by Deb Marlowe
He glanced up at her soft curls, disheveled from her earlier exertions. “Time well spent,” he assured her. “And don’t worry. That was so small a seduction, it couldn’t even be termed little.”
“I probably should not confess how glad I am to hear it. I wouldn’t want to think I’d wasted my chance.”
He laughed. “You’ll get your chance. But let’s feed you, first.”
Chapter Eleven
I kept to myself as I traveled, thinking about what Pearl had said. Men held the power in my world. And the men who should have used theirs to protect me—had betrayed me, instead.
--from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
This was going to be so much more difficult than she’d hoped. Such a lovely, big man, he was. How small she’d felt as he’d hovered over her. She shivered now, thinking of it. He was so large, with so much physical strength—all held in check for her sake—it made her feel both delicate and oddly powerful at the same time.
And he was so damned tempting when he wasn’t actively rejecting any form of true intimacy. Although clearly he felt capable of indulging in physical intimacies with her without putting himself at risk.
How lowering.
Well, she had an agenda of her own to pursue, and perhaps she could fit in a bit of conversion to go along with a little seduction. Right after luncheon.
And a delightful one it was. The basket was packed with simple fare—roast chicken, creamy yellow cheese and bread—and there was plenty of it. A good thing, too. Francis might have been hungry, but she didn’t come close to consuming the amounts that Caradec and Geordie, the livery boy, did.
They gave every evidence of enjoyment, too—until Caradec woefully held up a slice of oat bread. “In all of my travels, I’ve found nobody does bread so delightfully well as the French do.”
“Ah. First wine, now the bread. Is there anything else you miss about France?” Anyone else, she knew better than to ask.
“The desserts!” he answered promptly.
“Spoken like a true Frenchman,” she said wryly.
“Mais oui,” he responded with a flourish. “Toutes les pâtisseries. Ils me manquent tous les.”
She peeked into the basket at the cloth-wrapped, round bundle still left in there. “It would seem your landlady knows your taste. I can smell the sweetness from here.”
“She does indeed. In fact, it is by design.”
“Did you flatter her into making you a pudding?” she asked with a grin.
“No, actually, it’s how I choose my lodgings.”
She pursed her lips. “According to the desserts?”
“You may laugh, but I am a Frenchman. Wine, women and song, a rich cigar, fresh bread, lush desserts--these are the things that make life sweet. So, I come into a new town and I ask around at a taproom or two—Where are the lodging houses with the best wine cellars or the most flavorful food?”
“It’s as good a method as any, I suppose.”
“I have an arrangement with Mrs. Beattie, in fact. Her husband’s back is not what it was, so I agreed to chop firewood for her—”
“And in return she keeps you in sticky pudding?”
“More or less,” he said with a shrug.
“Well, I look forward to enjoying the fruits of your labor. Shall I dish it out?”
It was delicious, rich with dates and dripping with a caramelized sauce. Francis closed her eyes at the first bite. “I hope you are cutting her cords and cords of firewood.”
“Oh, I am,” he assured her. “Both in appreciation of her talent and to counteract the effects of eating this—”
“Ambrosia,” Francis declared. “Food of the gods.”
“It’s that good,” Geordie agreed. He picked up his plate and licked it clean, as if to prove his point. Francis was tempted to follow his example.
“That’s enough of that.” Caradec took the plate from him. “There’s a stream just over there. I’ll go rinse these so we don’t attract ants. Geordie, if you’ll pack the rest, we’ll allow our guest to rest up for the afternoon’s exertions.” He shot her a loaded look and she tried to ignore the sudden galloping of her heart. Watching him stride off—all wide shoulders and long lines down to narrow hips—didn’t make it any easier.
The favorable view disappeared as Geordie leaned across the blanket for the cheese. He gave her a curious, sidelong glance, then stared back over his shoulder, looking back and forth until Caradec disappeared amongst the trees.
He turned then and looked her directly in the eye. “The gentleman seems a good sort, Miss. But I’ll ask ye not to listen to him. Leastaways, as far as young Janet goes.”
She contemplated this for a moment. “Young Janet?” But then understanding dawned. “The flower girl, you mean?”
“Yes. She needs all the help she can get.”
Francis craned a look over his shoulder to be sure Caradec was not on the way back. “I saw the bruises when her sleeve fell away. And the woman with the infant, who lingers near, wherever she’s set up. Is it her mother?”
“Yes, but she’s not the cause of the bruises. It’s wee Janet’s uncle, him that they all bide with.” He leaned down, urgency in his expression. “If ye know someone what could help them . . ?”
“All three? Are there any more?”
He shook his head. “Just those three. But it does seem to grow worse, as time passes.”
“It won’t be easy. But I’ll look into it.” She raised a brow. “What are you to them, Geordie?”
He flushed. “Only a friend. They lived in the same building, back when Janet’s dad still lived.”
She let it go. “Fine, then. I will see what may be done—but don’t mention it to them until I know more?”
“Yes, Miss. I mean, no, Miss.” He tugged at his forelock. “Thank ye ever so—fer yer help.”
