The Likelihood of Lucy

by Jenny Holiday

  “What’s going on here?” Lucy’s former employer’s voice called from somewhere inside the house.

  “There’s a…gentleman insisting he must see you, my lord.”

  Trevor took advantage of the butler’s momentarily split attention and pushed past him, stepping into a dark entrance hall.

  “Bailey? What the hell are you doing here?”

  He reached into the rucksack he’d been carrying and produced a small, coarse burlap sack. Extending his arm, he let it dangle for a moment, feeling its weight. “I’m doing this.” He let the sack drop and even through the burlap, the coins made quite an impressive thump as the bag hit the marble floor.

  “You owe me interest,” the viscount said, yawning.

  The yawn fanned the flames of Trevor’s already sizzling rage. How could the blackguard be so casual?

  “It’s in there,” Trevor ground out. “Count it if you like.”

  “That’s it?” Galsmith said, strolling down the stairs, apparently undisturbed. He didn’t even look at the sack as he passed it. “You’re going to keep a doxy of the worst sort on your staff? The demimonde is one thing at a place like the Jade, Bailey, but I don’t think you understand the full extent of what that woman believes. Who she is.” He yawned again. “Why don’t you find yourself a pretty little actress instead of that hoyden?”

  The only thing Trevor could think of, through the red haze of rage that clouded his vision, was getting the viscount to stop yawning.

  And as far as he knew, you couldn’t yawn with a fist in your mouth.

  The crack of bone on bone galvanized the butler, who, after madly yanking the bell, tried to pull Trevor off Galsmith. Trevor shook the servant off like an insect.

  It was going to take a great deal more than that to stop him.

  “Father?” A girlish voice wafted down from the top of the stairs. “Is everything all right?”

  “I told you something was happening, Edith,” said another voice, one that also belonged to a girl.

  Sisters. Lucy’s former charges. The girls she had so resolutely instructed using Mary’s methods. He stepped away from Galsmith, air whooshing out of him like a deflated bellows.

  “Everything is fine, girls,” said Galsmith, pressing his hand to his jaw and wincing. “It’s just a misdirected messenger. Go back to bed.”

  Trevor leaned in toward the viscount once more. “If you ever come near her or the hotel again, I will kill you.” He turned to go, but then paused halfway out the door. “And I’ll do it the dishonorable way.”

  …

  Act like everything is normal.

  It had turned out to be easier than Lucy would have thought, because when they’d gone back inside the night of the party, it appeared no one had missed them—thanks to Catharine, who had created just the distraction needed to ensure that no one would notice that the hotel’s owner and manager had disappeared.

  Even now, three days later, as she tried to focus on the accounts, Lucy could scarcely believe it. Catharine and her husband James had been caught in a sitting room down the hall from the ballroom. And they had been…engaged in marital relations—depending on whose account you believed. A party guest had reportedly thrown open the door, later claiming she thought it was the ladies’ retiring room, only to find Mrs. Burnham enthusiastically, ah, astride her husband, whose hands were obscured beneath her skirts.

  When Lucy and Trevor reentered the ballroom, the place had been afire with whispers. Though Catharine and James acted oblivious to all the attention, they must have felt the weight of several hundred pairs of eyes. But instead of fleeing or hanging their heads in shame, they’d merely sipped champagne and chatted easily. It seemed nothing cowed the Viscountess of Vice.

  “It’s not like anyone can prove anything,” Catharine had said blandly, shrugging as Emily scolded her later. “We were both clothed. Mostly.” When Emily raised an incredulous eyebrow, Catharine just smirked. “No one knows what was going on beneath my skirts.”

  What was going on beneath your skirts? Lucy had wanted to shout. Was it the same thing that had been going on beneath her skirts outside? Because she needed to know what…that was.

