Thorne walked to the hack with the shuffled step and slumped shoulders of a broken man, shaking his head all the way. “I was sure I had something this time.”
Closing the door once they were seated, Lucan tried to rein in his temper. “Gambling is not a profession. I know that better than most.”
“They make winning look so simple.” Thorne stared down at his hands as if they were flush with cards. All the right ones.
“Losing is even easier.” Lucan wasn’t getting through to him. “What about that last job I arranged for you? Langley needed a clerk for his shipments. You were the perfect man. I don’t understand why you left in the middle of the day and never came back.”
This wasn’t the first time, either. Lucan had arranged several jobs for Thorne, calling in all sorts of favors. Not to mention, he knew that Miss Thorne had supplied several opportunities as well. Now, his list was all too lean.
“Did I?” Thorne frowned, the deep-set lines around his mouth resembling something of a horseshoe. But one with all the luck running out. “I’m certain that couldn’t be the case. I only would have left when the job was finished.”
“And there was a five-pound note missing from the till.”
Thorne reared back against the squabs, eyes wide. “I don’t know what you’re suggesting, sir, but I can assure you that I am not a thief. I managed your father’s accounts for years without incident, until . . . ”
And that was where their conversations concluded each time Lucan asked why Thorne had left a job.
When Langley had confronted Lucan about the missing money in the till the following day, to save face, Lucan had worked a little sleight of hand trickery and produced a five-pound note that, by all appearances, had been crumpled and stuck beneath the lid. Langley had known better, of course, but had accepted the money as remuneration.
It also wasn’t the first time Lucan had paid from his own pockets to cover Thorne’s debts. Not to mention the ten thousand pounds he owed Whitelock by the end of this year. Thinking of the debt brought Lucan back to wondering why Whitelock had approached him with the original offer. Why not approach Thorne if they were friends?
Asking Thorne straight out, however, was not an option. Thorne did not know about the bargain Lucan had made with Whitelock, nor would he. As far as Thorne knew, and nearly everyone other than the magistrate, there had been no fine. Whitelock has used his connections to maintain absolute secrecy. Yet even if the stipulations of the agreement weren’t secret, Lucan still wouldn’t want anyone else to know what he’d done. He wasn’t the type of man who wanted attention or praise for freeing an innocent man from the gallows. Any gentleman with a sense of compassion would have assisted in whatever way he could.
“I would like to help you, Thorne, but I am running out of options. Do you have any friends you can rely upon? Perhaps an old school chum you haven’t spoken to in a while?” he asked, hoping Thorne might admit to an association with Whitelock.
Thorne returned to wallowing and turned a dejected gaze toward the window. On a sigh, he said, “None.”
“A peer of the realm who might owe you a favor?”
Thorne shook his head.
Impatient to uncover the connection, Lucan pressed on, abandoning subtlety. “A man with your education—a grandson of country gentleman, no less—likely attended university with one or two nobles. Come to think of it, I believe Viscount Whitelock is near your age.”
Thorne’s expression went from self-pity to stone cold in an instant. “Never mention that blackguard’s name to me again.”
Blackguard? An icy chill slithered over Lucan’s skin, collecting at his fingertips. Thorne was the first person he’d ever heard speak out against Whitelock. Lucan’s suspicions heightened, yet he knew better than to assault Thorne with a barrage of questions. It was important to make Thorne feel comfortable if he was to gain any information. Glancing out the window, Lucan settled back in his seat, giving the appearance of ease. “Then you know him.”
“We attended university together,” Thorne said through clenched teeth.
“Surely, you could call on him . . . as a friend.”
“We were not friends. We were rivals,” Thorne spat. His hand shot out in an angry swipe over the knees of his trousers, as if to remove unseen filth. “He tried to take my Elise from me, wooing her with all manner of deceptions. Then, he became obsessed with her, never letting her out of his sight. She thought we were all chums, the three of us. It wasn’t until he forbade her from spending time with me or stepping out with her friends that she started to see through him. And one afternoon, after he’d followed her to the museum, she’d told him that she didn’t want his friendship anymore.” Thorne stopped, his hands curling into a fists.
