Thief of Hearts

by Teresa Medeiros

With a woman’s instinct she hadn’t even realized she possessed, she decided on a more subtle revenge. Ignoring the pristine side of the cake he offered, she turned her head to find the very place his own mouth had touched. Her teeth sank into the crumbly confection. Her eyes closed in rapture and she moaned softly at the forbidden sweetness of the sugar melting on her tongue.

  Her eyes fluttered open at the voluptuous shock of his little finger tracing her lower lip, brushing off a faerie dusting of cinnamon.

  “Why, Mr. Claremont,” she breathed, “your spectacles are fogging up.”

  “Must be the damp,” he said gruffly, jerking back his hand.

  Before he could retreat completely, Lucy reached up and gently drew his spectacles off, intending to polish them on her skirt.

  But all of her plans, past, present, and future, were forgotten as she gazed, mesmerized, into his unguarded eyes.

  How could she ever have thought him mild of manner? Harmless? Innocent? She’d always prided herself on her sensible judgment and the depth of her own folly struck her sharply, shattering the last of her defenses. The shifting hazel of his eyes was wickedness itself, the lush decadence of his lashes temptation incarnate. She’d never seen such lashes on a man. She longed to brush her fingertips across them, suspecting they might shed cinnamon as extravagantly as the Banbury cake.

  But the wary vulnerability in his eyes stopped her from touching him and rendered him most dangerous of all.

  Depriving him of his spectacles only seemed to sharpen his vision. Lucy was accustomed to being stared through as if she were transparent; she was not accustomed to being stared into. His probing gaze pierced her cool façade as if he could see straight into the lonely soul of the woman beneath.

  Her own senses leaped to life with painful keenness. She became achingly aware of the clinging transparency of their garments, the spicy scent of his damp skin, their isolation in the rainy glade, the inches that separated their lips. The Admiral must have been right about her inherited moral shortcomings all along, she thought despairingly. She’d put herself in a position worse than compromising. If this man chose to take advantage of her rashness, she feared she wouldn’t have the fortitude to resist him.

  “Lucy?”

  She swallowed hard, prepared to give him whatever he asked for, including her soul. “Yes, Mr. Claremont?”

  “Might I have my spectacles back? I fear I’m blind as a bat without them.”

  Lucy blinked, doubting her own senses. In the pause between one breath and the next, Claremont’s penetrating gaze had gone vacant. He groped the air between them, rescuing his spectacles from her bloodless fingers.

  Before she could question his dizzying transformation, he launched into a flawless imitation of the Admiral, puffing on one of the crumpets as if it were a pipe. Lucy knew she should chastise him for his disrespect, but couldn’t seem to squeeze a single reproving word past her muffled shrieks of laughter.

  The air outside was chill, but as time lost its edges and melted to a pleasant blur, the carriage was warmed by their teasing accord and the cozy drip of the rain on its roof. They’d polished off the roasted apples and bread and were sampling each sweetmeat in turn when the carriage door flew open.

  Lucy gasped in shock. It was not one of the footmen, but Fenster who stood there, weaving like a squat bowling pin.

  “Where to, master?” he roared, totally ignoring her. “We’ve run out of ale. Shall we make a run to the Boar’s Head for a fresh keg?”

  Claremont shot Lucy a bemused glance. “I think we’ve sufficiently weakened Fenster’s moral character. I’d best drive us home.”

  Lucy caught his sleeve as he slid past her to climb out of the carriage. “Thank you, Mr. Claremont.”

  “For what?”

  Being kind. Teasing me. Making me laugh.

  “Supper,” she simply replied.

  He covered her hand briefly with his own. “The pleasure was all mine, mouse.”

  Before Gerard could intercept him, Fenster had scrambled into the driver’s box with more agility than he’d displayed in decades only to tumble off the other side and lie gurgling happily in the mud. The footmen were of no help at all. They were draped across the back of the carriage, arguing loudly over the chorus to “That Banbury Strumpet, As Sweet As a Crumpet.”

  Gerard was forced to enlist Lucy’s help, and by the time they had gotten Fenster up and strapped to the seat with his own belt, they were both soaked to the skin and weak with fresh laughter.

