick fell asleep. It won’t take long.’
‘Thank you,’ James said.
‘Sorry,’ Nick mumbled. ‘Should have offered.’
James snorted. ‘We’ll just assume your manners have gone begging in the same place as your wits.’
‘Get the coffee, Paget,’ Nick said. ‘There’s a good chap.’
‘Yes, sir.’
James turned back to Nick. ‘Any chance those bruisers are coming back? Where did this happen?’
‘Off Fleet Street, near the Strand.’
‘What in God’s name took you down there?’ James demanded.
‘Looking for Hensleigh,’ Nick said. ‘He gave me a week and it wasn’t quite up.’ He met James’s gaze. ‘I couldn’t pay. I knew that and I was going to ask for more time.’
‘What? And stop in at St Clement Danes on your way back up the Strand to pray for a miracle?’ James asked.
Nick flushed. ‘No. I was going to come to you and...and ask for advice. But I didn’t find Hensleigh and I ran into my attackers on the way back.’
‘My advice would have been to stay out of gaming hells in the first place,’ James said. ‘However, that’s done. Why the hell didn’t you stop when the play got too deep?’ A question for the ages, that one.
He watched as Nick swallowed. ‘I... I thought I could win it all back. You...you see, I did win at first. Quite a lot. And then—’
‘And then you lost a bit. Not much, but a bit,’ James said. It was a familiar story.
‘Yes,’ Nick said. ‘And I won it back quite quickly, but then—’
‘Then you really started losing,’ James finished for him. ‘Haven’t you played enough salmon in your time to know when you’re being played?’
‘Apparently not.’ Nick fiddled with the bedclothes. ‘What do I do now? I can’t pay this debt and even if I could, I wouldn’t be able to pay for my lodgings, or eat, or—’
‘Precisely,’ James said. ‘Did you enjoy it?’
‘What?’
‘The cards. The play. The excitement.’ He needed to know if he was going to be wasting his money. He’d bail Nick out this first time, regardless, but if the boy was a bred-in-the-bone gamester, he needed to know. As things stood, Nick’s father, William, was his heir, with Nick next in line.
‘Oh.’ Nick grimaced. ‘No. Not much.’
‘Really?’ Was the boy just giving the answer he must know his cousin wanted?
‘Well, winning was fun,’ Nick admitted.
‘Winning is supposed to be fun,’ James said.
‘Yes, but I have more fun, say, steeplechasing,’ Nick said. ‘Even if I don’t win, the ride is fun.’
‘And gaming isn’t?’
Nick shook his head. And winced. ‘No. I felt sick most of the time.’
Relief flooded James. ‘Come down this summer and we’ll race. There’s a colt you can try out for me. He’s not up to my weight.’
‘If the pater ever lets me off the leash again,’ Nick said. ‘I’ll have to write to him. Tell him what I’ve done and—’
‘I’ll sort it out,’ James said. ‘No need to upset your parents.’ William and Susan were good people, but the boy would never hear the last of it and he suspected Nick had learned his lesson. Learned it the hard way, but at least he had learned it. Many never did. Also, William couldn’t afford to settle a debt like this. James could.
‘What? No!’ This time Nick did sit up, swearing at the pain. ‘Curse it, James!’ he went on, when James had helped him back against the pillows. ‘I wanted advice, not your money!’
‘If I didn’t believe that, you wouldn’t be getting either,’ James said. ‘Listen, you aren’t the first youngster to make a fool of himself in London, and—’ he grimaced slightly at the memory ‘—I don’t suppose I was either.’
‘You?’ Nick sounded as though he could as easily have believed St Paul’s had heaved itself up off its foundations and walked away on chicken legs.
James reminded himself that his cousin was nineteen. ‘I wasn’t born staid and respectable,’ he said. Far from it.
Nick flushed to the roots of his hair. ‘I didn’t mean that! It just seems unlikely that you could have done something this stupid.’
He’d been a great deal more stupid. ‘Believe it or not, you don’t have a monopoly on idiocy,’ he said. ‘But that’s beside the point. The point is that someone bailed me out and never let me repay her.’
Nick stared. ‘Her? Who?’
James cleared his throat. ‘What I’m saying is that I’ll sort this out and consider that I’ve done something towards clearing an old obligation.’ He was fairly sure Elizabeth would see it that way.
‘Now I feel like a worm as well as an idiot,’ Nick muttered. ‘I will pay you back, whether you like it or not.’
‘Fine,’ said James, knowing better than to tell the idiot boy that the money didn’t matter. If it mattered to Nick, so much the better. ‘Now, you’d better tell me who and where I have to pay. And while we’re at it you can furnish me with Captain Hensleigh’s direction.’
Nick blew out a breath. ‘I don’t know it, but you’ll find the Cockpit easily enough.’
‘The Cockpit? Is that the hell?’ James asked.
Nick nodded. ‘Yes. It’s in an old cellar. Used to have cocking there, apparently. He’s there most nights.’ He frowned. ‘You don’t need him, though. Fellow called Kilby bought the vowels. One of his bullies let the name slip, but they said to ask at the Maid and Magpie tavern with the money.’
Paget’s return with coffee gave James a moment to think. He sat down on a chair by the bed and sipped. The first thing was to pay off the debt. Before Nick got another beating from this Kilby’s enforcers. After that...
James’s jaw hardened. Then he’d go after Captain Hensleigh.
‘James?’
He looked at Nick. ‘Hmm?’
‘You aren’t planning something stupid, are you?’
‘No.’ The lie came easily. ‘I was thinking that your parents are due in town soon.’ He ignored Nick’s groan. ‘You can go out to my place at Chiswick for a couple of weeks until you look less like something the cat coughed up and that rib has a chance to heal.’
Nick smiled weakly. ‘Nice try. And you don’t think Mama will just pop down for a visit? Chiswick isn’t that far out of town.’
James shrugged. ‘Not if I hint to your father that you took a woman with you.’
Nick sank even further into the pillows and James noted with some amusement that under his bruises the boy was blushing. ‘Damn it, James! They’ll think I’m in the petticoat line!’
James suppressed a grin. ‘Aren’t you? Well, it’s your choice. Do you prefer your mama clucking over you like a hen with one chick?’
Nick groaned. ‘All right, all right. I take your point. Thank you.’
‘You can go in my carriage when the doctor says you can travel,’ James said, sipping his coffee. ‘This is excellent, by the way. Do you think Paget might confide his secret to my cook?’
Chapter One (#ulink_e818bfd8-4f8c-511b-8f6c-2414051e5dce)
Three weeks later
James blinked across the table at his opponent. ‘I make that a thousand pounds, Hensleigh. Time to settle up, don’t you think?’ He spoke with extra precision, as if without care his speech might have slurred. With seeming clumsiness, he knocked his glass of burgundy. ‘Oops,’ he said absently.
Hensleigh smiled broadly as he righted the glass. ‘Oh, come now, Cambourne! I’m no faint heart. The merest reverse! You must give me at least a chance to recoup my losses. Double or nothing on the next hand? Winner take all?’
James would have preferred to end this farce right there and then, walking out with his winnings, or at least Hensleigh’s vowels. Frankly he thought he’d spent enough time in the Cockpit.
Finding the hell had been easy. Getting in had been trickier, even with the password Nick had given him, but a crown to the doorman had worked a minor miracle. He’d noted Hensleigh on his first visit, a tall, bluff, open-faced sort, with thinning ginger hair, but hadn’t approached him. Instead he’d played dice at another table, careful not to win or lose too heavily, once he’d worked out how the dice were weighted. He’d dressed carefully, making sure he looked and behaved like a well-heeled squire fresh from the country—a pigeon ready for plucking. He’d also introduced himself as plain Mr Cambourne. In this situation his title would be a hindrance. He’d watched the card play, come to the conclusion that Hensleigh was far from the only Captain Sharp in the room, and planned accordingly.
Sure enough, the first time he’d played whist, he’d been allowed to win. Easily. Afterwards, when Hensleigh had come up to congratulate him, he’d grumbled that his opponent wasn’t skilled enough to make it entertaining. The second time he’d lost a little, but won more, swaggering away two hundred pounds to the good. Tonight Hensleigh had approached him, all “hail, fellow, well met” and “care for a hand or two?” Apparently tonight was plucking time.
James considered. Double or nothing would end the affair and he wanted it over. The dingy, smoky hell, with its complement of the desperate and the dangerous, bored him. Several women, their profession—and assets—very obvious, prowled the room, only too ready to relieve a man of his winnings if the professional card sharps at the tables failed to do it. Occasionally a woman would leave with one or more of the players. It could not be said that they slipped away. Nothing so discreet. A few times James had heard the price agreed on.
He veiled his contempt with a bleary stare. ‘Double or nothing?’ he said. ‘That would make your losses two thousand pounds, Hensleigh.’
The fellow smirked. ‘Oh, well,’ he said, with another broad smile, ‘What’s life without a little risk? Shall we have a new deck for it, eh?’
James raised his brows. ‘Why not?’ He sat back as Hensleigh signalled.
‘A new deck here, my man,’ Hensleigh said to the servant who came over. ‘And a cloth for this mess. Mr Cambourne and I have agreed to double or nothing. Winner take all.’
The servant’s gaze sharpened. ‘Aye, Cap’n.’ He scurried away.
‘Another glass of wine, Cambourne?’ Hensleigh suggested, his hand hovering by the bottle.
‘Why not?’ James plastered a vacuous grin to his face. Hensleigh had been pouring glass after glass of wine for him with a fine appearance of generosity. No doubt he assumed James was at least verging on foxed, if not well beyond it. In fact, most of the wine had been surreptitiously poured on to the carpet.
James lounged back to wait, as another servant wiped the table.
The first servant brought the new deck and glanced at Hensleigh, who held out his hand. ‘Thank you, my man.’ He cut the deck.
James waited until he began to shuffle, straightened and said quietly, with no trace of impairment, ‘It’s my turn to deal, Hensleigh.’
Several cards slipped from the man’s hands, as his gaze flew to James’s face. ‘Is it? I am sure you must be mistaken.’
James raised his brows. ‘No, Hensleigh, I am not.’
Hensleigh’s eyes narrowed, flickered to the glass of wine.
James smiled. And shook his head. He reached out, swept up the fallen cards without taking his eyes from Hensleigh’s face, and waited.
After a moment, expressionless, Hensleigh handed over the rest of the pack.
‘Thank you,’ said James, shuffling with an expertise he hadn’t used earlier. Hensleigh’s mouth tightened, but he said nothing. James ignored him, continuing the shuffle with unconcerned ease. Carefully he tilted the cards just so, as they ran through his fingers, catching the light. He didn’t really need to see, but he wanted Hensleigh to sweat.
The man’s eyes widened.
‘Is this what they cashiered you for, Hensleigh?’ James asked.
Hensleigh swallowed. ‘The devil you say?’
‘The army,’ James said. ‘It was the army, wasn’t it? They don’t like Captain Sharps in the army. Or the navy, but you don’t strike me as the seafaring sort.’ He continued to shuffle. ‘Or perhaps I’m insulting the army and you invented your rank. Horse Guards didn’t know anything about you when I enquired.’ He smiled humourlessly as Hensleigh paled. ‘Rather clumsy, the markings on this deck,’ he went on. ‘I can feel the wax lines on the backs quite easily. The other deck was less obvious.’
Hensleigh rallied. ‘You are mistaken, sir. But we can call for another deck.’