Lucan found it hard to keep the appearance of ease when alarm sprinted through him. He was tired of not knowing the whole of Whitelock’s character. More and more, Lucan was beginning to wonder if he’d made a deal with a more calculated villain than even his own father, but one with all the appearance of goodness.
“And then that blackguard convinced her to ride with him through the park, so that he could apologize. Only that wasn’t what he had on his mind. Instead he—” Thorne broke off and shook his head, as if to wipe the memory away. He cleared his throat. “He frightened her. Later that summer, she married me. Three years after that, she blessed me with Frannie—the perfect portrait of her mother. Every time I look at her, I can see Elise, and it’s like I haven’t lost her at all.”
Lucan felt as if a loadstone pressed against his chest. His lungs seized in the familiar sense of dread that had claimed him in his childhood. Whitelock had been visiting Mrs. Hunter’s agency more and more. Could it be that when he’d first seen Frances, his old obsession with her mother had returned?
“Present this at my door, day or night, Miss Thorne. I will always have a place for you,” Whitelock had said earlier. Now, Lucan wondered if there was a double meaning behind it.
CHAPTER FOUR
Early the following morning before work, Frances fought her way through the crowd gathered at the Covent Garden market. With only a few coins, she hoped to have enough for a fish. It had been a long while since she’d eaten fish, or meat for that matter. Her usual fare consisted of boiled potatoes or turnips with wild onions. Yet she often managed to save enough for her father to buy a meat pie from the corner shop. If he was going to find work, he needed the strength, after all.
In their old lodgings, they’d been charged for room and board, with one meal a day included. However, they’d had to move several times over in the past two years when the rent money went missing. After that, all Frances could afford on her wages was a room without board. Under Mrs. Pruitt’s supervision, she was allowed the use of one pot and the stove in the kitchen for three pennies a week extra.
Today, Frances wanted a piece of fish, a potato, a handful of carrots . . . and some peas would be lovely. A basket on the edge of a stall table was brimming with peas, bright green and all snug in their pods. Frances liked to eat them raw, popping them between her teeth like a confection.
Gripping her basket, she held up her free hand and called, “Peas for a ha’penny?”
“Whot, whot,” the stall owner said, his ruddy face pinched and sour as if she’d squirted a lemon in his eye. “Tuppence for the peas.”
If she gave tuppence just for the peas, she wouldn’t have enough left for the fish. She held up her coin, determined. “Just two farthing’s worth of peas, then.”
He grumbled and looked over the crowd. She knew that the more he haggled with her, the fewer sales he would have. In the end, he snatched her coin and tossed a goodly number of peas into her basket.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, pleased by his sudden change of heart.
Leaving that stall, she went through the market and had the same luck with the carrots and two large potatoes. Now, she had a penny left. She hoped it would be enough for a fine fish. Yet the stall-keeper refused to barter
. He wanted tuppence or her absence. Repeatedly, he waved her aside in favor of calling others forward.
Frances held her ground. “What about that smaller one, there on the other side?” She didn’t need the largest fish.
The scowl the man gave her looked as if she’d insulted his person. “Nay. Ye ’ave the price. Pay it or be—” He stopped suddenly, squinting as he looked over her shoulder. Then, grumbling, he said, “A penny it is.”
Before he could snatch the coin from her hand, however, she looked over her shoulder.
There, standing in the shadow of the awning not two steps away, was none other than Lucan Montwood. By all appearances he looked to be out for stroll. He lounged against the wooden post with his black John Bull tilted to the side and a shilling pinched between his thumb and forefinger.
She suddenly wondered at the good fortune she’d experienced this morning. “Have you been following me?”