  Shivering, Lucy took refuge in the carriage while Gerard drove them through the deserted streets. He was forced to stop only once, when the footmen came to blows over the disputed lyrics. He interceded, guiding them to a harmony of spirit, if not of song. The words of the ditty were fortunately too slurred for Lucy to understand, but she caught herself humming the catchy melody beneath her breath as they turned into Ionia’s cobbled drive. The rich timbre of Mr. Claremont’s baritone eased her shivers. She hated to admit it, but she was growing accustomed to the reassuring breadth of his shoulders. His stolid presence suffused her with an unfamiliar warmth.

  Had she ever experienced it before, she might have identified it as happiness. As it was, she only knew her belly was full, her toes were tapping, and she was looking forward to rising in the morning for the first time in her memory.

  The vehicle rolled to a halt. The swell of voices outside the carriage faded to dread silence. Lucy’s toes stilled. Her spirits dampened by a pall of foreboding, she rubbed away a patch of condensation on the carriage’s window to find every uncurtained pane of the mansion ablaze with light.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  GERARD WANTED TO HOWL WITH LOSS when the pale oval of Lucy’s face emerged from the shadowy interior of the carriage. The warm, enchanting woman he’d glimpsed during their impromptu supper was gone, imprisoned once again beneath an unbreachable veneer of ice. She’d gone whiter than snow, her skin so translucent he could trace the delicate web of veins at her temples. She stepped down from the carriage, ignoring his outstretched hand as if she might crack at his touch.

  Sobered by the ominous threat of the lamplight pouring across the lawn, the footmen fled for the servants’ entrance, balancing Fenster’s tottering form between them. Gerard knew the wise thing to do would be to murmur his own excuses and retreat to the gatehouse, but he found he could not abandon Lucy to face that glaring light alone. He escorted her to the door, his fingers hovering inches from her elbow lest she show any sign of faltering.

  Smythe and the Admiral awaited them. Smythe stood at attention by the bay window, his robe and nightcap so unwrinkled that Gerard wondered if he slept standing, like a horse. The Admiral was resplendent in a dressing gown of royal purple, his hair a gleaming crown of frost. His cane thumped out an irate rhythm as he paced the parquet tiles.

  Gerard knew that he had recklessly jeopardized his position, but he wasn’t sure he would have traded the stolen interlude, not even if it resulted in his immediate dismissal. The rippling notes of Lucy’s laughter had been a song beyond price.

  She faced her father, her head bowed like a deposed young queen offering her nape to the guillotine. The mantle of Gerard’s coat was still draped across her slender shoulders.

  “Why, Lucinda, darling,” the Admiral boomed, malice dripping from every syllable. “So glad you decided to join us. You can imagine my distress when I recovered enough to join you at Lady Cavendish’s only to discover you’d never arrived. I was quite beside myself with worry.”

  Lucy gathered her breath to speak, but Gerard spoke first, blinking mildly behind his spectacles. “There was an accident, sir. Two accidents, actually—”

  “Silence, Mr. Claremont!” Lucy’s voice cut like steel. “If my father had wanted your opinion, he’d have paid you for it.”

  Gerard had braced himself for the Admiral’s rebuke, but Lucy’s threw him dangerously off balance. He narrowed his eyes, but she refused to meet his gaze. Who was she protecting? he wondered. Hersel
f? Or him?

  “You, sir, are only a servant,” the Admiral intoned, implying his status was little better than that of a savage. “I can hardly expect you to honor any measure of decorum. My daughter, however …” He trailed off, circling Lucy, the train of his robe swishing like the tail of a hungry lion crouching to pounce on a lamb.

  Gerard shoved his clenched fists into his pockets. If Snow so much as rapped Lucy’s knuckles, Gerard wouldn’t be searching for a new position in the morning. He’d be in the gaol, imprisoned for the murder of his employer.

  He should have known Lucien Snow was too cultured to use his fists for weapons. Why should he risk bruising his precious knuckles when he had a weapon as caustic as the contempt he brandished like a cat-o’-nine-tails? Lucy stared at the floor as his arctic gaze surveyed her from the sodden tendrils of her crooked chignon to the soiled and tattered hem of her gown.

