“Perhaps we could have a tour first, Miss Greenleaf?”
The question triggered a collective outburst of feminine enthusiasm as members murmured their agreement. Two even stood. Having the meeting at the Jade had probably been a mistake. She should have just held it in the park as usual, but she hadn’t wanted to miss a delivery of baking supplies scheduled for today. She was determined to get those lemon biscuits right, before Trevor returned.
She sighed. What could it hurt? It was just like with her pupils. Sometimes you had to bribe them with biscuits to get them to do their lessons.
The tour went on entirely too long. Lucy could not prevent the ladies from stopping to coo over the inlaid wood on the staircases or from opining on the number of private parlors Trevor was planning. Honestly, it was worse than herding a gaggle of small children in a sweets shop.
By the time the group returned to the kitchen, several of the ladies begged off the discussion, and she spent a quarter hour trying to infect the remaining members with her enthusiasm for the book they were meant to have read. She tried to console herself that perhaps some of her messages were getting through. One didn’t always know where one was making a difference. Think of Mary! There wasn’t a day that went by that Lucy didn’t think of her heroine, but Mary, even if she’d been alive, would have had no idea that Lucy even existed, much less that she had been so moved by her words. All one could do was carry on, holding onto one’s convictions.
Somewhat cheered, Lucy made for Hyde Park. The anticipated delivery had arrived during her meeting, so she was no longer stuck at the hotel. And she was enormously pleased with what she’d accomplished in the eight days Trevor had been gone, so she would permit herself a quarter hour of walking in the fresh air before she went back to work.
Lucy tilted her face up to the sun and took a deep breath. She loved the park, the Serpentine in particular. She’d taken the older Galsmith girls there as often as possible when the family was in residence in town, lecturing them about the importance of appreciating nature. But in truth, they’d made the regular excursions because walking along the water, looking at the trees, temporarily ameliorated the drudgery of her life as a governess.
She’d been genuinely fond of the girls, fourteen-year-old twins Elizabeth and Edith, and four-year-old Edna, but she didn’t really miss the work. She much preferred organizing Trevor’s kitchen to drilling the girls on their sums. She did miss the family’s Wiltshire estate, though, which they’d visited several times a year, leaving behind the soot and noise of London for the forests and hills that lightened Lucy’s heart. While in residence in Wiltshire, she and the older girls would set aside the schoolroom as much as possible in favor of outdoor lessons in botany and astronomy—at least until Lord or Lady Galsmith started remarking upon it and they were forced to return to Latin and sums.
A London park was a pale substitute for the wilds of the estate, but it would have to do. Walking a path that meandered near the lake, she automatically stepped aside to let a group of oncoming riders pass. Except instead of passing, they stopped.
Correction: one of them stopped, after murmuring something she couldn’t hear to his companions, who went on without him. A sinking feeling in her gut deepened as the man brought his horse around so he was facing her.
“Well, if it isn’t Mary Wollstonecraft’s lightskirt protégé. My daughters have been asking about you.” She tried to assure herself that the Viscount Galsmith was not a threat to her, not in the park with dozens of people surrounding them. It didn’t matter, though. She could still feel his hands, entitled, tearing her bodice, grabbing handfuls of flesh as if he had more of a right to her body than she did.
Though she wouldn’t have thought it possible, his eyes were worse. Leering, too-bright, they slid slowly down her body. At least his hands had provided a clear directive that stormy night, had galvanized her to act. Here in the park, surrounded by people, she could hardly run screaming because he had looked at her oddly. That would only label her a lunatic. And he knew it. Knew he held all the power, even without lifting a finger.
“I regret that I had to tell my family the truth about you. About the whore you truly are.” He moved the reins to one side and shifted his weight, as if preparing to dismount.
Lucy didn’t wait to hear what he would say next, didn’t care if she appeared unhinged.
She just ran.
