"Blast it, girl, I'm worried About you! You were fine a few hours ago, and now—now you look as if you're at death's door! I'm not leaving until you tell me what the devil has happened to you!"
She levered herself up on one elbow, glaring at him with some semblance of her old defiance. "I'm not at death's door! But you may be if you don't leave me alone! I'm not sick and I'm not sad. I'm..." Her cheeks went pink as peonies. "I'm having the Curse of Eve!"
"The... oh!" Valcour swallowed convulsively, feeling his own cheeks burn. Thunder and turf, he wasn't some green boy to be aghast at such feminine mysteries. Why was it the girl was making him feel as if he'd been caught peeking beneath her skirts?
"Now will you leave me alone?" Lucy demanded, flinging her head back onto the pillow for emphasis. "I'm sorry I'm such a monster, Dominic. But this makes me exceedingly ill-tempered. I don't want to see anyone—not you, not my maid, not anyone—until this first day of misery is quite over."
Valcour had intended from the first only to bid her goodnight and stay far from her bed. Why was it that knowing it was forbidden to him made him feel as crotchety as his bride was evidently feeling. "As you wish. Is there anything else that can be done for your comfort?"
"Just don't let anyone so much as open my door until morning, or I vow I'll become violent!"
"No one has greater respect for your violence than I, Countess. I shall leave word that anyone who disturbs you does so at risk of life and limb." Valcour stunned himself by leaning down and brushing her forehead with a kiss. For an instant he saw something flicker in Lucinda's eyes, something like quicksilver, leaving unease in its wake. Then it was gone.
Valcour strode from the room to prepare for an evening at White's faro table. He was dead certain his luck would be as abysmal as was the prospect of being banned from his countess's bed.
* * *
The night had always been Lucy's friend, a cloak to hide her mischief, a haven when the Blackheaths had curled up in the salon, chattering and laughing, quarreling and making music. She'd always loved the darkness. But tonight, as she traveled London's streets, it was as if some unseen presence were waiting for her in every shadow, lurking behind every dim, ragged figure that shuffled along in the grinding poverty that surrounded Perdition's Gate.
The only soul who even knew she had gone was Natty—her partner in stealing a horse away from Valcour's stable. The boy had been delighted when he had first seen her slipping from the townhouse's garden door, garbed in breeches, frock coat, and a jaunty tricorn with a scarlet plume. He had come to raid her pockets, hoping for sweetmeats or spice cake or some other rare treat. And he had shaken his head in a way that might have amused Lucy greatly under other circumstances as he confessed that he was still not able to get over his disappointment that his benefactor was not a boy.
However, the instant Lucy told Natty that she planned to go riding in the night, the little rogue had turned jittery as a colt in a hailstorm, his usual brashness oddly subdued.
"It's an ill night to be abroad, milady," Natty had said. "See the ring of red about the moon? Pappy Blood says that be the gateway to hell, glowing when the devil sets the damned souls free to torment us."
"I can't believe you give countenance to such faradiddle."
"I did think it was nonsense, until I noticed that things happen on such nights. Bad things, milady. Drowned bodies float up on the Thames. Not suicides, you know, but people who are murdered. Houses catch on fire and the men who go up to see the whores at the Gate are so mean they leave marks on 'em. I know it sounds mad, but it's not. Surely you believe... believe in omens an' dreams, milady. Believe that some nights the world is full of hauntings."
"If that is true, this should be the perfect night to find a ghost," Lucy had assured him. "That is, if you can tell me where to begin my search."
With great reluctance, the child had told her all he knew about the location of the man who had given him the note. But Lucy had seen real fear in the urchin's eyes. "I wish you'd let me go with you. I be a good man in a fight."
Lucy had brushed her fingertip gently across Natty’s bruised face. "I think you've had quite enough fighting lately, my fine sir. The moment I return, I'll bring out a whole plate of sticky buns and tell you the entire story, beginning to end. I promise it will be a grand adventure."
Then Lucy had ridden away, hating the unease Natty's words had spun about her, hating the guilt she felt every time she thought of how she had deceived Valcour.
