A Scandalous Lady

by Rachelle Morgan

  But what if she couldn’t be taught? What if she messed it up? Perspiration beaded above her lip, but Fanny didn’t voice her doubts aloud. A lesson learned long ago with Jack—never let your enemy know your weakness. “What’ll me duties be?”

  “To see to the comforts of my home. No more, no less.”

  Fanny blinked back tears of relief. If he was trying to ease her fears, it was working.

  “The position shall pay a half a sovereign a week—”

  Her eyes widened and her mouth fell. “A half a sovereign? A week? All for me?” That was . . . she mentally did the math . . . ten shillings! Even on a good day she couldn’t recall bringing in that much, not once Jack took his share!

  “Eventually, yes. According to my figures, your debt to me should be paid off within the year. If at the end of your term you wish to remain in my employ, and your work is satisfactory, we shall discuss a permanent position if that is your desire, as well as an increase in your wages.”

  It seemed too good to be true. And usually when things seemed too good to be true, they were. “Why are ye doing this?”

  To his credit, he did not insult her by pretending not to know what she meant. “Because I see no gain for either of us in sending you to a cell.”

  “ ’Course not. Why should ye when you can indenture yerself a workhorse instead?”

  “I prefer to call it an investment in honest labor,” he parried with a smile.

  “Oh, crikey, if things ain’t bad enough, I’m being nobbled by a bloody reformist.”

  His bark of laughter drew the attention of the prostitutes on the corner. Both took turns regaling Fanny with ear-burning advice on how to best please the man in their midst. Fanny shuddered; Westborough merely smiled at them.

  “Now,” he turned to Fanny, “you may come with me willingly or not. The choice is yours. But be aware that your decision will mean the difference between a pleasant outcome—or not.”

  Fanny looked first at the hack, where the footman waited, his face impassive, as if this were not the first time he’d witnessed one of society’s sons chasing through the streets of London after a runaway, then at the lamplight ladies, then back at the gent. He’d given her a choice: Newgate or him. Hadn’t she always dreamed of leaving Bethnal Green? Escaping Jack Swift? Experience cautioned her that any man who associated with blokes the likes of Feagin could not be trusted. And yet, she could not forget that he had done something that no one had ever done for her before.

  He’d defended her.

  Resigning herself to what she hoped was the lesser of two evils, she said, “I’ll go willingly.”

  “Wise choice.” He gave her that crooked smile that she was beginning to detest, bowed, and swept his arm into a low arc toward the open door of the hack. “After you, Your Majesty.”

  Wise choice? Somehow Fanny doubted that.

  As the hired coach rolled down Mile Road out of London, Troyce studied the creature sulking across from him, cocooned up to her neck in a lap robe he’d found beneath the seat. A girl, certainly, though it hadn’t been so obvious at first. He blamed it on the layers of baggy clothing, the dockside mist and poor lighting. The moment his hands came into contact with a pair of very unladlike breasts, he’d realized his error.

  Even now, with the dimmest of light seeping into the carriage, he wondered how he hadn’t known right off. Features like hers could never be mistaken for those of a lad. Lush lips, pinched cheeks, wild hair of an undistinguishable shade barely to her shoulders . . . There was a dark smear along her jawbone as well, whether caused by smut or bruise, he could not say. But one thing was glaringly clear—she had not been leading a life of either ease or comfort.

  If anyone asked him to explain why he was bringing her to his home instead of simply turning her over to the authorities, he’d not be able to give them a logical answer. He was not normally prone to bouts of sentimentality. Or insanity.

  And it was insane. He’d searched high and low for someone willing to invest in the restoration of La Tentatrice, a venture that promised to replenish the once-sizable de Meir fortune, only to throw the opportunity away. And for what? A pocket-swiping vulture with a piss-poor attitude? He had not a farthing to his name, yet here he was, dragging home another mouth to feed. And he had to find a way to raise two hundred pounds by morning.