James shook his head. ‘No. We settle up. Now.’
‘You agreed to double or nothing—’
‘With an unmarked pack,’ James said. ‘All bets are off now.’ He gathered the cards with a practised flick. ‘Do we leave quietly, or shall I make it public?’
Hensleigh looked around nervously and clenched his fists. ‘Damn you.’
James shrugged. ‘Just sign your vowels, Hensleigh, and we’ll have them countersigned by the management.’ He wouldn’t put it past the swine to disavow them if he thought he could get away with it. ‘And don’t even think about playing here again until you’ve paid me,’ he added.
Hensleigh glared. ‘You were stringing me!’
James bowed. ‘Absolutely.’
Two weeks later
Trying not to breathe any deeper than absolutely necessary to support life, James trod up the narrow, creaking stairs. The aroma of last night’s fish—hell, possibly last year’s fish—and over-boiled cabbage followed him with putrid tenacity. Another flight of stairs and he tried to persuade himself that the smell was losing heart.
A week after their card game, Hensleigh—surprise, surprise—­had neither turned up at James’s house to settle his debts, nor returned to the Cockpit. After a further week of hunting, courtesy of a chance sighting on the Strand, James had found his prey’s bolt-hole. The bolt-hole, according to what he’d been told, where Hensleigh kept his woman.
Third landing, the landlady had said.
Haven’t seen ’is nibs, but the girl’s up there.
The landing creaked, sagging ominously under his weight. He could see the announcement in the Morning Gazette... “Lord C met an untimely end collecting on a debt of honour by falling to his death when a landing gave way...”
He glanced around, wrinkling his nose; the rancid fish was just as odoriferous up here as down below. He might not need the money Hensleigh owed him, but by God he was going to break him. By the time he was done, Hensleigh wouldn’t be able to keep himself, let alone any sort of woman. If Hensleigh wasn’t home, then his mistress could deliver the warning that his vowels were about to be sold on.
He rapped sharply, noting with faint surprise that the door was actually clean...
The door opened and a girl enveloped in a grimy apron and clutching a rag stared at him. A few coppery tendrils of hair had escaped from her mob cap and brushed against a creamy-fair, slightly flushed cheek. A familiar odour that had nothing to do with fish drifted from the apartment. He sniffed—furniture polish? Yes, and something else, something sweet and indefinable that drifted through him.
‘Are you looking for someone?’
James’s world lurched a little at the slightly husky and surprisingly well-bred voice. His gaze met wary green eyes and an altogether unwelcome heat slid through his veins. How the hell did pond scum like Hensleigh acquire a woman like this one? Even as he wondered, the girl began to close the door. ‘You must have the wrong address.’
He stuck his foot in the door. ‘The devil I do.’
* * *
Lucy wondered if several foolish and altogether unlikely daydreams had become tangled with reality. The dreams where a tall, dark-haired, handsome gentleman came and swept her away into a life of safety. Only in her dreams, when this gentleman appeared at the door, she was somehow garbed in the latest fashions, with a dainty reticule dangling from her wrist. Not clad in a worn-out gown and grubby apron, and clutching a polishing rag. Nor in her dreams did the gentleman have cold, storm-grey eyes that looked at her as if she were something stuck to his shoe. Nor did he scowl. Her dream gentleman went down on one knee and offered her his heart. She wasn’t holding out for a prince, however, just a kind, respectable man who didn’t gamble and had a comfortable home. Nor did she insist on the glass slipper, which she thought would be most uncomfortable, but clearly, if she had a fairy godmother at all, the fairy’s wand had a slight flaw.
‘I’m looking for Hensleigh.’
For a moment the deep, velvet-dark voice froze her so that she just stared dumbly. It wasn’t so much that he was tall, although he was, but that there was something about the way he stood. The way he seemed to fill the landing. Perhaps it was his shoulders? They seemed very broad, much broader than Papa’s. Whatever the reason, her mind had scrambled.
She cleared her throat. ‘I’m sorry, sir. There is no one—’ Her mind cleared and her stomach chilled at her near mistake, at the cold eyes that raked her. ‘That is, he’s not here.’ She clutched the polishing rag to steady the sudden trembling of her hands. Hensleigh, not Armitage. Papa had drummed it into her years ago not to use their real name. Ever. The name he used changed periodically, but it had been Hensleigh for weeks now. Before that it had been Hammersley and before that...well, something else starting with H. According to Shakespeare, a rose would smell as sweet by any other name, but she thought the rose might find it confusing to be renamed every few months.
Cold eyes narrowed and her pulse beat erratically. His voice, lethally soft, curled through her. ‘Of course a rose by any other name may smell as sweet.’ She flinched. Was the man a sorcerer? ‘Although I’m sure it does become confusing.’
She bit her lip. Neither confirm, nor deny. Explanations are dangerous. There was only one reason such a man would be looking for her father. How much this time? A question that was none of her business even to think, let alone voice.
‘He isn’t here, I’m afraid. Please move your foot.’ She wished she hadn’t used that word, afraid. It nudged too close to the truth.
The visitor cocked his head to one side. ‘And when do you expect his return?’
His foot didn’t move. Lucy forced breath into her lungs. A cold knot, not entirely composed of hunger, twisted in her belly. ‘I... I don’t know.’ And for the first time in a very long while she wished that her father were about to walk through the door. This man had every nerve prickling the way he looked at her...as though he didn’t believe her.
‘I’ll wait.’
Let the wolf over the threshold? Alarm bells clashed.
‘No. He’s—’
Powerful hands seized her shoulders, lifting and dumping her out on the landing. Her breath caught and her senses whirled in panic, as he stalked into the apartment. For a moment she considered leaving him to it and racing downstairs to the relative safety of Mrs Beattie’s kitchen. Coward! Find your backbone, for God’s sake! He’d dumped her out here like yesterday’s rubbish! Anger drove out the fear and common sense flooded back. A man with designs on her wouldn’t have pushed her out on the landing. Ergo, she was safe. Gritting her teeth, she went after him.
‘How dare you! I don’t care who you are! Get out!’
His glance flicked over the room and back to her. ‘How do you propose to make me?’ he asked, as if he really wanted to know.
She had no idea how, but— ‘This is my home!’ she retorted. ‘I have every right to ask you to leave!’ As homes went it was pathetic, but that didn’t mean she had to accept this...this thug’s presence in it.
Amusement crinkled the corners of his eyes. ‘Your home, madam? Not much to defend, is it? Or are you defending Hensleigh? Or is it Hammersley this week? Where is he?’
She had spent the morning dusting and polishing. The floor was clean. Every stick of furniture gleamed. And she had never been so bitterly aware of the rickety table and chairs, the chipped looking glass over the fireplace, the bare floorboards or the threadbare curtain hiding the corner where she slept, as that scornful gaze raked the room.
‘I already told you, I don’t know!’ That he knew the last name they had used sent a chill slithering down her spine.
‘So you did,’ he said. ‘Are you going to invite me to sit down?’
‘No.’
He shrugged and sat down anyway on the battered chair by the cold, empty grate. There hadn’t been a fire in it for weeks. There was barely enough money for food, let alone luxuries.
She dragged in breath and let it go again. There was nothing she could do to shift him and she refused to rail at him like a Billingsgate fishwife. She stuffed her fury behind a solid door and slammed it shut.
‘You will excuse me if I continue my work,’ she said calmly and swiped her polishing rag back into the open jar of beeswax on the table. She could not afford more, but despite that she started all over again in the corner furthest from the fireplace, taking her time, hoping he would get bored and leave if she ignored him.
Unfortunately he didn’t ignore her.
That grey, assessing gaze remained on her as she re-polished the table with painstaking thoroughness.
‘I must say I envy Hensleigh,’ murmured her unwelcome guest after a few moments. She stiffened, but continued polishing so that the table wobbled noisily. ‘Lucky fellow,’ he went on, ‘having a wench willing to clean his lodgings twice in one morning and warm his bed.’
Everything inside her stopped as well as the polishing rag. And the temper her grandparents had tried so hard to curb slipped its leash. Slowly she straightened and faced him, the dusting rag clenched in her fist. ‘Wench?’ She restrained the urge to throw the rag in his face.
His brows rose. ‘A poor choice of words,’ he said. ‘You’re certainly a cut above wench-dom, even if your taste in men is execrable. You could do better than Hensleigh or whatever his name is this week.’
‘Really?’ Rage slammed through her, but she kept her voice dulcet. ‘You, for example?’
He smiled, reminding her of the wolf down at the Royal Exchange. ‘If you like. If you tell me where he is.’
‘They say it’s a wise child who knows its own father,’ she said, her stomach twisting. ‘It would be an interesting set of circumstances that permitted her to choose him.’
James wondered if he’d been hit on the head with a brick as the implications slammed into him. No one had suggested that the woman in Hensleigh’s lodgings was his daughter! He had assumed...
‘But,’ the impossible girl continued, ‘if you are prepared to acknowledge me as your natural daughter I’ll be very happy to have it so. Although...’ she looked him up and down in a way he found oddly unnerving ‘...you must have been a rather precocious child.’
James collected his scattered wits and found his tongue. ‘You’re his daughter, not his—’ He stopped there. If she was Hensleigh’s daughter—
‘Correct.’ The chill in her voice would have shaken an iceberg.
‘Do you expect an apology, Miss... Hensleigh?’ Hell’s teeth! Men did have daughters, even Hensleigh could have one. But—
She stared at him. ‘What? Do I look stupid?’
He took a careful breath. Delicate features, and the small fist gripping the polishing rag as though she’d like to shove it down his throat was gracefully formed, if grubby. She looked furious, not stupid. And her voice was well bred, even if it had an edge on it fit to flay a rhinoceros, and there was something about the way she held herself, and that damn polishing rag—an air of dignity. He’d meant it when he said that she could do better than Hensleigh. She was not a beauty, not in the strictest sense of the word, but—those eyes blazed, and the mouth was soft and lush—or it would be if it weren’t flat with anger. Damn it! There ought to be nothing remotely appealing about her! She was a redhead with the ghosts of last summer’s freckles dancing over her nose, the whole shabby room smelt of furniture polish, and the truth was that he didn’t want to believe that she could be Hensleigh’s mistress. Which was ridiculous. It didn’t matter a damn if she was Hensleigh’s mistress or not. Or did it? Stealing a man’s mistress was one thing, seducing his daughter quite another. And selling Hensleigh’s vowels if it might condemn this girl to an even worse situation was yet another thing.
His gaze fell on a narrow door on the other side of the room. Had he been so intent on the girl he’d nearly missed that? Without a word he rose and strode across, shoved it open and looked in.
‘He’s not here!’ The girl’s voice was furious now. No fear, just raw fury. He had to admire that.
A neatly made bed, washstand and small chest were the only furnishings. He closed the door and turned back to the girl.
‘Are you satisfied now?’ she demanded. ‘Or would you like to look under the bed?’
‘One bed, ma’am?’ he asked. ‘And where do you sleep?’ Talk about stupid! He’d damn near believed her!
Her eyes spat green fire in an absolutely white face. She stormed across the room. ‘It’s none of your business, but—’ Reaching the far corner he’d assumed held a chamber pot, she flung back the curtain across it.
His shocked gaze took in a thin, narrow pallet on the floor, covered with a totally inadequate blanket. A folded nightgown lay on top of the blanket and with it what looked like a violin case.