The earl would not be amused when he discovered what his bride had done, but the entire affair would all be over by then. There would be nothing he could do but rage and sulk and lambast her with that delightfully tyrannical voice of his. But Lucy was certain she wouldn't have to endure his fits of temper for long. If she put her mind to it, she could find another deliciously sensual way to distract him.
She reined the horse into a twisted lane of gin shops and rookeries, taverns and brothels. The dregs of humanity littered the street like horse dung, ragged, stinking bundles with sly eyes and bone-thin bodies.
When Lucy reached the building Natty had directed her to, she was half tempted to spin the horse around and ride the other way. But she steeled her courage and dismounted. Her fingers felt numb as she tied her horse to the post, doubtful it would still be there when she returned. Then she shoved open the door to a gin shop disgusting beyond description.
The stench alone nearly flung her against the wall, and the crowd of customers looked as if they would like nothing better than to steal everything she owned, including the teeth from her mouth.
Lucy feigned a bored arrogance and paced to a toothless old hag slopping Blue Ruin into tankards. "A thousand pardons, milady," Lucy growled in a masculine tone. "I am searching for someone. A gentleman—"
"If you be looking for a gentleman, you come to the wrong place, laddie," the woman cackled. "Nothing but layabout bastards here."
"I would be willing to pay anyone who could help me find him. I'm a generous laddie."
The crone's eyes glittered like jet buttons in the loose folds of skin. "How am I to know one man among all these others?"
"He is tall and slender, with pale gold hair and eyes that are vague. He spends his time scribbling music. Some think him mad, but he seems gentle enough."
The crone's eyes disappeared into slits, and she sucked her lips over toothless gums. "You be looking for Mad Alex, do you, laddie? I can't say that it would be a good idea to go barging in on him right now. He's been a trifle beside himself the past week. Ever since he found that notice of an earl's marriage in the Gazette."
Threads of unease uncoiled in Lucy's middle. "Can you tell me where to find him?"
"Sure'n I can. He's got a room out back, ever since his brother chased him from Perdition's Gate. Sir Jasper be hunting him down—you don't be working for that bastard, do you? Maybe I should have ol’ Dickwilly there slit your gullet just in case."
"No," Lucy said hastily. "The truth is, Alex has been searching for me."
"If you're lyin' to me, I got a dozen men who would murder you cold for the price of one tankard of me finest."
"I understand."
"Who should I tell Mad Alex is calling?"
"Tell him I bring him word about Jenny."
The woman scowled. "Jenny? Is that one of those whores he has visiting?"
Lucy cringed inwardly. "No. Just tell him. He'll know what it means."
The crone returned moments later, eyeing Lucy with patent curiosity. "Go on back. He's pure perishing to see you. Last door on the left."
Lucy started away, but the old woman stepped in front of her. "Just to be safe, you can leave your sword with me. Mad Alex is a good-paying customer, and I'd take exception to losing him."
Lucy wanted to protest, but she saw two burly men close ranks with the crone. Slowly, Lucy slipped her sword from the scabbard and handed it to the woman.
"Pistol too. Now, laddie."
Lucy set her teeth then gav
e up the weapon. She was going to see a man who claimed to be her father. An impostor, no doubt. A weakling attempting to extort money from her, or involved in some other mercenary scheme. If he had wanted to do her harm, he would have come to Virginia himself, found her there, and...
Plotting out the most reasonable course to her own murder did nothing to keep at bay the prickles of foreboding that slid like slivers of ice beneath her skin. Lucy drove away the thoughts and made her way through what seemed almost a rabbit warren of close, foul-smelling chambers littered with straw, stray cats, and starving children. When she reached the appointed door, she knocked.
"Come in."
His voice. It was faint, a little grating. Frightening in a way Lucy had never expected. She lifted the latch and opened the door. Her vision was blurry from the dark, the blaze of candlelight making the figure before her shimmer and ripple like the surface of a stream stirred by her hand. She swiped her fingers across her eyes then opened them again.