…
Trevor leaned forward and looked with impatience out the window of the carriage, watching familiar landmarks pass with excruciating slowness. He was home a few days earlier than he’d originally imagined, having managed to wrap up his business early. He’d purchased the mine in the end, but to be honest, he wondered if he hadn’t done so simply because a purchase seemed like the most straightforward, and therefore quick, way to complete the transaction. Typically, he would have done more on-site information gathering. He had rushed through it and was ashamed to admit that he had also rushed through his side trip to meet one of the men from Blackstone’s list, a lieutenant who had served under the murdered Captain Gelling and who had retired half a day’s journey from the mine Trevor had been inspecting. Under the pretense of having been a friend of Gelling’s, Trevor had drawn out the man’s stories and memories. But he couldn’t help but feel that his report to Blackstone that the conversation had yielded nothing of consequence was a little suspect. Truth be told, he’d kept having to remind himself to pay attention, distracted as he’d been by thoughts of home.
Never had he wanted to get home more than he did now. It was what he’d been working so hard for all this time. A home that was as far from the room he’d shared with his mother—the room he’d been kicked out of when she was “entertaining”—than he ever could have imagined. He’d taken deprivation and turned it into luxury. Rickety, drafty walls had become solid and impenetrable. Dark had been illuminated with hundreds of candles.
Home. It was a strange word. Not one that rolled off the tongue, at least for him. He felt like an infant, just learning to form the necessary sounds and to associate them with the matching concept.
The problem was, he had to remind himself about the candles, the sturdy walls, the monogrammed towels. To make a decided effort to call to mind all the signifiers, the points of differentiation between Seven Dials and the Jade.
Because otherwise all he could think of was Lucy, drying her hair by his fire. Lucy, lost in his dressing gown. Lucy, looking for all the world as if she had always been there.
Lucy, wearing the jade he’d given her so many years ago.
Lucy, whom he had to get out of the hotel and back into the life she deserved as soon as possible.
It was the next order of business, in fact. After returning his hired carriage, he walked briskly through the streets, dodging afternoon shoppers on Bond Street. He had a rather impressive mews outside the hotel, ready to accommodate the ton’s finest horseflesh once the Jade opened, but he still hadn’t got round to buying his own cattle. Or hiring grooms, for that matter. Good Lord, he had a great deal to do. He’d concentrated all his efforts on the place itself—design, construction, even interior décor and furnishing. The physicality of the place was what the investors cared about. They wanted to see something concrete because they were wary about what was still a somewhat new idea, something to calm their jitters and to justify parting with a small fortune. But that didn’t mean he could postpone staffing indefinitely.
Turning the last corner of his journey, he felt that familiar thrill when he saw the place. It never failed to delight him, the sight of his Jade. Most hotels in town had been created from converted rows of houses. He’d had a devil of a time convincing the investors that new construction was justified, but even they, once they saw it, had not been able to deny the power of its imposing beauty. Its five stories of red brick seemed to rise from the street like a regal, scarlet-clad queen. Wrought iron Juliet balconies tempered the effect, imposing an equally satisfying sense of order on the place. Luxury and structur
e—was there anything better in this world?
The Jade had arisen from nothing, almost as if literally conjured by his dreams, and it was magnificent.
But to be honest, when he had imagined this place, he hadn’t given much consideration to how it was actually going to work. He’d pictured guests in it, to be sure, but he hadn’t thought about who exactly was going to take care of those guests and make sure they had everything they could want. But what had he thought? That the details would magically take care of themselves? This was a new sort of venture for him. Unlike mines or ships, the Jade was exceedingly hands-on.
What Lucy had said about the staff needing training had been nagging at him the whole trip. He needed to get started on that—today. He’d need to hire what? A butler? Did hotels have butlers? Certainly he’d need a head housekeeper, and an army of maids. How many? And footmen. These were the sorts of details he dreaded, but they would make or break the whole endeavor.