It convinced him as nothing else could have. Any man with this girl for a mistress would have her warming his bed, not shivering there in the corner.
‘You sleep there?’ It was all he could find to say. What sort of man let his daughter sleep in a draughty corner on a pallet that would scarcely do for an unwanted dog, while he took the relatively comfortable bed?
She jerked the curtain back into place. ‘As you see.’ Her cheeks were crimson. ‘I don’t care what you think of me,’ she went on, ‘and I doubt you care what I think of you, but you have forced your way into my home, insulted me in every conceivable way—I would prefer it if you left. I will tell my father you called.’
‘But you won’t tell me where he is.’ Why would she? The man is her father, for God’s sake. Even if he doesn’t look after her.
‘I don’t know where he is.’
He cocked his head. There was something there in her voice. Fear?
‘Would you tell me if you did know?’ he asked gently.
‘He owes you money, doesn’t he?’
He stiffened. No, she wasn’t stupid. But neither was he. If he told her the truth, what were the odds that he’d lose his quarry? ‘So quick to assume the worst, Miss Hensleigh?’ he said. ‘The boot might be on the other foot.’
She stared. ‘You owe him money?’
He hesitated only a moment. ‘Is that so surprising?’ It wasn’t a lie. He hadn’t said outright that he owed Hensleigh money. His conscience squirmed regardless.
She looked at him uncertainly. ‘I see. Well, I still don’t know where he is or when he will return. But if you leave your name I will let him know that you called.’
And the instant Hensleigh heard his name, he’d bolt again. However, at least he could be fairly sure now that she really didn’t know where her father was. ‘Remington,’ he said. Another half-truth. He quashed his conscience’s mutterings with the reminder that neither she nor her father had seen fit to share their real name, either. Remington was his family name, after all. Unless she described him, hopefully he’d think it had been Nick. No one would view Nick as a threat.
‘Very well, Mr Remington. Good day to you.’
‘You really don’t know where he’s gone?’ James pressed. ‘Your landlady mentioned that she hadn’t seen him for several days.’
Scarlet washed into her cheeks again. ‘No. At least, not exactly. He may be with a...a friend.’ She dragged in a breath. ‘There is a woman he visits, but—’
‘What?’
Her chin went up. ‘A mistress. I thought you knew all about mistresses!’
He cleared his throat. ‘I know what a mistress is for!’ It was the concept of a father who didn’t keep that sort of knowledge from his daughter that startled him. And the concept of a daughter who didn’t pretend ignorance of such things. Although he supposed under the circumstances that would rank with stupidity.
‘Quite.’ Her voice spat scorn. ‘I don’t know her name, or where she lives. If you knew he wasn’t here, why bother coming up?’
She was quick enough, he’d grant her that. ‘Because your landlady might be mistaken, or you might have known where he was.’ He rose. ‘I’ll call again, Miss Hensleigh.’
There was no point staying any longer. He had as much information as he was going to get on this visit.
* * *
James reached the bottom of the stairs without falling through them. The stench of cabbage and fish had gained ground while he’d been upstairs. Or perhaps it was the contrast with the beeswax. Plain beeswax. Mama had always insisted on a touch of lemon in the furniture polish...his grandmother had favoured lavender.
There was no reason, logical or otherwise, why a girl wielding a beeswax-scented polishing rag should interfere with his plans to destroy Hensleigh. He was not responsible for the fate of Hensleigh or his daughter.
He stepped out into Frenchman’s Yard. A shabbily dressed man snored fitfully in a doorway, an empty bottle beside him, while several ragged boys played some sort of game with pebbles. One of them eyed him hopefully. ‘Got a copper, yer worship?’
Aware that it might be a monumental error of judgement—men had probably been mugged for less—James fished out a sixpence and held it up. ‘Information first.’
The sight of this untold wealth had the attention of all the boys. They crowded around and James kept his other hand in his pocket, firmly on his purse.
‘Hensleigh. Anyone seen him recently?’
The boys exchanged glances. One of them, clearly the leader from the way he stood forward a little, spoke. ‘The cap’n, you mean?’
James let that pass. ‘Yes.’
The boy shrugged. ‘Not for three, mebbe four days. Lu bain’t seen ’im, neither.’
‘Lu?’
The boy’s eyes narrowed and he glanced up at the window of Hensleigh’s lodgings. ‘You was up there with her long enough. She’s ’is daughter. Lucy.’
‘Right.’ If she was anything else, these boys would know it. And then there was the hair. Hensleigh’s fading ginger hair must once have been red. Those few tendrils drifting from the confines of the girl’s mob cap had shimmered copper.
‘Fitch might know where the cap’n is.’ One of the smaller boys spoke up. ‘Fitch’s real friendly with Lu. Gives ’er money sometimes, ’e does.’
Without looking, the leader cuffed the boy on the head. ‘Stow it.’
‘Fitch?’
But the small boy took one look at the other boy’s face and shook his head.
The leader shrugged. ‘Just a cove.’
James reminded himself that it was none of his business if Miss Hensleigh was real friendly with anyone. Even a cove who gave her money sometimes. It happened. Yet in his pocket, his hand balled to a fist.
From above the sound of a violin being tuned floated down. James listened, arrested as first the G string was tuned, then the D and A in turn were coaxed into harmony. Finally the E string. A moment’s silence and then the instrument sang, a lilting, dancing tune that somehow brightened the dingy yard even though the sun sulked behind its gloomy defences.
Dragging his attention away from the music, James tossed the original sixpence to the leader, plucked another out of his pocket and gave it to the small boy who had mentioned Fitch.
‘If anyone does know where the captain is, I’d be interested.’
‘Took a bag, ’e did,’ volunteered another boy. ‘Saw ’im wiv it right down on Fleet, by the Bolt.’
‘Did you see him get on a coach?’ James asked. The Bolt-in-Tun, on Fleet Street, was the departure point for some of the Bath coaches. Bath would be a very likely destination for a card sharp looking to recoup his losses.
The boy hesitated, finally shrugged. ‘Nah. Just happened to see ’im there. Wasn’t that int’rested, was I?’
James fished out another sixpence and flicked it to him. ‘Apparently not. And you’re also clever enough not to tell me what you think I want to hear. Thank you.’
The lad nipped the coin out of the air with startling dexterity. ‘Could nick down there an’ ask around if you like, guv.’
James considered that. ‘No. Never mind. Does the name Kilby mean anything to you?’
The boys went very still and furtive glances were cast at their leader. He shrugged. ‘Nah. Never heard of ’im.’
James nodded. ‘Thank you.’ Fairly sure he had just been lied to, he strolled out of the yard and headed west, towards Fleet Street and the Bolt-in-Tun. The lilt of Lucy Hensleigh’s fiddle remained with him long after it had been drowned by distance and the rumble of wheels and hooves.
* * *
Lucy played until the light slid away from the window, leaving her in the shadows. Wrapped safely in the music’s enchantment, she could pretend for a little while, hold out the terrifying reality of her life. She played from memory. He had sold her music months ago, along with her last three books. The only reason he hadn’t sold the violin as well was that she had been out with it when he came home looking for things to sell. Slowly she let the spell unravel, knowing that even music could not keep out the world for ever. Shivering a little, she set the instrument back in its case and closed the window. She had practised for long enough and Fitch would be along soon.
Her stomach growled.
If only Papa had been home when Mr Remington called! Then they’d have some money. Money for the rent, money for food. Unless he owed it all to someone else. Over the four years that she’d been with him after Grandma’s death the gentleman’s code of so-called honour had been drummed into her—debts of honour were paid first, no matter if your daughter was hungry and you weren’t using your real name.
Perhaps he wasn’t out of town after all. Surely he wouldn’t have gone right away if someone owed him money...unless he owes more to someone else...
The gaming was a disease, holding her father in a fevered grip. Nothing else mattered to him. No logic, no reason could reach him. Nothing but the game. He was charming about it, naturally. Papa was always charming. Even when he was lying. In fact, especially when he was lying. He had reassured her at first. There was nothing to worry about. Everything was quite as it should be. All proper gentlemen played. He would stop as soon as he had made their fortunes. And she had believed him. Or perhaps she had just wanted to believe him. That he would stop. Just one more game to set all right, get the dibs in tune. Always just one more game. To get the dibs in tune. To oblige a friend. A matter of honour. Just one more.
She supposed she had wanted to believe him. What sixteen-year-old girl, with nowhere else to turn, wanted to believe that her father had them on an irreversible downward slide to destitution?
She looked at the worn-leather violin case. Thank God she’d had it with her the afternoon Papa had sold her books and music. He’d been furious that the violin had not been there to sell as well.
Luckily he had won that night and had forgotten about selling the instrument the next day. Now she either took it with her or hid it. And she hadn’t told her father the truth—that, courtesy of Fitch, she had found a way to earn enough money to feed herself.
Chapter Two (#ulink_c85ef0a5-867a-5752-a240-4abd0de37c28)
Jig waited as Kilby’s pen scratched across the big ledger. Wonderful it were, how the man could write so quick an’ all. Not that Jig had any use for book learning—he did all right. Too much book learning could make a fellow soft. But there was no doubt that Kilby had kept his edge, right enough.
The pen slowed and sand was sprinkled across the page.
Kilby looked up. ‘Your report, Jig.’
Jig, so named because he’d narrowly escaped dancing a hempen jig as a boy, shifted under Kilby’s flat stare.
‘Found ’is nest, guv.’
Kilby stretched his arms and set his hands to either side of the ledger. His smile, to Jig’s way of thinking, weren’t real encouraging. Nor his fingers, drumming on the desk. Jig watched, narrow-eyed. The left hand it were—the one near the knife. Word was that Kilby drumming his fingers meant he was annoyed. Further word said that the first a man knew of Kilby reaching for the knife was the realisation that his difficulty breathing had to do with the knife buried in his windpipe. Nor a smart cove didn’t discount the pistol near Kilby’s right hand neither.
‘Two days since I set you on to find Hensleigh, Jig,’ Kilby said. ‘Two whole days. I note you only say you’ve found his nest. But perhaps that’s just your roundabout way of saying you have found the man himself?’
Jig swallowed. ‘As to that, guv, I ain’t found ’im as such. Seemin’ly ’e’s away. No one ain’t seen ’im.’
The fingers stopped drumming and Jig breathed a mort easier. Kilby was usually open to reason.
‘Away?’
‘That’s it, guv. Can’t find a cove who ain’t there, but I got ’is hole.’
Kilby nodded. ‘But if he’s left his hole, Jig, then it is no longer his hole. Wouldn’t you say?’
‘Reckon ’e’s comin’ back, guv.’ Cold sweat trickled down his spine. ‘Got a girl there.’
This time the fingers of Kilby’s right hand—the one near the pistol—started drumming. ‘Jig, men abandon women all the time. What makes you—?’
‘Reckon this is different, guv.’ Jig cleared his throat. ‘Seems the wench is ’is daughter.’
Kilby’s fingers stilled. ‘A daughter? He’s kept that very quiet.’
Jig relaxed a little. ‘Yeah. An’ it ain’t hard to see why, neither.’ Remembering the tasty-looking little redhead, he licked his lips.
‘Ah. Pretty, is she?’
‘Ripe as a plum ready for pluckin’,’ Jig assured him. He’d been tempted to do a bit of plucking himself, but he knew better than that. More than his life was worth if the wench turned out to be of interest to Kilby.