  She wasn’t naive. At least she’d thought she wasn’t. Even though she’d tried to stay outside as much as possible, she’d seen a great deal living with her mother, including many things she wished she hadn’t. And although Miss Grisham’s trained its pupils for a life of service, and hence of spinsterhood, it also provided instructions in all that would be required of them should they unexpectedly rise above their stations and marry. Or, more likely, should they find themselves in a situation in which they needed to deflect the advances of an overzealous employer.

  Overzealous. That’s the word her teacher had used. A man would grow amorous, perhaps even to the point of becoming crazed. Certain mechanical effects resulted, and when they did, it was up to you to protect your virtue.

  The teacher had explained that the act was undertaken voluntarily by wives because this was how children were made. In fact, children were the reward for tolerating the advances of one’s husband. Of course, Lucy knew that some women tolerated these advances because it was the only way to keep themselves alive.

  It was an utter crime, her teacher declared, how many young ladies were sent to the marriage bed with no idea what to expect. But at Miss Grisham’s they were enlightened. Lucy had graduated feeling smug, as if she knew the great secrets of sexual congress while so many poor women—ladies of the aristocracy, even—were left in the dark.

  It’s just that no one had ever said a word about…whatever it was that had happened beneath her skirts.

  No one had said a word about pleasure.

  The shocking, all-consuming, full-body wave of pleasure that had overtaken her, divorcing her fully from rational thought.

  She’d wondered, directly after their encounter, if something was wrong with her. Could that have been normal? Was it possible that she had some defect, something that made her react to Trevor’s touch with such…enthusiasm? Such embarrassing, mortifying enthusiasm.

  But then, hearing about Catharine and James at the party had given her reason to reconsider. By all accounts, they hadn’t been able to keep their hands off each other. They were married, lived at the same house. Lucy was nothing if not logical. Even if their goal had been procreation, if they couldn’t even wait a few hours until they got home, what did that say about the education she’d received at Miss Grisham’s?

  That it had been incomplete at best. In fact, as time passed, bewilderment gave way to irritation. Because whatever Trevor had been doing, he’d been doing it deliberately. He had known what was going to happen. And whatever Catharine and James had been doing in the sitting room, Catharine had enjoyed it—a very great deal if one could judge by the satisfied smirk she had used to deflect Emily’s halfhearted admonishment afterward. In fact, it had almost seemed as if the two women had shared a great joke, one she wasn’t privy to.

  Yes, Miss Grisham’s had a lot to answer for.

  Luckily, Lucy had always been very committed to ongoing education and self-betterment.

  And, suddenly, flower arranging was no longer on the top of her list of projects.

  Of course, she reminded herself, she had other projects, too. Work-related projects, and they deserved the majority of her attention. Beyond giving her a great deal to think about, Catharine’s adventures had livened up the party. She had bestowed just the right amount of infamy on the night, and hence on the Jade. They’d been besieged with bookings in the days since the party and were even close to being at capacity this coming week.

  Still, no matter how much she tried to concentrate on work, the other project—that was all she could bear to call it—prickled at the edge of her consciousness.

  Act like everything is normal.

  She’d thought Trevor meant right then, for the rest of the evening, in order to salvage the party. It hadn’t occurred to her that three days later, she’d sti
ll be acting. It hadn’t occurred to her that he’d meant indefinitely. That there would be no discussion whatsoever about what had transpired in the garden.

  Of course, to discuss something with someone, you needed to be in proximity to that someone. And, shut up in his library working most of the day, every day, Trevor made sure that hadn’t happened. When he left the hotel, he bustled out through the kitchen, sending the servants into an uproar at the sight of the immaculately attired owner appearing amidst the chaos and heat of the kitchen.

  Which was unfortunate, because the other project was one she couldn’t undertake alone. She was beginning to resign herself to the idea that she would have to abandon it.

  It was a good thing Lucy was so busy. That she hadn’t had time to think very much about things. Because if she had, she might well allow her thoughts to circle back to the idea that there was something wrong with her. That something about her had displeased him, or, worse, that her ardent response had marked her as the kind of woman from which a man needed to hide.