  Two hundred pounds. Where was he going to come up with that, and by morning no less? Every cent he’d made over the last eight years laboring on the docks of Maine had gone to pay his father’s debts, and still it hadn’t been nearly enough.

  By all rights, he should be furious at her for costing him the only chance he’d had to save what was left of his inheritance. No one would blame him if he’d had her gaoled.

  Except, he’d seen something in those big doe brown eyes, an undisturbed innocence, a wild desperation to escape her fate. . . .

  Heaven knew he understood that feeling.

  Troyce brought his arm up along the back of the seat, his curiosity of her gnawing at him. “Are you hungry?”

  She shook her head, though she did not look at him. Her attention remained fixed on the passing scenery; what she could possibly find so interesting in the expanse of darkness that stretched beyond the rain-spattered window, he couldn’t begin to guess. She was scared, though. Her fear betrayed itself in the tight set of her jaw, hunched shoulders and the hands clenched around the folds of the blanket. She’d be a fool not to be scared. But she was here, and that said a lot for her character.

  “You’ve not asked where we’re going.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No, I don’t suppose it does.” He could be taking her to the wilds of Northumberland, if he had a mind to, and she would no doubt find it preferable to prison.

  Indentured workhorse. He hated the tag she’d given to their arrangement, hated that she thought of herself as such. He’d seen the miserable souls during his stay in Maine, brought in from the holds of ships to enslave themselves for a year, two years, even more just to pay for their passage. But as much as he loathed the title, he could hardly deny that it fit. He couldn’t pay someone to perform the work Westborough Manor desperately needed to become functional again; the only staff left of twenty-seven servants were loyal Millie and Chadwick, and both had agreed to remain on for the simple compensation of food and shelter.

  And so, he’d taken advantage of an opportunity provided him by a gumptious cutpurse.

  He felt her watching him out of the corner of her eye and arched a brow. “Is something amiss?”

  “Ye don’t talk like a Brit.”

  “I’m only half-Brit.”

  “Is that like a half-wit?”

  He chuckled, pleased that she hadn’t lost her spirit over the night’s events. “That’s a matter of opinion, I suppose.” His grandfather was certainly convinced that he’d gone dotty eight years ago, for no Englishman with any sense would relinquish the promise of a fortune for the beckoning of distant shores. “There are some who consider my American blood quite exotic.”

  “American. I should have known.” In the darkness he couldn’t see her sneer, but he heard it. And he felt it.

  “That offends you?”

  “Actually, I don’t give a whit one way or the other. I just never heard of no American nobleman.”

  “What makes you think I’m noble?”

  She frowned as if she didn’t know how to react to his teasing, and fell silent. Troyce leaned back, listening to the rain patter on the roof of the two-seat carriage, the rhythmic creak of churning wheels, and waited for her to ask the questions he could almost hear whirring in her mind. She reminded him of a woodlands badger, and like any creature of the wild, she would lash out when cornered, claws and teeth bared, before retreating to safety. All one needed was a bit of patience to lure her out of her nest.

  He bit back a smile when her curiosity finally got the better of her.

  “So what are ye?” she asked, her tone bordering on belligerence. “A du
ke? An earl?”

  “Nothing so lofty as that. I am merely a baron. Troyce de Meir of Westborough, at your service.”

  He inclined his head and a parody of gallantry, and was rewarded with a faint rising of color in the chit’s cheeks. Troyce wished he knew what it was about her that drew him so. She was but a child, one of the many street urchins that haunted the alleys and taverns in search of unsuspecting fools used as pigeons to line their pockets, far too young to interest him, yet he found himself intrigued nonetheless. There was just something so . . . vulnerable about her. No doubt she’d club him a good one if he ever voiced his thoughts. She didn’t strike him as the type who took kindly to having her weaknesses known.

  “That’s certainly an impressive set of wares you keep hidden beneath your coat,” he said. “How long have you been engaged in such a fickle line of work?”

