The Maddening Lord Montwood: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series

by Vivienne Lorret

  “You needn’t carry my basket any further,” she said, snapping her fingers with impatience. “I cannot afford the high price of it, if the cost is enduring your incessant warnings.”

  Unaccountably, her prickly nature roused the beast within him. He wanted to kiss that waspish mouth. Standing within arm’s reach of her, he felt that low growl at the pit of his stomach again. Even though he was tempted to aggravate her more, instead he promptly deposited the handle into her waiting palm.

  He curled his fingers over hers and leaned in. “Here is an instance where a little sweetness could earn you the turn of a favor.”

  Her gaze drifted to the dimple beside his mouth. The sight of his smile appeared to anger her further. “We wasps do not fear snakes. We have venom of our own, as you well know.”

  Then, without another word, she stormed off, leaving Lucan to wonder if he was beginning to crave her sting already.

  Frances shifted the weight of the basket to the other hand as she marched up the stairs to her apartment. Glancing down to make sure she hadn’t disturbed the contents, she caught a glimpse of purple and stopped.

  Violets. Lucan Montwood had forgotten his violets in her basket. He’d likely intended to offer them to an actress at the theatre or to whomever was the most recent victim of that maddening dimple. Instead, he’d mistakenly left them with her. And yet . . .

  Someone as calculated as he might have left them in her basket on purpose. Perhaps for the sake of making her wonder what sort of woman enjoyed receiving flowers from the likes of him. It certainly wasn’t her. Perhaps he’d wanted to make her jealous. She laughed to herself at the ludicrous idea. Jealous of one of Lucan Montwood’s paramours? Frances was more inclined to feel pity.

  Although . . . he does have a certain way about him, she admitted with great reluctance. His charm wasn’t altogether unappealing. Strangely enough, the true reason she hadn’t forced him to release her arm when he’d first begun to guide her through the market had been that his nearness had comforted her. She couldn’t account for it, but she’d felt . . . safe with him.

  She scoffed the instant the thought took form in her mind. What rubbish! Safe with Lucan Montwood? She’d have a greater chance of surviving a week inside a pit of vipers than to spend an unguarded moment with him.

  Reaching into the basket, she lifted the violets to her nose. Solely for the purpose of removing his scent from her nostrils, of course. Yet when she looked down into the basket again, this time she saw a familiar—and quite scandalous—booklet.

  Embarrassment scorched her flesh from the tips of her ears to the soles of her feet. All she could think of was his smirk and that damnable dimple.

  He knew the booklet was hers.

  Perhaps he’d even suspected that her inner thoughts and desires were not as prim and proper as she was on the outside.

  Oh dear. How could she possibly face her workday now without thinking of Lucan Montwood at every turn?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  When she dropped off the basket at her flat, Frances’s father was still snoring in his bed. He’d come in late last evening, smelling strongly of ale. She didn’t know where he’d found money enough for drink, but it was happening with such frequency of late that she’d stopped asking. He never told her the truth anymore.

  So when he’d said that he’d come to a decision and that he would return to Mr. Youngblood’s offices and beg for another chance, she knew better than to believe it. Still, a small seed sprouted to life against her better judgment. And as she walked to the agency to begin her workday, she sent up a swift prayer that starting now, their lives would take a turn for the better.

  When Frances arrived early, as usual, even after her morning jaunt to the market, she was surprised to find the door already unlocked. Walking inside, she blinked, adjusting to the dim light in the shop. Automatically, she moved to open the shutters.

  “Never mind with that, Miss Thorne,” Mrs. Hunter said from deeper within, where her desk sat along the opposite wall.

  Frances turned, puzzled by the coldness of the greeting. “Oh, good morning, ma’am. I didn’t see you there.”

  “Disturbing news calls me here at this hour.” Mrs. Hunter stood, her chair scraping in a shriek across the floor. Her plump face was devoid of any softness. “Disturbing news that involves you.”