Turning into the laneway, he stopped abruptly just inside the courtyard. The hairs rose on the back of his neck. Someone was coming. He kept himself still, held his breath, trying to make out a sound below the din of the city around him. Yes, there it was—footsteps.
Closing the gate behind him, he crouched so he would not be seen by anyone who might approach. The steps grew louder. Someone was running. Panting.
The gate crashed open.
Lucy. What was she running from? Who was she running from? His heart thudded, his attention honed by the idea that she might be in danger.
She streaked past him—she hadn’t noticed him. She was crying.
Lucy was crying.
Seeing her tears did something to him. It was as if a great hulking fist reached inside his body and started churning everything around, yanking things so that they crashed up against other things, leaving him suffocating and helpless. Something like this had happened to him once before, and that time he’d responded by getting her out of Seven Dials. By giving her up.
She was struggling with her key, weeping openly as she wrestled with the lock. Her bonnet dangled loose down her back and several locks of hair had come unpinned and hung around her face.
“Let me,” he said, aiming for a soothing tone as he laid a hand on her shoulder.
Swinging around violently, she shoved him back with the arm that held the key. He tried to dodge the blow, but he hadn’t been prepared for that reaction. The tip of the key dragged across his face, making him wince.
“Get off me!” she cried.
“It’s me!” he said, trying not to shout but pitching his voice so it was louder than hers. “Lucy! It’s me!”
Once she registered that it was him, she swiped her hands across her face, trying in vain to hide the fact that she’d been crying. But even if she’d been able to make the tears disappear, she couldn’t conceal the red blotches dotting her face and throat, or the fact that she was gasping for breath. “Oh, Lucy,” he whispered. “Lucy.”
He opened his arms, not sure what to expect. To his astonishment, she stepped into them, placing herself in the circle they made, but bowing her head and covering her face with her palms, leaving him to snake his arms around her as she curled in on herself. Just as when she had first appeared at the door that stormy night, she permitted the embrace but did not participate in it.
Last time he saw her cry—the only time he’d seen her cry—his strategy had been to get her out of the situation, away from the childhood that was slowly killing her. He could do it again. Whatever this was, he was stronger than it. They were stronger than it.
He wanted to employ his usual method of not asking, of playing it calm, biding his time, and waiting for her to offer information. But she uncovered her face, and it looked so forlorn, so positively devastated, that it made him feel like he was suffocating. “Tell me.” He spoke too urgently, he knew, but could not seem to temper his tone. “What has happened? Who has done this to you?”
He wasn’t even sure what “this” was, but he needed a name. A scapegoat. A person who could be made to pay.
“It’s not about him, not really,” she whispered, nestling her head into his neck. His breath caught at this little show of trust from her, and he tried to hold perfectly still, to ignore the curious feeling of her smooth cheek resting against his stubble. But he could not ignore the surge of anger the word “him” triggered in his chest. It was like he was back in Seven Dials, fighting for everything—his next meal, his mother’s attention. Lucy’s well-being.
“Him?” he echoed.
Her small arms came together around his waist, and his heart sped up. No. This couldn’t happen. Lucy was not meant for him. She deserved more. Better. Grasping her shoulders, intending to push her away and save himself, he caught sight again of that beautiful face. It looked a little less bereft.
She took a deep breath. “I’m just glad to be home.” Then her brow furrowed slightly, and she corrected herself. “I mean, I’m just glad to be back at the hotel.”
I’m just glad to be home.
He hadn’t heard anything after that, not really. He gave in, then.
Just this one time, said the rational part of his mind, a useless cautionary directive to the other part—the part that compelled him to lift his hands from her shoulders and rest them on her cheeks. Her lips formed a surprised, pink O as his own came down on them. He went slowly, giving her time to react, to push him away, half hoping she would.
She did not.
And then, oh God, and then. He was kissing Lucy Green. Or Lucy Greenleaf, or whoever the hell she was. The girl who escaped. The girl who had come back to him. He was kissing her.