  The question took her off guard, and a moment passed before Fanny realized that the wares he referred to weren’t her body parts. “Long enough.” It seemed pointless to deny what he already knew.

  “And how many times have you been caught?”

  “I ain’t never been caught.”

  “Till now.”

  She pressed her lips tightly together.

  “Are purses all you take?”

  She pinned him with a warning glare. “You’re a nosy bloke, ain’t ye.”

  “Simply curious. There aren’t many who dare steal from me.”

  She supposed not. He didn’t strike her as a man anyone easily swindled.

  Well, long as they didn’t get too personal, she decided that it wouldn’t hurt to answer his questions. “I’ve filched a few watches. A bit of jewelry.” She shrugged, at once ashamed and proud of her ability. “Just depends on the person.” And how much they had to spare.

  And how much Jack demanded.

  “I’d be interested in a demonstration of your method.”

  Fanny straightened in amazement. “You want me to show you?”

  “We have a bit of a journey ahead of us. It might help pass the time. I expect you to return it, of course.”

  She couldn’t believe her ears. She’d shared her tricks, of course, but mostly to green kids new to Swift’s band. Never to a grown man.

  Never to her prince of dreams.

  She licked her lips, strangely nervous about touching him. It hadn’t bothered her before, but then, she hadn’t given it any thought before, either. “I just . . . distract the mark . . . then slip me hand into ’is pocket—”

  “Distract him, how?”

  “Most times with a nudge. Or a bump.” Crikey, why’d he ever bring this up? “Sometimes I pretend I’ve lost something, like a pet or a bonnet. Or I pretend like I’ve met ’im before . . . like you.” She gazed into the swirling mist of his eyes. “First time I saw ye, I had this feelin’ that I knew ye from someplace.”

  “Where?” he whispered.

  It didn’t occur to her not to tell him. Lost in his eyes, she spoke the secret of her heart. “Someplace far, far away, where flowers grow wild in the fields and the smell of the sea is strong in me nose. The sun never stops shinin’, and music never stops playin’ . . .”

  And then, she couldn’t speak at all. Flutes and harps and violins. Sunshine clear to her toes. The glorious spice of birch and clover and . . .

  Man.

  Fanny yanked herself back against her seat, her breaths coming in short gasps. She hadn’t meant to . . . she never should have . . . she was only supposed to . . .

  Stunned, she glanced down, and his timepiece was tightly clasped in her hand. Oh, God. Fanny closed her eyes and damned herself a thousand times.

  “You are quite adept.” He cleared his throat and reclaimed his watch. “I didn’t feel a thing—this time.”

  If only she could be so lucky. Her fingers tingled clear to her elbows. She curled her hand into a ball and pressed it against her stomach, disturbed by the sensation. “Ye really felt it before?”

  “In a sense. Actually I felt more of a brush against my . . . hip.”

  She glanced away, and mumbled, “I’ll be sure t’remember that.”

  He leaned back in his seat and tucked the watch back into the slit in his vest. “Perhaps you would like to send word to your mother of our arrangement.”

  Fanny tensed, the remark hitting a tender chord. “I have no mum. She died when I was very young.”

  A heartbeat passed, then he said, “I’m sorry.”

  Paltry words, yet oddly, he sounded sincere, and she drew comfort from that.

  “The lad who was with you, then. The one who escaped.”

  Scatter. Fanny shut her eyes. She hadn’t let herself think of him since he’d padded the hoof out of harm’s way. He’d be back at the tunnels by now, with the baron’s purse, no doubt getting what for from Jack over her whereabouts. He’d worry when she didn’t fall in behind him, but that couldn’t be helped. She didn’t dare try another escape now; the baron would have the coppers on her tail faster than she could say Golden Jubilee and she’d not risk bringing trouble down on the rest of the band.

  “We could send him a message if you wish.”