‘Hmm.’ Kilby leaned back, frowning. ‘The question will be, has someone plucked the plum already?’
Jig said nothing. For himself he didn’t much care if a wench were already broke to saddle. But an unbroken ride was worth a mint in some quarters.
‘Well, never mind.’ Kilby said. ‘Since Hensleigh has a saleable asset I’ll get back the money he bilked me of with the Moresby boy’s vowels. You can go now, Jig.’
Jig hesitated. The rest of his information might not be so welcome, but information was information. Kilby liked to know everything. ‘Got a bit more, guv.’
‘What?’
‘There’s a gent sniffin’ around.’
Kilby sat up slowly. ‘Sniffing where? Not here?’
‘Nah.’ Jig shook his head. ‘Heard him askin’ around about Hensleigh. That’s how I tracked Hensleigh.’
‘After the girl?’
Jig scowled. ‘Could be. But he found out Hensleigh mighta gone to Bath.’
Kilby raised his brows and Jig expanded. ‘The gent asked some lads. Got told Hensleigh’d been down the Bolt. So I follered ’im and sure enough ’e goes down there an’ starts askin’ round. Seems Hensleigh or a bloke like ’im took a ticket for Bath.’
Kilby let out a breath. ‘The odds are high Hensleigh owes him money, too.’ He considered. ‘Or he might just be after the girl.’
‘Might be both,’ offered Jig.
Kilby nodded. ‘Yes. He might have come looking for his money and now be wondering if he should just take his winnings out of the girl’s hide.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Check at the Cockpit who Hensleigh lost to recently. And watch his lodgings. If the same gentleman shows up again, find out where he lives, or get a name.’
‘Aye, guv.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Asked about you, he did.’
Kilby’s hands clenched to fists. ‘Did he now?’ His voice was very soft and Jig tensed. ‘Did he get an answer?’
Jig shook his head. ‘Nah. No one said nothin’.’
Kilby nodded. ‘Very wise. Anything else?’
Jig hesitated. This went against the grain, so it did, but he valued his life and folks that held out on Kilby tended to find that their lives ended unexpectedly. ‘The boy—Fitch.’
‘What about Fitch?’
Jig shuffled. ‘Seemin’ly ’e’s hangin’ around the wench, too. Heard one of they lads say as how ’e gives ’er money.’
Kilby’s fist clenched. ‘Is he now? Isn’t that interesting? It might be an idea to keep an eye on him, as well. His earnings have been down recently. Find out why.’
‘Aye, guv.’
‘You’ve done quite well, Jig,’ Kilby said. ‘I’m impressed.’
* * *
It was probably a waste of time to call at Hensleigh’s lodgings again. James told himself that as he strolled along the north side of the Strand the next day. His visit to the Bolt-in-Tun had netted the information that Hensleigh had bought a ticket for Bath. James had discarded the notion of driving down himself. Tracking Hensleigh would take time and might alert him. The last thing he wanted was for the fellow to run altogether.
The man had to return sooner or later to his daughter. But he wouldn’t wager a farthing against Hensleigh finding another bolt hole, so keeping a close eye on said daughter made complete sense.
Lucy.
He lengthened his stride. Her name was no concern of his. Nor was she, or her soft coppery curls, any concern of his. Except that she was damnably inconvenient. She might not be any concern of his, but he couldn’t quite put aside the niggling question of her fate if he brought her father to utter ruin.
Fitch’s real friendly with Lu. Gives ’er money sometimes, ’e does.
He gritted his teeth. It was highly likely that Lucy Hensleigh had already guarded against being tangled in her father’s fate in the form of the friendly Fitch. Not hard to imagine what a man would give her money for.
You could do better for her than the sort of protector she’ll have picked up around here...
He pushed the thought aside. It would be tantamount to blackmail. ‘I’m going to ruin your father. Bed with me and you won’t go down with him.’ Charming, and he was damned if he wanted an unwilling mistress. He doubted Miss Lucy Hensleigh liked him above half, anyway. There was no reason why she should like him and she would like him even less if she uncovered his deception. He didn’t much like himself for having done that.
She’d like you well enough if you were getting her out of the gutter...
As it was...the merry, dancing sweep of a violin scattered his thoughts. He slowed, glanced around and spotted the fiddler on the other side of the narrow street near a corner. And frowned. It was a lad. But the sound of that particular fiddle, and the dancing, jigging tune seemed familiar. He looked more closely at the lad.
A mere stripling, barely breeched from the look of him, he wore an ill-fitting shabby coat and a cap hid his hair. A pale cheek was tucked lovingly against the mellow timber of the instrument as he stroked magic from it. Another cap lay at his feet. As James watched several people tossed in coins. Another, smaller boy hovered nearby.
Dodging between the traffic, James crossed to the south side of the street. He felt in his pocket and found a coin. Not seeming so much as to glance at the fiddler and his companion, James dropped the coin in the cap as he passed.
* * *
Lucy watched Mr Remington go as she continued to play. Her stomach had tied itself in knots. Why, she had no idea. It was no bread and butter of his if she kept herself from starving by playing in the street. Although, since he already owed Papa money, she supposed he might be annoyed if he’d realised whose cap he’d dropped money into. She glanced down and her playing faltered. A crown gleamed fatly amongst the pennies and farthings—more than she’d earn in a week.
‘Fitch—’
He was already scooping it up. It disappeared safely into some fastness in his clothing. Sometimes people would pretend to lean down to put money in, but actually take money out. Fitch’s watchful eye prevented that, for which she gave him a share of the take. The crown meant money for the rent and a hearty meal for both of them tonight.
‘Generous cove,’ he said.
‘He’s the one I told you about.’ Lucy kept playing.
‘Right.’ He stepped back, leaning against the wall again.
Lucy changed the tune, sliding into a sentimental ballad she’d heard someone singing the week before. She played with the melody, embellishing it here, tweaking it there. A few people stopped to listen and more coins tinkled in the open case. She smiled, nodding thanks as they moved on, and slipped back into a dance tune.
‘Bloke’s comin’ back,’ Fitch muttered.
Her breath caught as she played, watching from the corner of her eye as Mr Remington passed on the other side of the street. This time he didn’t glance their way and the twisting knot in her belly loosened. Clearly he’d gone to her lodgings, found her not there and left.
She played on, smiling as people left coins, keeping a watchful eye on the weather, trying not to think about Mr Remington. He meant nothing to her. She had to think of important things—such as how to climb out of the hole her father was digging for them.
You could write to Uncle Bertram—Aunt Caroline might write you a reference. She might know someone who needs a governess, or a companion.
Four years ago, after Grandmama died, they had forced Papa to take her away, since they had not wished to house her. A reference would not cost them anything. Except of course they would probably refuse to pay for the letter she sent them.
A chilly breeze skittered along the pavement, fluttering skirts and awnings, bringing with it the steely scent of rain. Thunder rumbled a warning in the distance. She looked up at the sky; heavy clouds threatened.
‘Reckon it’s time to pack up.’ Fitch was watching the sky, too. ‘No folks’ll be willing to part with a groat if ’n it comes on to rain like it’s makin’ to.’
Lucy was already loosening her violin strings. She wouldn’t risk a drenching for her elderly instrument. She slid the violin and bow back into the case propped against the wall behind her and fastened the hinged end.
She looked at Fitch. ‘Are you hungry? I am.’ A slight understatement, that. She was starving. Last night’s dinner had been scanty and there’d been nothing for breakfast either this morning or yesterday.
‘Yeah.’ Fitch scooped up the day’s take.
‘Well,’ Lucy said, ‘we could break that crown buying dinner and split the remainder.’
The boy nodded. ‘No one won’t notice you in them clothes if we go to the Maid an’ Magpie. Not if you don’t speak too much.’
Lucy’s stomach flipped. No one ever seemed to notice that the ‘lad’ playing fiddle was in fact a lass, but she’d never gone into a tavern.
‘Walk into the Maid in yer own clothes an’ you’ll get yer bum pinched or worse,’ Fitch said. ‘An’ if you do go back an’ change there’ll be more folks in there. Come on,’ he urged. ‘Be raining frogs in a coupla minutes.’
She dragged in a deep breath. ‘All right. Let’s go.’
He gave her a cheeky grin. ‘It’ll be fine. You’ll see. The Maid does a bang-up steak-an’-kidney pie.’
* * *
The bang-up steak-and-kidney pie warmed Lucy as she hurried home along the rain-slicked street. As well as her fiddle, she had more food tucked under her arm. She had taken off her coat and swathed the violin case in it and she broke into a run as the tunnel leading into Frenchman’s Yard came in view. In addition to the bread and cheese she had bought for breakfast, and the treat of a bag of jellied eels for supper, there was a whole shilling left over for the rent. Tomorrow she could earn more money, although she couldn’t hope for such luck as had favoured her today.
She ducked into the shelter of the tunnel and eased back to a walk, catching her breath. For once no one was snoring off a pint of gin in the putrid passageway. She held her breath and hurried through, coming out blinking into the relatively fresh air of the yard.
Although the rain had eased, the wind had turned bitter, slicing to the bone, and she dashed across the yard and into the lodging house. Her landlady did not look out from the kitchen door at the back of the dingy hall and Lucy hurried up the stairs, ignoring the ominous creaks.
She dug into the pocket of her breeches for the key and pulled it out, juggling her fiddle and the package of food. Her cold fingers fumbled the key into the lock and turned it. Lord, she’d be glad to get out of these icy, sodden clothes. Perhaps when she gave Mrs Beattie the extra shilling, the woman would let her dry them, or even herself, by the kitchen fire. Sometimes Mrs Beattie could be obliging about things like that. And sometimes not. Although an extra shilling was an excellent sweetener for the woman’s uncertain moods.
Closing the door, she breathed a sigh of relief. Home. Such as it was. With a shilling and supper.
‘A profitable day, Miss Hensleigh?’
Her breath jerked in on a startled gasp as she dropped the key and whipped around, bobbling her belongings. Somehow she saved the violin, grabbing it frantically as it slipped, but the food scattered on the floor.
Back pressed to the door, her eyes adjusting to the gloom, she saw Mr Remington rise frowning from the chair by the empty grate. Sick fear swooped through her with understanding. He’d recognised her. Known she was out and deliberately let her see him leave. Then he’d circled around to wait, realising that she’d never come home alone knowing he was here.
She found her voice through the choking fright. ‘Mrs Beattie will come up if I scream.’ She hoped. Mrs Beattie ought not to have let him in.
Mr Remington’s frown deepened as he came towards her. ‘Why would you scream now, if you didn’t when I startled you?’
Was he an idiot? Or simply so arrogant he thought she’d welcome his attentions? She reached behind her for the door knob just as he bent to pick up the fallen loaf of bread. She stared.
‘What are you doing?’ Her voice was barely a squeak.
‘Picking up your—ah, bread.’ He straightened. ‘Where should I throw this?’
‘Throw it? Just put it on the table, please.’
He stared at her. ‘It’s been on the floor! Surely you aren’t—’
‘I can’t afford to be quite so nice in my notions as you!’ Anger swept away fear. ‘Place it on the table, if you please.’
His jaw dropped. ‘You’re still going to eat it?’
‘Unless you’ve walked something in, the floor is clean enough.’ For heaven’s sake! She’d swept and scrubbed yesterday. Her cheeks burned with humiliation as, saying nothing, he put the loaf on the table.
She set the violin down and scooped her supper of jellied eels back into its bag.