  When his silence swelled into a punishment all its own, she drew in a shaky breath. “Father, please, I—”

  “Hold your tongue, girl. I’ve no use for your lame excuses or pretty fables. God knows I heard enough of those from your mother after I’d paced the floor all night waiting in vain for her return. She’d stumble in at dawn …”—his patrician nose sniffed the air. His cold smile spread as he found what he sought—“reeking of spirits.” He smoothed his daughter’s tousled hair, his mock tenderness an obscenity Gerard could hardly bear to watch. “Her lovely hair tousled … her gown rumpled … her lips swollen from her lover’s kisses.”

  Lucy’s nape flushed a guilty pink and Gerard cursed himself, knowing she was remembering that innocent brush of his fingertip against her lips. Smythe shot him a glance, the butler’s pewter-tinted gaze unreadable. It was growing nearly impossible for Gerard to keep his mask of indifference in place over his seething emotions.

  “The only thing that amazes me,” the Admiral continued, rocking back on his slippered heels, “is that I am still capable of being disillusioned by the fair sex. Disappointed by the irresponsible and wanton behavior they’ve exhibited ever since Eve took the apple the serpent offered her and caused the fall of mankind. Have you anything to say for yourself, Lucinda?”

  Don’t do it, Gerard silently begged. Damn it to bloody hell, Lucy, don’t do it.

  She lifted her head to meet her father’s gaze, her gray eyes dominating her chalky face. “I’m sorry, Father.”

  Smythe bowed his head, looking every minute of his age.

  “Very well,” the Admiral said, restored to benevolence by his daughter’s meek surrender. “I shall search my heart to find forgiveness.”

  Leaning heavily on his cane, he marched up the stairs, the train of his dressing gown rippling in his wake. Lucy stared after him, her bedraggled appearance making her look like a little girl swallowed by her mother’s clothes.

  Gerard moved to touch her shoulder, beyond caring what Smythe heard or thought. “He has no right.”

  Her chin came up, its defiant tilt making his heart contract. Her soft voice was edged with bitterness. “He has every right. He’s perfect, you see. I’m the only mistake he ever made.”

  Shrugging away his hand, Lucy mounted the stairs after her father, her shoulders rigid beneath Gerard’s coat. As he turned away, blinded by rage and frustration, his booted foot came down on something spongy.

  He bent to discover the penny-bunch of lavender. He picked it up and brought it to his nostrils. The fragile bouquet was crushed almost beyond recognition, but a hint of its elusive fragrance clung stubbornly to the battered blooms. He remembered Lucy’s shy smile as he had tucked it behind her ear.

  A feast fit for a beggar king … and flowers for his lady.

  He crumpled the trophy in his fist as Smythe padded around the entrance hall, killing each of the lamps with an efficient flick of his wrist before disappearing into the drawing room to do the same. For once, Gerard welcomed the darkness. It suited his mood.

  He narrowed his eyes as he felt someone watching him, savoring his impotent rage. His vision slowly adjusted to find the bust of Admiral Sir Lucien Snow smirking down at him from its oaken pedestal.

  He lashed out a fist, toppling it. It crashed to the parquet floor in a satisfying explosion of terra-cotta. Someone behind him politely cleared their throat.

  Smythe, Gerard thought, his temper briefly sated by the reckless offering. Of course it would be the Admiral’s loyal henchman, the all-knowing, all-seeing Smythe.

  He swung around, his unrepentant posture daring the man to challenge him. “Terribly sorry. I must have bumped it in the dark.”

  Smythe’s mild tone held no hint of reproof. “Understood, sir. It might have happened to anyone. I’ll fetch a broom.”

  Gerard scowled as he watched the butler’s nightcap bob back into the shadows, wondering if he had an ally or an enemy in the Admiral’s enigmatic servant.

  No one came banging on Gerard’s door the following morning. After spending half the night gazing into the dying embers of his fire and the other half tormented by dreams, he slept until ten, waking to discover a slim envelope had been slipped beneath the gatehouse door. Torn between relief and regret, he ripped it open, fully expecting to find his dismissal.

  Instead, he discovered a note from Smythe informing him that his services as bodyguard would not be required for several days as Miss Snow would not be venturing out. However, the Admiral would appreciate his continued assistance in organizing his memoirs. A terse postscript in his employer’s own handwriting notified him that the price of the bust he’d so clumsily shattered would be extracted from his wages each month in modest increments.