  Frances immediately thought of the booklet and when she’d dropped it at Miss Farmingdale’s feet. Perhaps Lady Binghamton had noticed. How could Frances have been so careless? Truly, she hadn’t meant to ogle the backside sketch. In her own defense, however, it wasn’t as if she’d been ogling an actual man’s backside. Well, aside from Lucan Montwood’s, but no one could have known about that.

  Although, perhaps he suspected . . .

  She adjusted her spectacles. “I’m certain there is a reasonable explanation—”

  “Did you, or did you not”—her employer interrupted, raising her voice to operatic volume—“refer several of my own patrons to Mr. Harrison’s School for those wayward boys, so that these patrons might employ tigers and errand runners, instead of finding them through my own establishment?”

  Oh no. Frances cringed inwardly. She’d nearly forgotten about that. The referrals had occurred months ago. At the time, she’d never imagined that losing the profits from placing a mere half dozen boys would affect this agency. She couldn’t have foreseen that Tuttle’s Registry would have opened on the same street, reducing Mrs. Hunter’s profits even more.

  “At the t-time, w-we were short on available boys with experience,” Frances stammered. “Mr. Harrison finds young men who are otherwise disadvantaged and gives them a chance at—”

  “We find the boys. We train the boys. We place the boys in suitable positions. That,” Mrs. Hunter intoned, breathing rapidly, “is what we are paid to do. That we, however, no longer refers to you, Miss Thorne.”

  Shaking her head, Frances refused to believe what she heard. “It won’t happen again, Mrs. Hunter.”

  Her employer pressed her lips together. “Please bring your apron to me.”

  Frances went cold all over. Her limbs felt weighted and tingled as if they’d fallen asleep. Something inside of her dropped. It might have been her heart or her stomach—she wasn’t sure—but it left her disconnected and in a state of disbelief.

  “I’ve worked for you for two and a half years. I need this job. You know my father is unable to support—” She stopped to swallow a rush of suppressed tears choking her. “I need this job.”

  “Your apron, Miss Thorne,” Mrs. Hunter said again but turned toward her desk. “Because of your behavior, I should not offer you a recommendation, but I have written one out regardless. You may take it with you, along with your half-week’s wages.”

  Numbly, Frances lifted the apron from the hook—her hook—and handed it over. She’d defined herself by that apron. She’d been proud of that uniform and what she’d managed to accomplish in her mother’s memory. Now, she suddenly felt naked. Her breath hitched in her throat, and a sob threatened to break over her as Mrs. Hunter put the letter and five shillings in her hand.

  Frances refused to humiliate herself. Unsteadily, she rushed to the door, only to run headlong into Kaye.

  Her best friend’s usual bright smile fell instantly. “Frannie, what’s wrong?”

  “I—” The vowel came out as part of a sob, and Frances closed her mouth with a snap. For good measure, she covered it with her hand. Her breathing stuttered through her nostrils in a series of uncontrollable, loud, wet sniffs.

  “Miss Thorne is no longer employed by the agency. Miss North, please allow her a small amount of dignity so that she may leave. And you may begin your work,” Mrs. Hunter said, her voice quieter now but no less resolute.

  Not wanting to endanger her friend’s job as well, Frances left Mrs. Hunter’s, hearing the door shut behind her. There would be no going back.

  Even when she reached her lodgings, Frances continued to battle the tears. She’d replaye
d the incident numerous times until she’d assured herself that there was nothing she could have said that might have persuaded Mrs. Hunter to keep her.

  Frances didn’t worry about telling her father. Because if there was one thing Hugh Thorne was good at, it was leaving past jobs behind and believing that there was always another one waiting around the corner. She needed to hear that now more than anything.

  Yet as she rounded the corner and headed toward the apartment, she saw two stocky Bow Street Runners escorting her father down the stairs. She rushed forward. A terrible sense of foreboding and déjà vu churned in her stomach. She’d witnessed this once before. “Father, what is happening?”

  His skin looked sallow and sickly, like the color of the bath water after the last person in the boarding house had taken a turn. “Frannie. There’s a good girl. Don’t you worry. This is all a misunderstanding. They say I’ve collected a few unpaid debts. This will all be cleared up soon enough, I’m sure of it. A bunch of folderol over a five-pound note. Find Lucan Montwood. He’ll know what to do.”