‘I’m sorry.’
At the sound of his deep voice, she nearly dropped the eels again.
‘What?’
‘Is it so hard to believe I’d apologise for startling you into dropping your supper?’ A shade of annoyance crept into his voice.
She looked up. ‘Oh.’
‘Although,’ he went on, picking up the cheese, ‘I’m damned if I know why you thought you needed to scream afterwards. You know why I’m here.’
‘Do I?’ she asked. ‘You sneak back here and wait for me in the dark, despite the fact that my father obviously hasn’t returned, and wonder why I think I might need to scream?’
Even in the bad light she saw two spots of scarlet spring to his cheeks as he stared at her. For a moment he said nothing. Then, ‘That, Miss Hensleigh, is insulting. You thought I’d assault you?’
‘The possibility occurred to me,’ she said, refusing to back down, even though his outrage was obvious and she was fairly sure she’d been mistaken. But something niggled at her. If she was mistaken, then why had he come back? ‘It’s not as though I know you at all,’ she pointed out. ‘Let alone well enough to judge your character!’ And given the foolish attraction she seemed to have for him, it was doubly important to be on her guard. Why had he come back?
* * *
James reined in his anger, forced himself to see her side. She had come home to find a near-stranger waiting in the dark. And it wasn’t as if he had a particularly good reason for waiting. He gritted his teeth. She wasn’t to know that while he might seduce a willing woman, he certainly wouldn’t assault or force one.
‘I apologise.’ That made two apologies inside of five minutes. ‘So your father hasn’t returned?’
‘No.’
He waited, but she said nothing more, merely got a dish from a shelf and the—what was that mess in the bag?—jellied eels on the table and put them with the bread and cheese he’d salvaged. The plate rattled a little as she set it down and he looked closely.
Damn it, she was shivering, her lips nearly blue. ‘You should get out of those wet clothes,’ he said, trying very hard not to notice the long, lovely line of her legs in the breeches and wrinkled stockings. Or the way the damp sleeves of the rough shirt clung to her slender arms. He could only thank God that she wore a waistcoat. ‘Tell me where the fuel is and I’ll light the fire.’
Her chin lifted. ‘There’s no need.’
‘The devil there isn’t,’ he said. ‘You must be half-­frozen.’
Her soft mouth set in a stubborn line he was coming to know. ‘I’ll be perfectly fine once I change. Which I’ll do when you’ve left.’
‘You need a fire,’ he insisted. ‘Where is the fuel?’
‘There isn’t any,’ she said at last. ‘I... I forgot to order it.’
Colour stained her cheeks again and at last the truth sank in—she couldn’t afford fuel. Her bastard of a father had left her high and dry to shift for herself and she couldn’t afford fuel. That was why she’d been playing on the street.
He strode to the door.
‘You’re leaving?’
He paused with his hand on the latch. Did she have to sound so damned relieved? ‘I’m getting fuel,’ he growled. ‘Change while I’m gone.’
* * *
Lucy stared at the door which had shut with something very like a bang. Who did he think he was, ordering her about? Was she a child? Incapable of thinking for herself? She wasn’t answerable to him.
But somewhere inside, beyond the reach of chilly clothing, there was a comforting warmth that someone cared enough to scold about wet clothes and insist on a fire. Even though he’d find it impossible to obtain wood or coal at this hour, it was kind of him to try. Although if he were planning to wait and see if Papa showed up this evening, he might be thinking of his own comfort.
She glanced around. She daren’t change in her curtained-­off corner in case he came back. Shivering, she collected her gown from its hook in the corner, holding it out at arm’s length to keep it dry, and hurried into the other room.
By the time she had peeled off her damply clinging clothes, rubbed herself down briskly and dressed again, she’d heard the door open and close. Assured footsteps sounded. She was still cold. Not the bone-numbing cold of before, but cold. A fire would have been lovely, but a dish of jellied eels later would do. She sighed. Good manners dictated that she offer bread and cheese to her unwelcome guest.
She opened the door to the parlour. At least he wouldn’t have found fuel, so she wouldn’t have to pay him for—
A heaped bucket of coal stood beside the hearth with a pile of kindling and Mr Remington was crumpling up old newspaper. She swallowed, saying farewell to the rent money.
‘Where did you get that?’
He kept crumpling. ‘Your landlady.’
‘Oh. Er...thank you. I’ll pay her in the morning.’ And there, right there, was a lie—she didn’t have enough money. She steeled herself. ‘How much was it?’
‘I’ve paid her.’
‘Paid her?’
‘Yes. Come and sit down.’ He began to set kindling on top of the paper with a quick efficiency that surprised her. Not at all like her uncle or cousin, neither of whom had ever laid a fire.
He’d set the chair for her and—she blushed at the sight—he’d placed the blanket from her pallet on it. Something in her trembled at the thought of him touching her bedding.
Idiot! He probably handled it with his gloves on to avoid catching anything!
‘How much do I owe you?’ She kept her voice steady, but Papa would be furious if it came out of his winnings.
‘What?’ His voice was brusque as he reached for the tinder box she’d had no use for in weeks. ‘Wrap that blanket around yourself.’
‘I can look after myself,’ she said, sitting in the chair and tucking the threadbare blanket around her shoulders.
‘Then next time, don’t stay out so long that you risk taking a chill,’ he answered, setting the touchwood to the paper.
She choked back the urge to explain herself. She owed him no explanation—only whatever he had paid Mrs Beattie for the fuel.
‘I owe you money for the coal. How much?’
There was a moment’s silence except for the crackle as the fire took hold. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said at last, standing up and stepping back from the fire.
‘Sir—Mr Remington—’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘How often do you perform in the street?’
That was none of his business either, but she supposed there was no harm in answering. ‘Every so often.’ The warmth from the leaping fire reached her, seeped into the chill.
‘I suppose you think the clothes are a disguise.’
She glared up at him, holding out her hands to the blaze. ‘No one else has ever noticed!’
‘You think?’
The sarcasm stung, but she ignored it. ‘They didn’t even notice in the tavern we—’
‘Tavern?’ Grey eyes bored into her. ‘What the hell were you doing in a damn tavern, dressed as a boy no less?’
‘Eating my dinner,’ she shot back.
‘In a tavern,’ he repeated. ‘And how do you know you weren’t noticed?’
‘Because,’ she said without thinking, ‘no one pinched my bum!’
There was a moment of stunned silence she could have cut.
‘Your—what?’
She gritted her teeth. Her grandparents, Grandpapa in particular, had spent years teaching her to curb her temper and think before she spoke. This man somehow undermined her hard-won self-control. Well, she’d said it and there was no use pretending she hadn’t. Or that he hadn’t heard, and probably said, worse. Gentlemen did. Even her grandfather had used a few choice words when his favourite mare stepped on his foot.
‘My bum,’ she said. ‘Fitch said if—’
‘Fitch?’
‘The boy with me. He said if I—’
‘That was Fitch?’
‘Yes. He said it was safer to stay in the boys’—’ His tone of voice registered and fear curled through her. He’d sounded as if he knew something of Fitch. ‘Why are you interested in him?’ She could think of any number of reasons to be interested in Fitch. Especially if you carried an expensive watch and chain, and a purse that dripped crowns...
‘Someone mentioned him as a friend of yours.’ He sounded angry.
‘Is there something wrong with that?’ she demanded.
The hands that had built the fire so easily curled to fists. ‘Apparently not. I’m sure your father approves.’
She snorted. ‘Papa’s never laid eyes on Fitch.’
James reined in the rising anger. None of this was her fault. Not even the fact that he didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried that her supposed protector was a mere child. It was none of his concern. So why had he gone down and fronted the grimy Mrs Beattie to buy fuel for the girl? Why the hell was he still here? His body had a very obvious answer and it wasn’t one he entirely liked.
‘Where does he live?’
Overhead something creaked and the girl’s gaze flickered upward as she frowned.
‘Something up there?’ James asked.
‘I hope not another leak,’ she said. ‘It’s probably a cat. They fight on the roof. Are you going to leave?’
‘Soon enough,’ he said. ‘Where does the boy live?’
‘Hereabouts,’ she said eventually.
‘Where?’
‘Nowhere, really. He’s an orphan. He picks up a living where he can.’
James bit back an oath. It didn’t take much intelligence to work out what that living would involve. And it wasn’t uncommon for pickpockets to use a street performer as a cover. ‘Hell’s teeth, girl! Where have your wits gone begging?’ he ground out, fear clawing at his belly. ‘If he plies that trade while you’re playing your fiddle, you’ll both hang!’
‘He doesn’t!’ she flared.
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ At least she wasn’t pretending not to know what he meant. ‘It’s—’
‘Not while I’m playing,’ she insisted. ‘He promised and I give him half the money anyway.’
Something about the very quietness of her response convinced him. ‘Half the money?’ he demanded. ‘Why?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Because I’d lose at least half of it to people pretending to put money in, of course!’ she explained as one who states the obvious, as he supposed it was.
‘And Fitch stops that.’
‘Yes. And other...that is, pickpockets, stay away.’ She hesitated, then said, ‘Because they think it’s his pitch.’
‘If he’s a thief,’ he said bluntly, ‘you’re a damn fool to associate with him.’
Her chin came up. ‘He’s my friend,’ she said. ‘And he doesn’t swear at me.’
James cleared his throat. ‘Bum is a word not usually learned in polite circles,’ he pointed out.
‘Well,’ she amended, ‘I don’t think he does so deliberately.’ The bright eyes narrowed. ‘You seem to have learned it.’
‘But not in polite circles,’ he said, fighting a grin at the neat way she’d turned the tables on him.
She shrugged. ‘Since I’m clearly not in polite circles here, I can’t see that it matters. Let me assure you that I wouldn’t have said it in my grandmother’s drawing room.’
‘Your grandmother has a drawing room?’ Had Miss Hensleigh just implied that she didn’t think he was polite?
Her mouth tightened. ‘She did when she was alive.’
That didn’t really surprise him. Hensleigh’s manners and speech were those of a gentleman. He hadn’t been born in the gutter, even if he was damn close to ending in one and dragging his daughter with him. And there was the nub. After two brief meetings, James couldn’t stomach the thought of Hensleigh taking the girl down with him. Damn it, she shouldn’t be eating in a tavern with a pickpocket, or living in these shabby rooms. She shouldn’t know such things exist—
He looked up as the roof creaked again.
She glanced at the window uneasily. ‘You should go,’ she said.
He scowled. ‘For God’s sake! If I had designs on your virtue I’d have it by now!’ And could have kicked himself as she flushed. It wasn’t quite the truth, either...
‘No.’ She rose and walked over to the window. ‘But it’s getting dark. The streets aren’t safe around here at night.’
She was worried about him? No, she just wanted him gone. But her warning had reminded him of something. ‘Do you know a fellow called Kilby?’
Her brow knotted. ‘Kilby? No.’ She didn’t sound entirely sure. After a moment, she said, ‘At least, Papa knows him, I think. I heard him mention the name once to someone who came home with him.’
‘He brought someone home?’ It hadn’t been easy finding out where Hensleigh lived. That the man was fool enough to bring anyone home surprised him.
‘Not exactly. It was more like the other man had followed him. Papa never brings anyone home. I was asleep at first. I think he caught up with Papa at the door. They argued and I woke up. The man asked for time, but I remember Papa saying that since Kilby had them, it was too late. That he, the other man, should make himself scarce—’
‘Vowels.’ James muttered it, almost to himself. From what he’d learned, Hensleigh was in the habit of selling debts on to the mysterious Kilby. Kilby bought them at a discount and charged the full amount, plus interest.