And if he wasn’t mistaken, she was kissing him back. And then, heaven help him, she opened her lips. Just a little, so she could heave a breath in even as they continued to kiss. He could not resist, but he forced himself to keep the incursion minimal, allowing his tongue to penetrate a mere half-inch.
She sighed.
“God, Lucy,” he groaned, pulling away. He searched her face for any sign of distress and was rewarded by the impossibly alluring sight of her licking her lips.
“Trevor,” she breathed, and it sounded like an invitation. So, knowing he was damning himself to hell, he let one hand glide down her shoulder. Unlike the dress she’d been wearing the day he left town, this one had been made for her. It fit properly, so when he allowed his hand to slide lower, coming to rest on her hip, it was all he could do not to devour her, but he held himself in check.
Heaving another sigh, she palmed his face and brought it back to hers, pressing her lips against his once more. He’d been trying to keep things somewhat contained, but he hadn’t counted on her hands on his face, urging him onward. He did everything he could not to let her see the extent of his need, to move slowly and gently. It was torture. It was heaven.
As they kissed, he traced her jawline, then let his fingers run over her throat. They caught on something.
The jade.
The jade he’d given her when they were children.
The jade that reminded him she didn’t belong in the gutter.
Or with a gutter rat like him.
He pulled away, and she sagged briefly against the kitchen door before righting herself. She looked dazed and didn’t quite meet his eyes as her breath slowed.
A sick feeling began to coil its way around his insides as he watched her avoid his gaze. Her kisses, though enthusiastic and so very sweet, had been unpracticed.
He was no better than the men he’d been trying to get her away from all those years ago.
He should apologize.
Instead he said, “Who is him?”
She hesitated, and it took him right back.
…
Lucy always could run like the wind. He often struggled to keep up with her as they bolted, laughing, from the scene of some minor crime or other, hands laden with their spoils. He was counting on it now. Because they had to go. Go fast. Everything depended on it.
“L
ucy!” he shouted, crashing into her makeshift shelter. Since he’d set her up here a week ago, he had carefully respected her privacy, pretending that the dirty blanket she’d draped over a bush to provide a small modicum of privacy was a proper door, one that he stopped and announced himself at before intruding. But not this time.
She whirled, holding a knife. She might as well have stabbed it into his heart. This wasn’t the life Lucy Green was meant to live, armed, afraid, vulnerable. This was what Seven Dials did to girls once they hit a certain age. It was how it had happened to his mother, but it wasn’t happening to Lucy. Not on his watch.
“What’s happened?” she asked, once she realized it was him and not someone who meant her ill. Though some of the fear left her eyes, they remained wary enough to ratify what he was about to do. He would think about those eyes when he did the impossible—when he separated them forever. Someday soon those eyes would be less afraid. They would regain some of that old spark they used to have, back when she was too young to earn notice by her mother’s customers.
He would imagine those eyes, and the pain of losing her would be worth it.
“Do you trust me?”
A smile then. A real one. He would treasure it always. “Of course. You know I do.”
He held out his hand, knowing that she would interpret what he was about to do as a breach of that trust. “Then we have to run.”
And run they had, harder and faster than he would have thought possible. Lungs burning, muscles screaming, feet pounding, pounding, pounding on the cobblestones as he led them back to the spot where he’d seen the fine gentleman and lady alight from their carriage not five minutes ago.
They’d been here before, a week ago, the gentleman on some kind of self-impressed quest to pluck a downtrodden boy from the gutter and send him to school. Trevor had heard the lady say then, in a pouty, petulant tone, that if her husband could have a boy, she wanted a girl. She wanted to be a patroness. Trevor had stood among the jostling boys, each begging to be the one taken, and inwardly sneered at her. With her cruel laughter, her entitlement, she wanted to play with their lives as if they were mere chess pieces.
The Likelihood of Lucy Page 6