  Gerard would have smiled at the last had his eyes not drifted back to Miss Snow will not be venturing out …

  Was the Admiral’s daughter to be imprisoned in her room like a medieval princess in disgrace? he wondered, crumpling the note in his fist. If so, why should he give a damn? Lucinda Snow was not his concern. If she chose to spend her life writhing beneath her father’s tyrannical thumb, who was he to interfere? Yet he was haunted by his glimpse of another woman—a spirited, laughing woman who had stuffed sweetmeats in her pockets like a mischievous child.

  His desperation to be free of Ionia and its young mistress grew as the next few days drifted by in a monotonous stream. He’d never been a man given to loneliness, having long ago learned to tolerate the bleak solitude of his own company, but now a yawning emptiness gnawed at his gut. As the last stubborn leaves surrendered to the ravages of impending winter, he began to wear thin on his own nerves. Each day it grew harder to be civil to the Admiral just for the opportunity to rifle through his personal correspondence or spend a few unguarded moments in the library. His deferential replies hung in his throat, stymied by self-contempt.

  He slept poorly, rising before dawn each morning with no prompting to stalk aimlessly across the grounds. He’d forgotten how merciless London’s late autumn could be, but he preferred its frigid cold to the familiar chill seeping through his soul. A chill caught in a twisting warren of alleys along the river and nursed beneath layers of damp stone a world away.

  Although he kept reminding himself that the Admiral’s daughter was a distraction he could ill afford, his ambling journey always led him to the sprawling old oak that stood like a battered sentinel beneath her window. He would lean his shoulder against its grizzled trunk, turn his collar up against the wind whipping off the river, and search the shrouded window for a flutter of curtains or a flash of white.

  Lucy huddled in the velvet cushions of her window seat, her icy feet tucked beneath a quilt. She peered through the crack separating the lace and damask draperies, watching her bodyguard watch her window. She couldn’t pinpoint the moment when his presence had become a comfort instead of an annoyance. She only knew that whenever she crawled out of her cozy bed to find him there, she felt safe, protected from harm by the glowing talisman of his cheroot.

  The wind whipped his hair and tore at his coat. Lucy shivered in empathy. As he thrust his
hands deep in his coat pockets and turned to trudge toward the kitchens, Lucy pressed her palm to the cold glass and whispered, “Good morning, Mr. Claremont.”

  Five grueling days had passed since Lucy’s banishment from polite society when Gerard arrived in the library one morning to discover the spacious room deserted. Seizing the rare moment of privacy, he captured the Admiral’s chair and began to rifle through a yellowed stack of ship’s logs. He started guiltily when Smythe appeared in the doorway.

  Shoving the logs beneath a sheaf of perfumed letters from a married countess who had once believed herself enamored of the Admiral, Gerard said, “If you could learn to do that in a puff of smoke, I do believe we could get you a job on the stage.”

  “I’ve always fancied the circus myself, sir. The elephants, you know.” Smythe continued to stand there, humming tunelessly beneath his breath.

  Eager to continue his search before his employer trundled in, Gerard drew on the rapidly failing reserves of his patience to gently inquire, “May I help you, Smythe?”

  The butler snapped to attention, clicking his heels. “I came to inform you that Admiral Snow has stepped out for the morning.”

  “The morning?” Gerard echoed cautiously. “As in the entire morning?”

  “The entire morning, sir. He requested that we not wait lunch for him.”

  Gerard eyed Smythe suspiciously. Why had the butler taken such pains to inform him of Snow’s extended absence? Was this some sort of trap? Was the Admiral going to spring out of the chimney and yell “Ah ha!” to catch him at some perfidy, real or imagined? His grim fantasies were only fueled when Smythe made it a point to draw the carved teak doors shut behind him, enclosing Gerard in the hazy gloom of Lucien Snow’s sanctuary. The distinctive fragrance of the Admiral’s pipe smoke lingered on the air.

  Stroking his freshly shaven chin, Gerard paced like a cat left to guard the cream, too skeptical to believe his good fortune. The immaculate surface of the Admiral’s desk beckoned to him, the polished brass of the hourglass winking a naughty temptation. The secretary towered over him, its shadowy cubbyholes begging to unfold their secrets. He might never have another opportunity such as this.