Did he think he was doing her a favor? If so, why? The only thing he’d managed to do so far was to disturb her sleep. Last night, she kept falling into the same dream—one where she stood near the second-floor window of the agency. Only in the dream, she hadn’t been alone. Instead, she’d found herself in Lucan Montwood’s passionate embrace, his skillful hands playing over her flesh, his hungry mouth claiming hers and robbing her of breath.
She’d awoken gasping for air, her head fuzzy and half-expecting to find Lucan Montwood lying beside her on her pallet. And each time she’d attempted sleep again, she ended up in the same dream.
So much for casting him out of her thoughts. Worse, she shouldn’t give a passing thought to a gambler. They were the worst sort of men, spouting all manner of lies and deceptions as easily as exhaling. Roger Quinlin had taught her that much when he’d stolen her five-hundred pound dowry. Two and a half years ago, on the day that her father had been arrested for treason, Mr. Quinlin had promised to hire a solicitor to find the best barrister for her father’s defense. The only thing he’d needed was money. Since she was past her majority, she’d had full access to her own monies. Foolishly, she’d handed it all over to Mr. Quinlin. Instead of helping her, he’d helped himself, purchased a commission with her fortune, and disappeared the very next day.
When Lucan didn’t respond to her question, Frances hissed, “I don’t need your assistance. I don’t need anything from the likes of you.”
Something dark and wounded flashed in his eyes that almost made her regret her words. Instead of commenting, he pushed away from the post, flipped the silver coin with his thumb to the fishmonger, and placed a neatly wrapped fish in her basket before he started to walk away.
Then he paused to pay a flower girl for a cluster of violets and offered Frances an absent glance over his shoulder. “While I admire the stern workday countenance you employ to set an example for others, using a little smile in the market could do wonders for your basket.”
He was talking about flirting. Flirting was one thing Frances never did. She’d seen how a friendly smile could give a man the wrong ideas. In her opinion, it was far better to know the character of the man beforehand. “I suppose you would have me remove my spectacles and bat my lashes as well.”
Lucan turned to face her. Slowly, he revealed a grin that only hinted at the dimple lurking there. It hinted at other things too. Scandalous things. She was certain of it because a ripple of desire stirred inside of her.
“No, Miss Thorne, always wear your spectacles.” He leaned forward, the brim of his hat close to hers. “They act like a veil, making a man wonder about the eyes behind them. A man starts to imagine being the one who’ll steam up your lenses.”
She couldn’t breathe. His scent made her drowsy. In that moment, she was caught in the thrall of his words and mesmerized by his amber gaze. He could have kissed her, right there in the market, and she would have done nothing to stop him.
His gaze dipped to her mouth. “My advice to you is . . . keep your fichu pinned in place. Keep your hair in perfect order. That way, when you unleash your smile, it’s all the more effective.” He drew back. “Although, that is a mere supposition, since you’ve never smiled at me.”
Someone bumped her shoulder, jostling the sense back into her. “You would only teach me charm and deception. No, thank you, sir. I would rather have nothing from you.”
There it was again—that dark shadow drifted across his gaze but disappeared in a blink. Yet she knew very well that she could not be offending a man such as he for merely stating the truth.
He tsked, lifting his hand in an absent gesture. “Perhaps you’d prefer the tutelage of Whitelock.”
“His lordship knows nothing of deception.”
“I wouldn’t be too certain, Miss Thorne.”
His grave expression took her aback. She wondered at the source for a moment before her better sense returned. “Why bring the viscount into our tete-a-tete?”
“An unmarried woman should never entertain a gentleman alone, regardless of his rank or reputation.”
She gasped. Instantly, she recalled the open window and the scent of him that had haunted her dreams. “Were you spying on me?”
“I might have been protecting your honor,” he said, matter-of-fact.
“You?” Frances scoffed. She could think of nothing he sought to gain, but his comments ran close to besmirching Lord Whitelock’s impeccable reputation. “You would know nothing about men of excellent character.”