  She blinked, hoping this was a nightmare. That this entire morning was a nightmare. Surely, she was still abed and none of this was happening. But just in case it was, she asked, “How could he help? For all we know, this is his doing, or his family’s doing, like the last time.”

  The runners passed her, keeping her father between them. He looked over his shoulder and seemed to force his lips to smile, even as his eyes filled with terror. “Not to worry, my girl. Your old da loves you. Soon enough, this will all be a memory. Montwood will find us on the right side of things.”

  Then he was gone. Just like that, disappearing into a waiting cart. The heavy, barred door fell into place with a harsh clank of iron.

  “Miss Thorne,” Mrs. Pruitt said, blocking the view of the wagon as it disappeared down the street. The older woman didn’t even attempt a look of concern. Instead, she frowned and wagged her finger. “I run a respectable place, not a den of criminals. You have ten minutes to gather your things and leave before I have the runners come back for you.”

  Frances was too numb to feel shocked or hurt. Her mind was in a fog, where nothing connected or made sense. Still, somewhere in the soupy mire, she remembered one crucial point. “I paid our rent yesterday. You cannot force me to leave.”

  Mrs. Pruitt clucked her tongue and held out her stubby hand. “You paid for last week. Therefore, you still owe me for last night. That’ll be sixpence.”

  This morning, Frances had planned to eat fish, potatoes, carrots, and peas, and her biggest concern had been arguing with Lucan Montwood in the market. Right now, she would give anything to go back to that moment.

  Handing over the sixpence, Frances trudged up the stairs, her feet leaden. When she saw the market basket on the chest in the corner with the small bouquet of violets on top, she wanted to cry. A good cry too. A full collapse-into-a-heap-on-the-floor and wailing sort of cry.

  But she did none of that. She was no longer a girl, after all. She was seven and twenty. Grown women did not have the luxury of giving in to complete terror and overwhelming misery.

  Instead, she gathered her things, folding and packing as many as possible, taking extra care with the miniatures of her parents. Her sensible wardrobe was quite the asset in this circumstance. When she happened upon Lord Whitelock’s card, she remembered his offer. Then, without waiting to see if Mrs. Pruitt would make good on her promise to call the runners, Frances grabbed her satchel and her basket and headed out the door in the direction of Mayfair.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Arriving at his favorite secluded spot in Hyde Park, Lucan pulled on Quicksilver’s reins and dismounted. It was still early enough in the day to avoid being seen. The banks of the pond to his left were absent of nannies and their charges. Rotten Row was a good distance away. The fashionable elite, likely, were still primping in front of their bedchamber mirrors, deciding which new hat to show off today.

  Leading his horse to a copse of trees, he drew a spyglass from the saddle pouch. Then, while Quicksilver munched on grass shoots, Lucan elongated the glass and turned his gaze toward Tattersall’s.

  In contrast to the park, Tattersall’s teemed with gentlemen, milling about in a field of tailcoats and frock coats in various hues. Walking sticks pressed into the ground where Hessians plodded. And gloved hands frequently tapped the brims of top hats in greeting. The usual faces—horsemen and gamblers—were there, all vying for the chance to sniff out the new blood. Even Lucan’s father, the Marquess of Camdonbury, had made an appearance. Yet in such a crowd, it was difficult to find Whitelock.

  Ever since the troubling conversation he’d had with Thorne the day before, Lucan had started to question whether there were others who might not have the highest regard for Whitelock. Luckily, after another encounter with Arthur—not surprisingly, near a confectionary—Lucan learned that Whitelock would be here this morning to bid on a pair of hunters to stock his stable in Wales. Since it was impossible to ask every one of Whitelock’s acquaintances his honest opinions on Whitelock’s character, Lucan decided to observe from a distance in the hope that an involuntary action would reveal even the smallest amount of animosity toward the viscount. If he could find a single person who’d talk, then perhaps Whitelock wouldn’t be the only one holding all the cards.