“Save your thanks for when I can do something for them.” She nodded over his shoulder. “The gentleman returns—and you were right to ask me when he was not here. Let’s not mention it before him yet, either.”
He nodded and finished loading the basket, then hoisted it high to walk it back to the gig. Passing Caradec on the way, he paused to take the clean plates from him.
“It’s actually quite pretty down there by the water,” Caradec said, approaching her. “Would you care to stroll with me?” He reached out a hand.
She let him pull her to her feet. “I would, thank you.”
They set off, not touching, but close enough. The forest around them was alive with bird song and the sound of small creatures. She heard the frogs singing before they reached the water and sighed in pleasure when Caradec pulled back a branch to expose a short bank above a small stream.
“How lovely.”
The water was clear and swift flowing. Moss, grasses and low growing shrubs covered the bank in sections. The sun shone warm and the stream burbled pleasantly—and they were alone.
“A far cry from London, eh?” Caradec bent down and gathered up a handful of pinecones. Like males everywhere, he could not resist tossing them in to watch them be swept away.
“Indeed. Would that the Thames was so clear.” She smiled and wandered a little upstream to where an oak encroached all the way to the dropped edge of the bank. Rooting about, she found some old acorns and brought them back. She tossed one in. “Shall we race?”
“No.” He let go of his remaining pinecones and wiped his hands on his thighs. “There are other things I’d rather do.”
She watched him expectantly. “Such as?”
“I’d like to talk a little, if you wouldn’t mind.” Her surprise must have shown, for his mouth quirked. “I’m no monk. I’ve confessed as much already. I fall in with a pretty woman easily and often—as long as the wanting is there, and mutual, and I’m sure I’ll slip easily out again. I don’t usually look for much in the way of conversation.”
He shook his head. “But as I’ve already said, with you, everything is different. Oh, the w
anting is there. I am intrigued by you, Francis. And now I begin to wonder if it might not be better if I understood more about you—before we indulge ourselves any further.”
She hunched her shoulders a little, torn. She guessed she already knew far more about him than his women usually did. He would doubtless try to learn more than he would reveal.
“You mentioned a story behind your name, once,” he continued.
“Yes, but you already guessed that it came from being fast. Though you might not have imagined how fast I can go backward—”
“No.” He shook his head and she fell silent. “Francis. Always with an i—in the masculine version. You said you might tell me about it—and I confess, the mystery has been niggling at me.”
“Has it? I must apologize, then. It’s not all that mysterious. Just sad, in truth.”
“Will you tell me?”
She watched him as she considered it. Not many people knew the story. They were similar in that regard, at least, preferring to keep much of themselves private. The imbalance of it would be unusual for her, knowing less of him than he of her.
With anyone else she would find it an irritant. But it would serve as a reminder to them both—the gap between them was wide. Too wide to contemplate anything but a quick fling.
Too, sharing her secrets just might lead to him to be more open with his own . . .
“I suppose I’ll tell you, if you’ll share something in return,” she said slowly.
He grew instantly wary. “What would you wish to know?”
But Francis was not fool enough to rush her fences. “I’d like to hear about—the first dessert you remember.” She grinned. “What started this life-long obsession?”
His eyes widened. “Oh, I recall it perfectly. It happened at a street fair in the village next to ours. The baker set up a tent and the boys hovered around it, hoping for a handout. My friend Gilles was very brave. He waited until a large party came to distract the man with an order and used the cover to steal away a couple of pastries.”
He sighed. “It was choux à la crème. Light and airy dough filled with cream and covered with a sugary glaze. I’d never tasted something that filled my mouth in such a way—and also my soul. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”
She sighed. “That’s a much nicer memory than the one you are asking for.”
He sobered. “I’m sorry. Am I asking too much?”
“No.” But the answer came slowly.
“Don’t tell me if it will make you uncomfortable. We don’t really know each other well, after all.”
“No, but as you said, isn’t this the point of today?” She waved a hand.
Now he looked a little uncomfortable.
She took a deep breath and turned away. Walking to the edge of the high bank, she settled down onto a mossy spot. For several minutes she let the babble of the brook soothe her, but eventually she started to speak.
“I had a different name once, when I was very small.” She gave her words to the water. They came out a little easier that way. “I only have a couple of memories from that time. Just flashes of my mother, kneading bread in a small, dark kitchen. The sparkle of water as we walked along a dock. Her whispering my name in my ear as I fell asleep.”
He moved closer behind her, the better to hear her, she assumed.
“I don’t know what happened. Perhaps my father died. Or left. My next memories are of the brothel.”
He made a small sound of protest but she didn’t turn or otherwise acknowledge it.
“It was in a different place, but I’m not sure where. The country. We had a room to ourselves, near the top of the house. I was still small when we moved there. Everyone there called me Rosey—and pinched my cheeks because they were pink.” She sighed. “When my mother was . . . busy, I was sent down to the kitchens. Eventually I stayed there, training to help the cook, acting as her maid-of-all-work.”
She lifted a shoulder. “Shockingly, it wasn’t a bad life. The madam and most of the girls were indifferent to me. A few were kind. The cook drove me hard, but was never harsh. My mother’s tears were the sour note—and the lingering cough that turned worse—and eventually stole her away.”