‘Gambling debts?’
He glanced at her. ‘What else? Your father probably sold the fellow’s debts to this Kilby. Did he see you?’
‘Who?’ She looked rather puzzled at first, but then her brow cleared. ‘Oh, the man who followed Papa home? No. I told you. I was asleep. And it wasn’t here anyway.’
‘Not here?’
She went very pink. ‘We’ve only been here a couple of months. It was just before we moved.’
A ball of tension unknotted in his gut. He’d seen enough of the men Hensleigh associated with to feel cold all over at the thought of any of them knowing about this girl. Apparently the man had the sense to change his lodgings every so often to throw any pursuit off the scent. ‘Good,’ he said.
She was watching him, an odd expression on her face. ‘If you’re going to take the money for the coal off what you owe Papa, he won’t like it.’
‘What?’ For a moment he had no idea what she was talking about. ‘What I owe—?’ Too late he realised that he had tripped himself up. ‘Look, the coal was nothing. It doesn’t—’
But her eyes had narrowed. He could see her putting it together. He braced himself.
‘If you owed him money,’ she said finally, ‘there was no reason to come back today, let alone wait.’ Her voice was very quiet. ‘You could hardly suppose he wouldn’t call on you as soon as he returned. But if he owes you money—’ she bit her lip and he knew an urge to reach out, stroke away the small hurt ‘—then there was every reason to return and wait, wasn’t there?’
‘Yes,’ he said. There was no point denying it, even if he could bring himself to lie to her again.
‘So you lied to me,’ she said, as if being lied to was perfectly normal. ‘How much?’
His mind blanked for a moment. ‘How much for what?’ he countered. What sort of idiot couldn’t keep a lie straight in his head? Somehow this girl unravelled his wits and scattered them to the winds.
She swallowed and the silent jerk of her throat stabbed at him. ‘How much does he owe you?’
He didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved that she wasn’t offering to barter herself for the debt.
He hesitated. She was already pale, her mouth set as if braced for a blow. A blow he didn’t want to strike. He clenched his fists, gritting his teeth. The time for lies was past. Well, almost. ‘One hundred pounds.’ He could not bring himself to tell her the full amount.
* * *
It was a shameful fact that Lucy had never, not once in her life, come close to fainting. Her cousin Jane had prided herself on her ability to faint dead away with becoming grace at the slightest provocation, be it a spider, a snake or the admiring glance of an eligible gentleman. Jane had been as much admired for her exquisite sensibility as for her beauty. Lucy never felt so much as dizzy. Spiders didn’t bother her, she thought the occasional snake she saw was far more scared of her than she was of it and gentlemen never noticed her.
But now the abyss along which her father had skirted, week after week, month after month and year after year, gaped at her feet, a black, fathomless pit that threatened to swallow her whole. Her vision greyed... She couldn’t really be off balance, because there didn’t seem to be a floor to be off balance on, and she was falling...and then, not.
For a blinding instant she was conscious of the power of his arms, the sheer strength of his body, as he caught her, steadied her. For one wild, insane moment she knew the urge to remain there. Safe. Then, with a fierce wrench, she fought to free herself, shoving away from him, willing her head to stop spinning, her knees to hold and her lungs to draw air. Safe? Whatever else this man might be, he wasn’t safe.
‘Let me go!’ She struggled, but he held her tightly.
‘Don’t be an idiot, Lucy!’ he said. ‘You damn near fainted on me!’
‘I don’t faint!’ Somehow she was sitting in the chair he had vacated, his hands still gripping her shoulders. ‘And I have not said you may call me Lucy!’
He snorted. ‘What else should I call you? We both know Hensleigh is not your real name.’
That struck home. She said quietly, ‘Please let me go.’ If he didn’t—
He let her go and she reached up to rub her shoulder where he had gripped her, where the shock of his touch shivered in her flesh.
His brows snapped together. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said stiffly, as though the words shamed him. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you.’
She couldn’t explain that he hadn’t hurt her. She couldn’t explain that shivery feeling even to herself. Her throat worked. ‘One hundred pounds.’ The words jerked out all anyhow. ‘How? When?’ Clearly Papa was not with his mistress—one hundred pounds was a fortune and Papa had run.
And he didn’t take you. Didn’t even bother to warn you. Heat pricked behind her eyes. With that much money she could—
‘That amount shocks you?’
The bitter tone, more than the words, did it. Inside her something shattered into molten shards, drying her eyes in the white-hot blaze. What did he have to be bitter about? Her father might or might not come back. All the money he had won a few weeks ago was gone. At best he had left town to play elsewhere until he had enough to pay off—
‘I suppose Remington is not really your name, sir?’ she forced out.
He looked annoyed as he pulled out an elegant silver card case. ‘Cambourne.’ He handed her a card. ‘Remington is the family name.’
Family name? She looked at the card. Cambourne. And not merely Mr Cambourne, but Lord Cambourne, a belted earl, no less. No wonder Papa had run. There would be very few places he could play profitably in London without having paid off this debt. Fear choked her. She knew her father’s code. A debt like this would be paid before all else. Before the rent for their lodgings, before food—well, food for her. He’d buy himself a meal on the way home, give Mrs Beattie a shilling to keep her sweet and tell his daughter there was no money. Why on earth had she ever thought she owed him the least vestige of loyalty? And yet...he was her father. She remembered him from her childhood before Mama died, kind when he was at home, often bringing her a present, a sweet or a cake. Once a painted wooden brooch—a bird perched singing on a twig.
And he sold the jewellery Grandmama left you. Her fingers went to her chest, felt the locket through the threadbare gown. Not quite all. Just what he’d known about. Sold it and pocketed the money. Sworn he’d make their fortunes. He’d made that fortune, all right. She’d been dazed, dazzled, sure that at last she was safe, that she’d have a proper home. And then he’d lost most of it the following week.
Lord Cambourne said nothing and she fought to ignore his presence. One hundred pounds. Papa had won five times as much a few weeks ago. He’d let her have some money that time. Enough to buy food, the beeswax and pay off the arrears on their lodgings. Otherwise Mrs Beattie would have kicked them out. There was nothing left of what he’d given her. And with what she could earn, she would be lucky to have enough to eat for a week if she ate one meal a day, and only then if Mrs Beattie didn’t insist on being paid again next week.
‘I don’t know where he is,’ she said again. Folly to keep repeating it. Either Lord Cambourne believed her, or he did not. There was nothing she could do about it.
He was watching her. Those dark-grey eyes seemed to look right through her and see things she preferred to keep hidden. She lifted her chin, praying that the choking fear was not apparent. Praying that he would leave so that she could think.
‘You should leave.’ Pretending that Mr Remington, or Lord Cambourne, or whatever he wished to call himself, was a welcome visitor was beyond her.
* * *
James hesitated. There was no reason to linger. Any more than there had been reason to stay this long. And yet he didn’t want to go. Lucy Hensleigh, or whatever she called herself, bothered him. The idea of her going out alone, performing in the street for pennies, didn’t exactly shock him; that twisting in his gut wasn’t shock. Oh, there was shock all right. But it was shock at how he was feeling about her. How he felt about her being here alone, her father having seemingly abandoned her. And shock at the feel of her slender body in his arms a few moments ago. He hadn’t wanted to let her go.
Hell’s teeth! If a debt of one hundred pounds had rattled her that badly, how would she have taken the truth? Or that his intention was to sell the debt on?
It wasn’t James’s responsibility. He’d bought coal so she’d have some warmth. She had food. And he was due at a late supper back in St James’s, after which he had a ball to attend. Not that it would matter overly if he were late... Damn it to hell and back! How safe was she here?
‘Beyond the man who followed him home, your father’s friends don’t call?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
Relief breathed through him. He hoped it would stay that way.
‘And you’ve really no idea when he will return?’
The soft mouth turned mulish ‘No. There’s no point asking again. You either believe me or you don’t. He’s disappeared before. Never for more than a few days.’
The roof creaked loudly and she jumped.
‘Miss Hensleigh, are you sure you don’t mind being here alone?’ James asked gently. He couldn’t blame her for being nervous. And what can you do about it? Offer to remain with her?
‘I’m not alone,’ she pointed out. ‘You’re here. And I don’t like it!’
James clenched his fists. He was making her nervous? He let out a breath. He couldn’t blame her for that. Reluctantly, he walked to the door. ‘I’ll bid you goodnight.’
She stared at him. ‘You’re actually leaving?’
‘Yes. Bolt the door behind me.’
She rose, graceful even in her shabby gown with a threadbare blanket around her. ‘I always do at night.’
‘Good.’ The door wasn’t strong enough to keep anyone out who really wanted to get in, but at least the noise would warn her.
James opened the door, turned and held out his hand to her. ‘Goodnight.’
After a moment’s hesitation she placed her hand in his, slowly, as if she doubted the wisdom of doing so. His fingers closed over hers gently, he felt them quiver, heard the soft intake of breath as his clasp tightened. Such a small hand and so cold in his. A steel band seemed to clamp about his chest as startled green eyes met his, her lips parted slightly, and he fought the shocking urge to lean forward and taste them, find out if they would tremble in response.
Heat licked through him at the thought, but instead he covered her hand with his other one. ‘Promise me that you’ll sit by the fire long enough to warm up properly.’ The thought of her cold and so alone haunted him. She ought not to be left alone, but he couldn’t stay. Didn’t dare. Damn her father to hell for leaving her like this.
Her chin lifted, revealing the slender column of her throat. ‘Do you think I can’t look after myself?’
He doubted it. Not if some bastard decided to help himself. He ignored the urge to behave like one of the aforementioned bastards and trace the ivory line of her throat with one finger, discover the swift pulse beating beneath silk-soft skin... His fingers tightened on hers. ‘I think that you shouldn’t have to,’ he said at last. Wanting her was bad enough, the warring urge to look after her, keep her safe even from himself, make sure she was never cold or hungry ever again, was more than foolish—it ranked close to insanity. There was no point elaborating on the dangers; those wary eyes told him that she knew them already, recognised him as one of them. And if she considered him a danger she was not interested in becoming his mistress. She had not even tried to influence him or buy him off with a little flirtation, or by making play with wet lashes over her father’s debt. He had to respect that.
Reluctantly, he released her hand and stepped back. ‘Bolt the door behind me,’ he repeated. Somehow he got the door open and shut with himself outside it before his resolution failed. He waited, heard the squeak and thud as she shot the bolt with what sounded like unwonted vigour.
His brows rose. ‘Goodnight to you, too, Miss Hensleigh.’
There was a moment’s silence. Then, ‘Goodnight, sir.’ Stiff, reluctant. Rather as if she would have preferred to consign him to Hades.
Chapter Three (#ulink_7a458d17-764b-578c-9cd3-feb4c0329dc2)
Lucy listened to the steady steps and accompanying creaks as he crossed the landing. Heard him descend the stairs and heaved a sigh of what ought to have been relief, and felt frighteningly like regret. Shivering, she lifted the hand he had held to her breast. The strong pressure of his fingers, the enveloping warmth, lingered. He had held her hand as if he cared about her.
He held your hand for a moment in farewell. It meant nothing. Less than nothing to him.