  Lucan appraised his father’s appearance, noting the graying of his dark hair, the ruddy color of his nose, and the paunch of his belly, pushing at the buttons of a white-and-silver striped waistcoat. Perhaps he’d eaten too many glazed buns over the years. He walked with a cane as well, leaning heavily upon it. Lucan stared at the gloved hand curved around the silver crutch, certain that not many would believe the man capable of such violence. His father had always hidden his sadistic predilections well. In fact, it was in his nature to boast about good deeds, while casting the blame on others.

  “Look at what you’ve brought on yourself,” he’d bellowed, standing over a nine-year-old Lucan in a heap on the floor of the Great Hall. “I’ve been generous with you. Do you think my own father ever allowed me to leave his presence with a mere scratch on my lip? And you know what he earned from me in return? A cold grave. You should be thanking me, ingrate.”

  Ignorant, frightened child that he was, Lucan had thanked his father that day. It had made him ill to utter those words to a man he despised, and when alone in his room, he’d vowed never to do so again.

  Shrugging off the memory, Lucan adjusted the glass for a broader picture. Baron Clivedale, the family physician, crossed paths with the marquess but walked on without any acknowledgment. Both men looked away quickly, as if they’d never met. Which was strange, considering how Clivedale hadn’t once balked at the acquaintance when he’d come to Camdonbury Place over the years. He was even the one who’d examined Lucan’s mother after her fatal “fall” and assured the magistrate that there was nothing suspicious, despite what Lucan had claimed.

  Clivedale continued in the opposite direction but then hesitated on the balls of his feet, turning his head. For an instant, he went still before he pivoted slightly. Lucan followed his gaze and found Whitelock. Then Clivedale headed directly toward the viscount. The men exchanged a slight nod. Clivedale glanced from left to right in a nervous gesture. Curious, Lucan kept one eye on the baron and one on Whitelock. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. He sensed something was about to happen.

  Clivedale retrieved a handkerchief from his breast pocket and then stopped to cough into it. Whitelock bumped him and then turned as if to apologize, placing a hand on the baron’s shoulder. If Lucan hadn’t been schooled in the art of sleight of hand, he might have missed the envelope that Whitelock slipped into Clivedale’s pocket, and the small leather pouch he retrieved at the same time. Anyone watching would see only the hand, reaching out to steady a coughing man, an insignificant exchange. In fewer than five seconds, both men parted like strangers.

  But they weren’t strangers. There were pretending. Just as Lucan’s fathe
r had pretended not to know Clivedale.

  Adding this peculiarity to an ever-lengthening list, Lucan’s suspicions against the viscount’s character escalated.

  “Why come to me and not Thorne?”

  “I don’t know Thorne.”

  Only now did Lucan realize that was the moment when he’d heard lie number one.

  “You don’t know me either.”

  “A mutual acquaintance alerted me to your plight. Instinct tells me that you would not want to allow an innocent to fall to his death.”

  Though Lucan understood that gossip spread quickly amongst the ton, he’d always wondered how Whitelock had arranged to have ten thousand pounds on his person only hours after Lucan had marched into the magistrate’s office and declared Thorne an innocent man. The only way the viscount could have prepared his offer so soon would have been if he’d spoken to someone present that day . . .

  The memory hit Lucan like the lash of a whip. As he was escorted out of the magistrate’s office two and half years ago, he remembered being shoved past someone at the door. Clivedale.

  But what did the physician have to do with all this?

  Lucan was more puzzled than ever. The closer he looked into Whitelock’s actions, the less sure of his own he became. He’d agreed to repay ten thousand pounds to a man about whom he essentially knew nothing. And yet by all accounts, Whitelock was responsible for Lucan’s two-year losing streak, but why? Why wouldn’t Whitelock want Lucan to be able to pay him? What did he have to gain?

  Until recently, there had never been a question of Lucan’s repaying the debt. Yet earlier this year, when he’d become desperate, he’d cajoled his own friends into the bachelor’s wager. Now, with both Everhart and Danvers married, Lucan needed only to wait a few months to pay off the debt. So why were those warning bells tolling in his head again? Perhaps it had something to with Miss Thorne and his need to stay away from her.