  And let Jack get wind of her flight? That was the last thing she needed. Crikey, when he learned that she’d left him high and dry, there would be the devil to pay. No one left Gentleman Jack’s band and got away with it. She had no idea where the baron was taking her, but it wouldn’t take long for Jack to track her down. He’d send out a few of the boys asking about her at the police stations—that would buy her some time anyway. Time to put some distance between him and herself. Time to plan how she was going to get herself out of this mess . . .

  “Ain’t none of his business where I am,” she finally said. “ ’E knows his way home, and that’s all that matters.” As soon as she figured out where she was going, and if it was safe, she’d get word to Scat. Somehow.

  “Is there not anyone you wish to get word to?”

  An unbidden image of a distinguished gentleman, bowing his head in grief, and a young girl in pale blond braids, took Fanny by surprise. A surge of longing rose up inside her, so swift and strong, that she had to shut her eyes against it. She hadn’t thought of her father and sister in years. Why she’d think of them now didn’t bear examining. “There’s no one.”

  There hadn’t been in a long, long time.

  Fanny pushed the memory away and once again stared absently out the window, hoping to put a stop to the endless tide of questions.

  “You look weary. Perhaps you should rest now,” he suggested.

  She searched his eyes in the dimness. What was his game? It wasn’t human for a fellow to be so kind. Not in her world, where only the cutthroats and stone-hearts thrived. But then, she wasn’t in her world anymore. She was tumbling headlong into the unknown with a man of equal mystery. A man of position, of power, of prestige. Should she fling herself at his feet in gratitude or throw herself from the hack and take her chances? She didn’t know, and the confusion troubled her as much as anything. She was used to making split-second decisions.

  Though she didn’t mean to obey his order to rest, she closed her eyes anyway just to keep him from carrying on further conversation. How she managed to fall asleep with the coach jouncing hard enough to shake her teeth loose she couldn’t begin to explain. But she must have dozed off at some point, for the next thing she knew, the hack had gone still.

  Fanny blinked, then lifted her head from the side of the coach. A horse snorted. A harness jingled. She glanced around the misty darkness, and realized that they’d left the clatter of the city far behind. Fields of glistening grasses stretched for miles in each direction, broken by jagged silhouettes that she suspected were woods. Crikey, how long had she been asleep?

  She leaned over to peer out the opposite window. It had stopped raining, but the wet pane gave her a somewhat distorted view of a stunning three-story red brick house lit by bell-shaped lamps attached to the veranda posts. White shutters flanked the profusion of
windows, and a white front door bore a large black wreath in its center, silent testimony that this was a house of mourning.

  “Where are we?”

  “Radcliff. My manor house outside of London.”

  “You live here?”

  “Only during the season. We’ll spend the night here and leave for my country estate in the morning.”

  His country estate. A frisson of unease set her heart to quickening. She barely remembered a time when she hadn’t lived in London, and the thought of leaving the city she’d called home for most of her life scared the wits out of her. “Is it far away?”

  “A half day’s journey, more or less.” With a twist of the handle, the door to the hack flung open on oiled hinges and he stepped out only to duck back inside. “Oh, and I have only one rule, Your Majesty. There will be no stealing from me again—ever—or I promise you, prison will sound heavenly in comparison.”

  Chapter 3

  The cryptic warning lay thick in the air long after the baron walked away from the cab. Fanny’s first impulse was to tell him what he could do with his “agreement”; had he been any other bloke, with less control over her future, she probably would have.

  But as she watched his long-legged stride eat up the distance to the front veranda, she was seized with a sudden desperation to call him back. Tell him that she had changed her mind, that she wanted him to take her back to London this instant.

  It was nearly too dark to see, the only light coming from a pair of black lamps attached to the columns flanking the steps, and soon he was little more than a shadow among shadows. There he waited, silently beckoning her, one hand on the door handle.

  Fanny frowned. What was this, some sort of trick? Surely he didn’t expect her to walk in like some grand lady of the manor. Never in her life had Fanny of Bethnal Green been allowed to enter a house of the ruling class, much less do so through the main entrance. How did one react? Should she insist on entering through the back door? Accept the invitation? Turn tail and run?