Lucan nodded solemnly, as if sufficiently chastised for a lifetime of errant behavior. “Ah, but isn’t a man who lacks all morals the first to spot others like him? It’s sort of like one leper seeing another, I imagine.”
Leper, indeed. She would do well to stay away from him. Yet when he took her arm just then, she didn’t pull away. Instead, she allowed him to guide her through the ever-increasing crowd.
“Goodness in men is such a rarity that you should not mock it,” she said, holding her basket out of harm’s way.
As they traversed between two stalls, she was forced to draw closer to him. Her arm was now folded carefully beneath his. Their proximity allowed unfettered access to his scent, and she inhaled far more deeply than she normally would have done. She even found herself turning her head toward his shoulder for another breath. Not watching where she was going, she leaned into him ever so slightly. It took her a moment to realize that she was trusting him to deliver her to the other side of the hoard. What on earth was she thinking? What was it about standing too near Lucan Montwood that made her abandon her principles enough to rely on him for even the smallest of things? Her actions were unconscionable.
Then, with uncanny accuracy into the inner workings of her mind, he murmured, “If you seek the good in men, then you are looking in the wrong place.”
“Are you speaking of yourself?” Miss Thorne asked.
Lucan was speaking of Whitelock, and he’d wager that she knew it too. Yet because he was feeling charitable, he did not argue the point. Not that point, anyway. “Do not be fooled, Miss Thorne. Not all serpents wear their skins so stylishly.”
She surprised him by releasing a small laugh. “I’m certain few could.”
“That sounded suspiciously like a compliment.” How rare and unexpected.
Tucked up next to him, she stiffened. “Only you would take the meaning as such.”
Still, she did not shy away from the touch of his hand at her elbow. Nor did she make a fuss when he slipped the basket from her grasp. Under different circumstances, they could be having a pleasant stroll through the park—if one were inclined to walk outside when the sun had only risen a bloody hour ago.
“Undoubtedly, you are correct.” He sported a black cravat for the sake of mourning his morning. At this hour, he was usually in bed, often after a night of delicious debauchery.
The beast inside him rumbled, bringing to mind how hungry Miss Thorne made him. Unfortunately, his usual list of easily charmed beauties never quite sated that appetite. He hadn’t minded it in the past. In fact
, he enjoyed giving pleasure. No, he excelled at it. Feeding a woman’s hunger was part and parcel with that sense of control he needed. He knew how to read a woman’s desire, take the subtle hints of her body, and make her come apart again and again. And only then would he take his own pleasure.
Yet giving or gaining pleasure hadn’t satisfied him lately. He wanted more. But more of what? More of the same wouldn’t help—he’d already tried that with a pair of comely twins from Cheshire.
No, what he wanted was something else. Something that filled the vast emptiness inside of him. Something that likely didn’t even exist.
“Your hand upon my arm is unnecessary,” Miss Thorne said, breaking through his thoughts.
Lucan looked down at the fingers of his dark glove curled around her fawn-colored sleeve and wondered if he should mention that it had taken her a dozen minutes or more to mention it. If she’d truly wanted the removal of his hand, she’d have said so immediately. So, perhaps she hadn’t minded too much.
Instantly, he thought about the booklet he’d removed from the agency yesterday. He carried it with him now and was tempted to reveal it just to test her reaction. This moment, however, was not the time for a more intimate conversation regarding her tastes in men and whether or not she preferred sketches or a man of flesh and blood. In fact, it would be better if they did not have that conversation. Because if it was the former, then he might be tempted to persuade her otherwise.
Reluctantly, he let his hand fall away. They were on the path that led to her street, and his time to offer a warning against Whitelock was coming to a swift end.
“You are fortunate that you are familiar with a serpent’s skin. Some hide behind all manner of trickery. Like unimpeachable morals, for example,” he said, peering through her lenses to see her smoky eyes narrow with understanding and irritation. “It would be good for you to practice a little charm to keep those other snakes from biting when you least expect it.”
The Maddening Lord Montwood: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series Page 5