He was gone. So why did the bright edge of tension still score her? Why did it matter that he had held her hand? Worse, why did she wish he was still holding it? She’d been wrong about his motive for waiting; he wanted Papa, not her. Lord! He’d been insulted at the very suggestion. And yet he’d held her hand in that odd way. Tenderly. As if he hadn’t wanted to let her go.
He was kind, that was all. Buying fuel, lighting the fire.
Why? Papa owes him a small fortune.
Suspicious cynicism was not one of her more attractive traits, but she couldn’t afford naivety. In the last four years she’d learned to be wary of seeming kindness. People, especially men, wanted something in return. She’d learnt very quickly what men usually wanted from a girl—­something that meant less than nothing to them, but would spell disaster for her. Papa had also realised that very quickly. It was why he never brought anyone back to their lodgings if he could avoid it. Just the young man who had followed him a couple of months ago and now Cambourne.
He ought to be your enemy. Remember what Grandpapa was used to say? Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.
She wasn’t sure about the origin of the quote, but thought it might be Homer. Someone had been suspicious about the Trojan Horse, as well they might. She had not been permitted to read Homer, of course. Grandmama had frowned on young girls reading anything more inflammatory than a book of sermons and Homer definitely counted as inflammatory.
The roof creaked loudly and she hurried to the window. She pushed the casement open and stepped back. A moment later Fitch swung through the window, to land catlike and dripping.
‘What the hell did his nibs want?’ he demanded. ‘Bit of a dolly roll?’
‘No,’ Lucy said. At least she hoped not if Fitch meant what she thought he meant.
Fitch snorted. ‘Right.’
‘He wants my father. I told you.’
The boy gave a shrug as he dripped his way over to the fire. ‘Just bet he does. But that ain’t to say he can’t chase a bit of tail on the side.’ He held out his hands to the blaze. ‘Nice. You buy fuel with the extra shilling?’
‘He bought it,’ Lucy admitted.
Fitch’s eyes narrowed. ‘Did he now? An’ you reckon—’
The stairs groaned under a heavy, uneven tread. The two of them froze.
‘Mrs Beattie,’ Lucy whispered, panic clutching at her insides.
Fitch made for the window, but voices floated up from the yard. ‘Damn!’ he muttered, hesitating.
‘The bedroom!’ Lucy said. ‘She’s no reason to go in there!’
Silent as a hunting cat, Fitch disappeared into the other room.
Lucy unbolted the door, then sat at the table and strove to appear unconcerned as the steps waddled over the complaining landing. The door rattled under the less-than-genteel knock.
‘Come in!’ She put on her best welcoming voice.
Mrs Beattie came in, eyes darting about. ‘Gorn, is he?’
‘Yes.’ As if you didn’t know! Very little got past the eagle-eyed landlady. ‘And I would prefer it if you did not permit strangers to wait for me.’
Mrs Beattie shrugged. ‘Called yestiddy, didn’ he? An’ this afternoon, lookin’ for yeh.’ She scowled. ‘Not but what I didn’ know he’d slipped back this evenin’. Not till he come lookin’ for coal.’
‘Oh. I see.’ Getting past Mrs Beattie unnoticed was nigh on impossible, but given the woman’s annoyance, apparently Cambourne had done it. ‘Can I help you with something?’
Mrs Beattie scowled. ‘In a manner of speakin’. You an’ me need to have a little talk about money, missy.’
Lucy’s stomach lurched. ‘The rent is due Friday. And I understood the coal was paid for.’
Mrs Beattie’s lips pursed, and Lucy could almost see her wondering if it was worth trying to gouge a little extra on the coal.
‘It was,’ the woman admitted and Lucy let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. ‘It’s the extra rent you an’ me got to talk about.’
‘Extra rent?’ The words felt thick on her tongue.
The landlady wiped greasy hands on her apron. ‘Aye. Yeh can bring a trick up here, long as yer quiet. But usin’ the rooms fer business, that’s extra rent.’
* * *
James strode back along the Strand towards Whitehall. He was going to be late to supper if he didn’t hurry. He kept an eye open for trouble and a hand on the loaded pistol in his coat pocket.
The streets aren’t safe around here at night.
Nor during the day for that matter. Not for a woman alone. And yet she traversed them daily. Unbidden, the image of her in boys’ clothes, slender legs encased in breeches, came to him. The threadbare, poorly fitting clothes had hidden everything. Perhaps he’d only known because he’d recognised the sound of her violin. Then he’d looked properly, seen the delicate line of her jaw, watched the slender hands coaxing magic from the violin. No one else had spotted the graceful girl hiding in the shabby suit. Even in the tavern. Ill-lit and crowded, she must have passed unnoticed. But it bothered him.
She ought not to be performing in the street.
So is she supposed to starve in ladylike silence to suit your notions of respectability?
Her father is damn well supposed to look after her! Not leave her earning pennies playing the fiddle.
And there was the rub. Her father. The man who owed him a thousand pounds. Who’d set the mysterious Kilby’s enforcers after Nick and left Lucy to shift for herself. The man he’d sworn to ruin.
‘Good God! What brings you down this way, Cambourne?’
James stared at the gentleman descending from a hackney cab. ‘Montgomery.’ He acknowledged the viscount with a cool nod. ‘A business matter.’ He didn’t bother to ask what brought Montgomery this way. The man had an unsavoury reputation for preferring the brothels down here. Brothels that were fussy neither about the age nor willingness of their girls. Or, it was whispered, how the customers treated them.
‘Business? Down here?’ Montgomery looked amused and slightly disdainful. ‘My man of affairs deals with anything to do with the City.’
The cab driver coughed. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, milor’—’
Montgomery turned, scowling. ‘Yes, yes, my good man. Really, such a fuss over a paltry shilling or two.’
The jarvey said nothing, but James saw the anxiety underlying the scorn in his eyes.
‘The man has his living to earn, Montgomery.’
Montgomery sighed, produced the fare from his pocket and handed it over. ‘Really, Cambourne. Next you’ll be telling me that you pay your tailor when he duns you!’
‘Not exactly,’ James said. ‘He doesn’t dun me, because I pay when he bills me.’
Montgomery looked pained. ‘How very respectable. Well, I’m off to partake in the joys of the flesh. I’ve a nice, fresh game pullet reserved. Care to come along? I’m sure we can find something for you.’ The smirk suggested he knew what the response would be.
James didn’t bother to hide his distaste. ‘Thank you. No.’ He glanced at the jarvey, who was easing his horse away from the curb. ‘I’m going back to Mayfair. Do you want the fare?’
The horse stopped at once. ‘Glad of it, guv,’ said the jarvey.
‘Thank you. I won’t hold you up.’ He swung open the door and stepped into the cab.
Montgomery shuddered. ‘Really, Cambourne! You don’t thank a jarvey.’
James leaned on the open window. ‘Is that so? I find thanking people ensures better, more willing service. You might try it with your game pullet.’
Montgomery’s laughter was unpleasant. ‘Willing? I’m not courting an heiress, man. This one’s bought and paid for. Willing doesn’t—’
The rest was lost in the rattle of hooves and wheels as the cab set off. James sat back, frowning. Montgomery always left a nasty taste in his mouth.
A moment later the trap opened. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, guv. Old horse took off afore you’d finished your chat.’
‘An intelligent beast,’ said James drily. ‘Tell him to take me to Berkeley Street.’
‘Righto, guv.’
The trap shut and James leaned back on the squabs. Damn it. If he ruined Hensleigh completely, then Lucy would be on her own. He let out a breath. Perhaps he didn’t have to break Hensleigh, or Hammersley, or whatever his name was, entirely. He saw again Nick’s battered face and swore.
* * *
Lucy had no idea what trick meant in this context, but the phrase ‘place of business’ gave her the clue.
‘Lor— Look, Mrs Beattie, you’re mistaken.’ Instinct warned her against revealing too much about her visitor. ‘The gentleman is a friend of my father’s.’ That was a stretch, but it would do. ‘He was looking for him.’
Mrs Beattie gave a snort. ‘Listen, dearie, when you an’ your pa moved in I was all set to charge ’im for business, but he insisted you was his daughter, an’ he weren’t selling tricks.’ She sniffed. ‘Can’t say as I really believed ’im at the start, but I gave ’im the lower rate on trial as you might say. But I warned ’im.’
‘Warned him?’ Lucy scowled at the woman. ‘About what?’
Mrs Beattie crossed her arms over her ample bosom. ‘Warned ’im if I so much as smelled a suspicion of a trick up here, he’d be paying more.’
Speechless, Lucy stared at her and she went on. ‘Now, I dunno if he didn’ tell you, or if you just thought you could sneak yer fancy man past me, but—’
‘He is not my fancy man!’ Lucy’s face flamed.
The snort this time was of equine proportions. ‘Right. An’ I’m the Queen o’ France,’ Mrs Beattie said, with a fine disregard for the fact that the last French queen’s head had fallen under the guillotine some years previously. ‘It ain’t no never mind o’ mine, long as you pay up. Mind you...’ She looked around. ‘Flash gent like that, you play ’im right, you oughta get a nice little house to yerself.’
Outrage bubbled up. ‘Mrs Beattie! I am not—’ Not what? Not playing tricks? ‘Not selling myself!’
Mrs Beattie scowled. ‘Well, yer a fool, givin’ it to him for love. Anyone can see ’e’s well-breeched.’
‘He came to see if my father had returned!’ Lucy insisted.
‘That don’t take half an hour, nor it don’t need no coal,’ said the lady with unarguable logic. ‘Three shillings a week extra, missy.’
‘And does that include coal for business purposes?’ Lucy demanded.
The landlady scowled. ‘S’pose I could throw in some coal,’ she said grudgingly. ‘When you pays the extra.’
Lucy blinked. Clearly sarcasm was wasted on Mrs Beattie. Still, if she was going to be bilked for extra rent this week, she might as well get something out of it. Hopefully, once Mrs Beattie realised her mistake, and that Lord Cambourne was not continuing to call, the rent would drop back.
Mrs Beattie, evidently concluding that she’d completed her business, stumped to the door. Reaching it, she looked back. ‘Three shillings extra. Payable Friday.’ She went out, closing the door behind her with a triumphant bang.
Lucy sank on to the chair, staring at the closed door as fear choked her. She barely had enough money left to buy food. Now it was Tuesday night. She had no idea if she could earn three shillings for extra rent, as well as eat, between now and Friday. If only she’d stayed out longer, so that Cambourne had given up and gone away without alerting Mrs Beattie. Or even if she hadn’t indulged in dinner at the tavern, so she had more money towards the rent, or—
‘Well, now there’s the devil to pay.’ Fitch came out of the bedroom and cast a disgusted glance at the door. He stalked to the fire and held out his hands to the blaze. ‘You sure his nibs don’t want a roll?’
‘A—’ Lucy swallowed. ‘A roll. Is that like a trick?’
He nodded. ‘Yeah. You has a quick roll, or turns a trick.’
Lucy stowed the information away. More knowledge unsuitable for the drawing room. But she wasn’t in a safe, protected drawing room.
‘He’s just looking for my father,’ she said. If he’d wanted anything else, there had been nothing to stop him taking it. Although there had been nothing to stop her grandmother’s cat killing a mouse instantly, either.
‘Might get some rhino from him,’ Fitch suggested. ‘Since you reckoned as he owes your pa money, he could pay you some on account like.’