From the moment she had left Virginia she had been working to this end—to confront this mysterious person face to face. But as she stared into the features of the man before her, a tightness began to close about her heart.
He was the man in the miniature. Could there be any doubt? Soft blond hair threaded through with gray framed a dreamy face. The mouth was less defined, the chin far weaker, but then the painted image had been that of an optimistic boy. This was a man on whom the passage of time had laid heavily.
Yet as Lucy stared into the man's features, she couldn't help but remember how miserable she had been as an abandoned child, how close her mother had come to burying her sorrows in the muddy current of the Thames.
"Who are you and what news have you?" the man demanded.
Lucy crushed the brim of her tricorn between her fingers and swept the hat off, a wealth of golden curls cascading down to frame her face. "I am Jenny d'Autrecourt."
Even if Lucy had still clung to any doubts about the man's identity, his reaction would have banished them forever. A fevered light came to those vague eyes, like a licking tongue of blue flame. The bony fingers trembled as if stricken with palsy.
"Jenny? You are my Jenny?" The man crossed to her, cupping his quaking hands about her cheeks. "Child, it is your papa."
Lucy had always hated the thoughtless caresses some strangers seemed determined to lavish on anyone they passed. Every touch of affection was far too precious in her eyes to be flung out carelessly, without any love behind it.
But this was supposed to be her long-lost father. Why was it that each fiber of her body pulled whipcord taut, and she had to fight the urge to pull away from him? He was so close to her. She could smell the faint sourness of his breath, she could see the odd emptiness beyond the irises of his eyes, feel the surprising sinewy strength within his thin fingers.
Tears spilled down his face. "Jenny, don't you remember me?"
She stared into his features, searching for any scrap of memory, but there was nothing except the haunting strains of her "Night Song." Still, she didn't want to hurt him. "I was only three years old the last time I saw you," she said, "but my mother has told me many stories about you."
"Your mother. So beautiful. Gentle little Emily with her eyes like violets and an angel's smile. She is well?"
Lucy's cheeks heated. She looked away. "Mama is very happy. She fell in love and she has been wed for twelve years now to the most wonderful man, who adores her and takes care of her and loves her. After all that she suffered—losing me, and believing you dead, and... being cast out by your family—she deserves some joy, don't you think?"
Alexander's brow puckered. "Can Emily find joy in being an adulteress?"
"She didn't do it on purpose! You were supposed to be dead! How could she have known? And now, after all this time, her whole life is in Virginia. She has a husband, children she adores. She has already suffered so much you can't—can't mean to take that away from her."
Alexander seemed to consider for a long moment. "You are a good girl to defend your mama that way. Still, it is distressing to think of her sinning and sinning every time she goes to her lover's bed. Emily would not like to sin. She was a vicar's daughter, you know. I am certain I could find some way to remedy her dilemma if I put my mind to the task." His eyes clouded, his lips tipping in a thoughtful smile. Then he caught a glimpse of Lucy's face.
"Now, now, child," he tsked. "You almost look afraid—afraid of your own papa? Silly goose! As long as I have you, my own little girl, Emily need never know that her other babes are bastards, that she is not wife but concubine to the man who shares her bed."
Why was it that those words of reassurance only heightened Lucy's unease? "No. She's not a..." Lucy began, then stopped, sick with the knowledge that this man's very existence made those horrible charges true. "Papa, promise—you must promise me that you won't hurt her."
"Hurt her? I would never harm to Emily. Even when she was a girl, I only wanted to take care of her. But I failed. I failed, I failed, I failed..." His voice droned, sing-song, off key. Then his fists knotted. "I will not fail this time, I vow. Now that I have found you, my Jenny, I shall guard you like a treasure, where no one will ever be able to take you from me again." There was a disturbing twist to the man's mouth, a curl to his lip that reminded Lucy all too clearly of Sir Jasper.
"I don't need to be guarded," Lucy began, but the man wasn't listening; his eyes were glazed, his nostrils flaring.
"They say that I am mad, you know. Insane. Yet what father would not go mad if he was locked in a secret room for sixteen years? No sun on my face, no fresh breezes to suck deep into my lungs. Locked away without knowing what had happened to my daughter, my wife."