“How old were you?” he whispered
“Six or seven? Too young to be put to the men, thank goodness.”
He sighed.
“I did have a burden to bear. I think his name must have been Stuart—but everyone called him Stew. He was a stable boy, boot boy, whatever they needed, just as I was maid of all work in the kitchens. A couple of years older and twice as big as me—and he hated the sight of me.”
“Why?” he asked, indignant.
“Who knows? Maybe he just didn’t like girls. Or red heads. Or pink cheeks. I never did anything to him—not until his ‘pranks’ started to become more regular, and more painful.”
“What did you do, then?”
“I began to give him as good as I got. He used to trip me every time I went by him, so I accidentally knocked him in the head with a ladle or broom or shovel, afterwards. If he put my only pair of shoes in the water barrel, then I left his too close to the fire so the soles scorched.”
“I don’t imagine it went over well.”
“No. Things began to escalate. It came to a head one day when he caught me in the stable, bringing apple peelings to the horses. He’d prepared for it. He had set an iron hook in the wall, up high. He grabbed me from behind, tied my over-sized apron into a harness and hung me up by the hook—so that he could beat me at his leisure and without worrying that I could hit back.”
This time there was no sound, but the soft weight of a large hand came down on her shoulder.
She appreciated it. “It was bad,” she admitted. “It might have been worse if a guest hadn’t come in, looking for someone to take her horse.”
The hand fell away. “Her horse?” It momentarily diverted him. “The guest was a woman?”
“After a fashion.” Francis glanced over her shoulder. “Have you ever heard of Hatch? She was a bawd. A pimp. Quite famous for never wearing skirts, but always dressing like a man.” She glanced down. “Much like you are, in boots and breeches, coat and waistcoat.”
He shook his head. “No, but how would I have heard of a London bawd?”
She turned around completely and searched his face. She had no idea what his relationship was with Marstoke—the wicked marquess who had sired him. She knew only that they had had contact at least long enough for Marstoke to have obtained Caradec’s sculpture—the one that had caused Hestia such pain and let her know that he’d discovered the child she’d tried to hide from him.
Had it been only a brief acquaintance? Or had he spent time with the father he’d never known? Perhaps that was the source of his antagonism toward Hestia? Had he, in fact, worked with the marquess to hurt his mother? She couldn’t quite believe it. She didn’t want to. One thing she knew, though, Hatch had at one time been in service to the wicked man.
“You never know,” she said quietly. “She was quite famous in some circles.”
“What did she do when she found you like that?”
“She took me down from the hook and set me on shaking legs. Then she pried the hook out of the wall, handed it to me and stood back, waiting and watching.”
“What did you do?”
“I could barely hold the thing. I could scarcely stand. But I gripped it tight and stepped toward Stew. He didn’t even move. I must have looked too weak to worry about. He was right. I collapsed right there in front of him. But on the way down, I made sure that hook went through his foot and anchored him to the stable floor.”
Caradec’s eyebrows jumped high.
“Hatch picked me up. She left Stew there, screaming, and she took me into the house and got me cleaned up. I knew the madam wouldn’t be happy to see her. She only showed up in the country brothels to poach the best girls and take them back to London. But when she left the next day, she only took me.”
His v
oice tight, Caradec asked, “And what did she do with you?”
“Took me to the next town, cut off most of my hair and bought me a set of boy’s clothes. ‘Boys have nearly every advantage in life,’ she told me. So I was to learn to act as one.”
“No wonder you fooled me,” he said, nodding. “You started so young.”
“I’m good, but to be honest, it wasn’t that hard.” She laughed. “I didn’t have any refined manners to begin with. I just had to learn to be brash and bold—and to dig a finger up my nose when anyone looked too close.”
He clapped a hand over his eyes and shook his head, while she laughed.
“I spent most of my time as a boy for a while. Hatch took me to London and dumped me in the streets to learn to survive—and it was easier as a male. But she wanted me to be able to pass for a girl at times too. Being able to do both would make me the most valuable runner she ever had. She gave me the name Francis—because it would work for both sexes, but she taught me to spell it with an i. And although I began to act the girl more as I grew older, I kept the masculine spelling. And when Hatch died . . .” she shrugged. “I kept it in her memory.” She sighed. “She was not a good person. But she was good to me, in her fashion.”
“When did she die?” he asked quietly.
“Years ago, now.”
“What happened to you? What did you do?”
She climbed to her feet and shrugged as she looked down at him. “I started my real life.”
He would have asked more, but she shook her head and moved away, back toward the trees. She felt a little raw, after the telling. Thinking of their argument earlier made it worse. Hatch’s help might have been crude and largely self-serving, but where would she be now if it had not come?
Rhys knew a retreat when he saw one—and he let her go. He felt a little bruised, himself, after that story. He could imagine how she might feel right now. But he was helpless not to watch her wander along the bank, and not to feel the soft earth shifting beneath his own feet, too.
He kept saying it, but it kept proving true over and over again. Nothing about this felt usual. From the resilient pixie of a girl before him, to his own odd reactions to her.