Lucy shook her head, flushing at the thought of begging from his lordship. ‘No.’ Anger rose again. ‘He lied about that. Papa owes him money. And—’ she clenched her fists ‘—he lied about his name. He isn’t Mr Remington at all. He’s Lord Cambourne—an earl.’
‘Ah.’ Fitch scowled. ‘Makes more sense, him comin’ back, then.’ He didn’t push it, apparently accepting that a fellow already owed money was an unlikely touch.
‘Well, that leaves yer fiddle,’ he said. ‘Did well enough today.’ He hesitated. ‘Lu, you know I’d never flam a mark while you’re playing the fiddle, don’t you?’
She blinked. ‘Of course I know that. You promised. Why do you ask?’
He shrugged. ‘No reason. Just thinkin’. S’long’s you know.’
Memory tugged. ‘Did you hear what Lord Cambourne said?’
He scowled. ‘Heard that. He said it loud enough.’
She reached out and touched his hand. ‘I told him you’d promised. That you wouldn’t do that. It will be all right, Fitch. As long as I can earn enough for this week, once she sees Lord Cambourne isn’t calling all the time, she’ll realise I’m not his...his—’
‘Dollymop,’ Fitch supplied. He looked sceptical. ‘Yeah. Drop the rent right back, she will. Being as how she’s so generous an’ all. Look, you want me to go away? The old bitch realises I’m sleeping here, it’ll be another three shillings.’
‘No. Don’t go.’ Knowing that she wasn’t completely alone at night allowed her to sleep better. And she knew that he was off the streets, safe for a few hours.
He cocked his head. ‘You sure?’
‘Yes. Are you still hungry?’ She changed the subject. ‘Have some bread and cheese.’
He cut bread and a chunk of cheese to go with it, passed them to her, then cut some for himself. Munching, he crouched down by the fire. ‘Least you flammed some coal outta her for the extra rent,’ he said through a mouthful. ‘With that an’ what his nibs bought you’ll starve all nice an’ cosy.’
She grimaced. A thought occurred to her. ‘Fitch?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Do you know someone called Kilby?’
He went utterly still, wariness in every line. ‘Where’d you hear that name?’
‘Lord Cambourne, and I think Papa knows him.’
There was a moment’s silence. ‘Don’t go askin’ no questions about Kilby,’ Fitch said at last. ‘Better if you’d never heard the name. Safer.’ He swallowed his mouthful. ‘His nibs asks again, tell him you don’t know nothin’. Safer,’ he repeated.
* * *
Kilby was still at his desk when Jig reported to him, but Jig noted with relief that, far from drumming his fingers, the man was eating.
‘Jig. What have you got for me?’ Kilby bit into a chicken leg.
‘Still no sign of Hensleigh, guv,’ Jig said, trying not to stare at the rest of the chicken.’ His stomach rumbled.
‘Girl might be covering for him.’ Kilby spoke through a mouthful.
Jig shook his head. ‘Don’ reckon, guv. Sounds like she ain’t got no money an’ the gent come a-calling tonight.’
‘Did he now?’ Kilby set the half-eaten chicken leg back on the platter. ‘Anything on him?’
Jig swallowed spit. God, that chicken smelled good. ‘Got a name—Remington.’
Kilby’s hand froze halfway to the tankard. ‘Remington?’
‘Yeah. Struck me, too,’ Jig said. ‘But it ain’t him, guv.’ Like he wouldn’t reckernise a bloke he’d helped beat bloody? Weren’t blind, or dicked in the nob, was he?
‘No. Of course not.’ Kilby took a swallow from the tankard. ‘You can describe the fellow?’
Jig nodded. ‘Tall. Taller’n me. Well set-up cove. Moves like ’e’d strip to advantage. Real easy on ’is feet. Dark hair. Dresses like quality. Not real bang-up new, but quality.’
‘Probably tupping the girl.’ Kilby sighed. ‘Pity.’
‘Woman owns the lodgings reckons that’s the way of it,’ Jig said. ‘Been flapping her mouth all over. But I ain’t so sure.’
Kilby stared over the rim of the tankard. ‘And what engenders this extraordinary optimism, Jig?’
Allowing that he didn’t understand any of them breakteeth words, Jig got the idea. ‘Well, you wanted me to find out why young Fitch’s earnings was down.’
‘Yes?’
‘So, I seen ’im hangin’ round a lad playin’ the fiddle. Right crowd there was.’
‘So Fitch should have had easy pickings.’ Kilby’s fingers drummed in such a way that Jig reckoned Fitch had better watch out for himself. ‘The little rat’s holding out on me, is that it?’
‘Not ezackly, guv.’ Jig went on. ‘Far’s I could tell, he weren’t picking pockets at all.’
‘What?’
‘No. Just makin’ sure no one else helped theirselves to the takin’s.’
Kilby sat back. ‘Maybe we’d better have a word to this lad with a fiddle.’
‘Well, now,’ Jig said, ‘funny you should say that, guv. I ain’t sure it is a lad—’
‘What? You said—’
‘Reckon it’s the girl. Hensleigh’s girl, playin’ for pennies. And—’
‘And why would she be doing that—’ Kilby said, looking interested.
‘If she’s givin’ rides to a toff,’ Jig finished. ‘It don’t make sense.’
‘No,’ Kilby said. ‘It doesn’t. Get word to Fitch that I want his takings up. Nothing else. No word of this. And he’s to be given a couple of night jobs.’
‘An’ the toff? You want me to find out more?’
‘No. Keep an eye on the girl.’ Kilby’s eyes bored into him. ‘I don’t have to tell you that she is to remain untouched, do I?’
* * *
The party at Aldwick House was in full swing when James arrived. He ran into his host in the first of the open salons.
‘Ah, Cambourne.’ Viscount Aldwick held out his hand to James. ‘Didn’t see you in the reception line.’
James shook his hand. ‘My apologies to you and Lady Aldwick, sir. I’m afraid I was rather late.’
Aldwick smiled briefly. ‘Never mind. As it is, I wonder if you might just slip along to my library. It’s not generally open tonight, but someone there would like a word with you.’
* * *
The library was lit only by the fire in the hearth and a single branch of candles on the chimneypiece. Shadows filled the room.
‘Cambourne?’ A dark figure rose from a wing chair by the fire.
James knew the quiet, deep voice. ‘Hunt? What the devil are you doing here?’ He moved towards the fire. ‘How—?’ He grimaced. ‘I’m sorry. There’s no point asking how you are—I saw the notice in the papers about your brother’s death. If there’s anything I can do...?’
Close enough now to make out Huntercombe’s features, he could see lines carved in the older man’s face that hadn’t been there six months ago. Deep lines and a shadow in the eyes that had nothing to do with the darkness of the room.
Huntercombe smiled briefly. ‘Kind of you. I wondered if I might have a word?’ He glanced around the library. ‘I knew you’d be here tonight, so I sent a note around to Aldwick this afternoon and he told me to make myself at home. I’m not actually invited this evening, at least, I suppose I would have been, but—’ He shrugged.
James nodded. A man deep in mourning for his half-brother didn’t normally attend balls. The Marquess of Huntercombe was only in town to attend the House of Lords. ‘You didn’t have to come out like this. I would have come to you.’
Huntercombe reached for a decanter on the wine table beside him. ‘I know. But I thought it better to be a trifle circumspect. Brandy?’
James took the chair on the other side of the fireplace. ‘Thank you. Circumspect about what?’
‘I heard young Remington had a little trouble recently. With a certain Captain Hensleigh.’
James leaned forward. ‘How do you know about that?’
Huntercombe’s eyes closed. ‘Don’t worry—it’s gone no further. Your cousin’s man and my valet happen to be brothers. Is the boy really all right?’
‘Bruised, battered. He appears to have learnt his lesson, thank God,’ said James.
Huntercombe’s eyes opened. ‘Then he was luckier than Gerald.’ He took a swallow of brandy. ‘If, as my valet seems to think, you’re hunting Hensleigh, or Hammersley, as Gerald knew him, I have some information for you.’
* * *
An hour later, James was still staring into the dancing fire, his mouth set in grim lines. Huntercombe had left thirty minutes ago, but he had no inclination to join the silken, perfumed crowd in the main rooms. Instead he poured another brandy and breathed the heady fumes before sipping.
Huntercombe had said Nick had been lucky. James’s fingers tightened on the heavy glass. That was an understatement. There was no longer any question of merely ruining Hensleigh—he was going to use him to get to this mysterious Kilby. And then he’d destroy both of them.
And Lucy? He hardened his resolve. He’d keep her safe, but Huntercombe’s story changed the game. Pursuing Lucy gave him the best of all reasons for continuing to call at those shabby lodgings...as long as everyone thought he was after the girl no one would question his visits.
But beyond that, he needed advice from someone who knew the shadowy world he had stumbled into.
* * *
Lucy dreamed. Dark grey eyes smiled at her with inexpressible tenderness. Strong arms held her secure against all threat of danger. Even held her warm and safe from the rain. She nestled a little deeper into the warmth and safety...until the drumming of the rain penetrated.
Literally.
Lucy woke to an icy trickle of water leaking right over her head. With a muttered curse she scrambled out of bed, dragging the thin, lumpy mattress and blankets out of the way.
She stared up at the sagging matchboard ceiling. God only knew where the water was getting in and it didn’t matter. What mattered was convincing Mrs Beattie to get it mended.
* * *
Five minutes later she was dressed, had the bed shoved against the wall and a bucket under the leak. Catching her cloak off the back of the door, she wrapped it around her and went into the other room. The curtain that hid her usual sleeping place was open, the pallet and blanket empty. The closed window suggested that Fitch had taken his leave by the stairs well before first light to avoid Mrs Beattie.
Lucy’s heart sank a little, but she pushed the melancholy aside and cut bread and cheese. The fire had gone out long ago. Briefly she considered relighting it, but dismissed the idea even though there was plenty of coal left. She needed to save it for when she was cold, not waste it on luxuries like toasted cheese. Munching, Lucy looked out of the window. Grey rain swept the yard, battering relentlessly at sagging walls and boarded-up windows.
Rain before seven, fine by eleven...
Armed with this unwarranted optimism, Lucy went downstairs to do battle with Mrs Beattie.
* * *
Mrs Beattie puffed up the stairs, grumbling that she’d see for herself. Confronted with the leak, she glared first at it and then at Lucy, as if wanting to blame her for it.
‘’Tain’t my fault,’ she said at last. ‘Dessay it’ll ease off when it ain’t raining.’
Lucy blinked. ‘I’m sure it will.’
Mrs Beattie squinted at the leak again. ‘Don’t reckon as it needs mending,’ she said at last. ‘’Course, you want to put a bucket there, you can.’
‘Of course, Mrs Beattie,’ said Lucy meekly. ‘Would you like me to tell Mr Wynn downstairs why his ceiling is leaking, or will you?’
Mrs Beattie scowled. Mr Wynn had lived in the rooms below for years. He paid his rent on time and extra to eat his dinner in the kitchen. Mrs Beattie would not want to offend him. ‘S’pose I can speak to someone about it. ’Tain’t my fault,’ she repeated, and stumped off, banging the door behind her.
* * *
When the bells of St Clement’s struck eleven the world still wept and a bitter wind whipped through every crack it could find and drove the rain ruthlessly against the window. There was no point going out, she told herself. She’d be lucky to earn a penny. No one would want to pause to listen to a fiddle in this weather, even if she could find a sheltered spot where her violin and bow would not be ruined.
Three shillings...

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