"The d'Autrecourts held you prisoner?"
"Do you think they could have kept me away from you any other way? They locked me in the attic at Avonstea, guarded night and day by a man who could have shattered stone with his bare hands. I begged them to release me, pounded against the doors until my hands bled. Oh, God, child, can you even imagine what it was like for me? Knowing what they had done to you? Believing that you were lost to me forever?"
Lucy closed her eyes, remembering her mother the day they had been reunited in Blackheath Hall's garden: Emily weaving the tale of her despair, her heartbreak, her grief over the loss of her tiny daughter, while Lucy sobbed out how she had felt—unloved, unwanted, alone. Yet it had ended in triumph, reunion. They had found each other, and it had seemed a miracle.
Would the gentle musician from her mother's many stories of England feel any less bereft at the loss of his child? Wouldn't he have been broken by helplessness, despair, fury at his family's betrayal?
Lucy swallowed hard, empathy welling up inside her for this man—the pathetic shell of the young musician who had rescued her mother so many years before. "Oh, Papa, what have they done to you?"
"Do you think it matters anymore? I have you back again, my Jenny." Alexander smiled, and an eager blue flame seemed to lick in his eyes. "Those idiots thought they were far more clever than I, but I fooled them, Jenny. Do you want to know how ingenious your papa was?"
"Tell me, Papa."
"After a time, I calmed my hysteria. It was futile, hopeless. I realized that if I were to escape, they must think me harmless, a man lost in a gentle trance. Bit by bit I wheedled my way into my keeper's good graces. I fed him the wine they brought for me, gave him the best tidbits of food. What did I need it for anyway? I was sustained by the need to find you."
He chuckled lowly. "It was Jasper who gave me the means to escape them. Jasper always was a fool. His favorite pleasure was to come into my cell and taunt me. I used to sit, rocking in my chair, tears pouring down my face, as he told me that if it weren't for me, he could be duke... if it weren't for me."
"I met Jasper at Perdition's Gate. He was a horrible man."
"At the gate? You were there the night Jasper came? I didn't see you! I was keeping watch, always watching, hoping."
"I wa
s dressed like this." Lucy waved a hand at her breeches. "I got caught up in the duel. By the time I came to your room you were gone. You never returned again."
"It was because of my brother, Jasper, stalking me, hunting me as if I were an animal. He would love nothing better than to lock me back up in that attic room and nail the door shut forever."
Alexander chuckled. "What he doesn't realize is that he is the one who opened the cell door for me. Once when he was about, tormenting me, I was able to steal the keys from him. He was always losing things. Didn't have any idea where the keys had got to. From that time on, I was able to rove Avonstea at will, taking anything I wished."
He licked his lips, an almost impish smile making Lucy's scalp prickle. "The first thing I took was the sleeping potion my mother often used to drive away the guilt-spawned nightmares that have tormented her since she condemned herself to hell. Then I could lace the guard's cherished wine with the drug and creep about without fear of being discovered."
He gave a low chuckle. "I could have killed them all, you know," he continued. "Murdered them for what they did to us. Three times I held a pillow poised above my mother's face. She looked so tormented by the evil she had done us, it would have been an act of mercy to lower the pillow to her face, hold it there until she was at peace."
Lucy's head swam at the horrifying image, the calm, almost sweet tones of her father's voice, as if he were talking about tucking the blankets tenderly about his mama's cold feet.
From the time she was eight years old, Lucy had loathed the duchess, one in the cast of villains who had separated her from her mother. And yet Alexander d'Autrecourt's words made Lucy feel ill.
How many times had she sat at the pianoforte and dreamed of this man? A young god of music, a kindred spirit who shared that secret magical world of melody and harmony, notes that rippled and look shape into dream worlds so few could explore.
But he was not the idol she had made him. He was no longer even the simple, kind boy in the story her mother told, Emily's dearest childhood friend, who had saved her by taking her in marriage.
The Raider’s Daughter Page 29