  She picked up her quill, ignoring the nervous fluttering in her gut. Yes, happily there was no time at all for such thoughts. She had a hotel to run. She forced her attention back to the neat columns of numbers she was checking. A hotel that was doing quite well indeed in its opening week, thank you.

  And it wasn’t just work keeping her busy. She was an intelligent, independent woman with a political salon to attend. She glanced at the clock on the mantel. Ten more minutes of figures, and then she would allow herself an hour of reading for Mr. Lloyd’s salon.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lucy floated up the stairs feeling lighter than air. She was giddy, positively buzzing with excitement. Mr. Lloyd’s salon had been everything she had dreamed of and more. Of course, it had only been one meeting, but she was feeling bold, daring to hope that she had found the intellectual community she’d always yearned for. Like Mary in Paris, or earlier in London with Paine and Blake, Lucy had always wanted peers. Writers and readers and thinkers. People who cared what she thought and were anxious to engage with ideas—not to mention did their assigned reading without Lucy having to harangue them.

  Equally revelatory was the fact that the group was composed of both men and women, and that beyond the observation of customary social norms, no one treated the women any differently than the men. Everyone was quite interested in hearing about the Jade, for its reputation had preceded it, and when Mr. Lloyd introduced her as its manager, the few whistles from the group had been admiring, not derisive.

  Mr. Lloyd had been very attentive, making sure she was introduced to everyone, and that she was included in the discussion. And he’d sought her out privately as she prepared to depart, to make sure she knew she was welcome at next week’s meeting.

  All in all, a highly satisfying evening.

  So satisfying that she despaired of ever falling asleep, given the way her mind was humming.

  As she ascended the final steps to the fourth floor, a noise from the stairwell above her drew her attention. “Trevor?” It was unusual to see him in this part of the hotel. His apartment was at the front of the building—the opposite end from the rear-facing rooms she’d moved into when she became manager—so normally he would use the front staircase for his comings and goings.

  “Yes.” He stopped halfway up the flight of stairs and turned. She hadn’t seen him—really seen him—since their encounter during the party. He’d made sure of it, studiously avoiding eye contact when he came and went. But there he was, standing there looking at her unflinchingly. Her heart did something. She wasn’t quite sure what. It might have sunk. It might have sped up. It was impossible to name the sensation, other than to be sure it was making its presence known.

  She didn’t know how to be with him. How to act.

  “I just wanted to make sure you arrived home all right.” He carried a single candle, and the stairwells and corridors were also gently lit, so he was bathed in a warm glow. He was fully dressed, including boots. The opening of the hotel had necessarily ended his nocturnal barefoot wanderings. It wouldn’t do for a guest to catch sight of the proprietor pacing the halls sans coat and stockings.

  It occurred to her that she was probably one of the few people who had ever seen Trevor’s bare feet. Well, he had probably had lovers—her mother had taught her many things, and one of them was that men had needs that couldn’t be sublimated—but she shoved that thought aside. Given how much they had run around barefoot as children, certainly she had seen his feet more than any other person in England.

  Thinking about Trevor’s feet made her start thinking about other parts of him, too, which was something that had been happening disconcertingly frequently of late. To be more specific, she’d been thinking about his chest. The wall of muscle that she had encountered when they’d kissed in the garden had been so different from the scrawny boy’s chest she had seen that time she had tended him after he’d fallen from a cart and injured himself. She wondered if he still had the scar from that misadventure. She wondered what it would look like on the man’s chest. Would it have faded?

  “Good night, then,” he said, making her realize she’d been standing silently staring at him—thinking about what was beneath his clothes, for goodness’ sake—for longer than was reasonable or respectable.

  She should just let him go. Then she could go inside and start reading the book for next week’s salon. “I’m sorry if I worried you,” she blurted, halting his progress. “I didn’t anticipate being out this late. I should have told you where I was going.”

  He turned again. “You don’t owe me an accounting of your comings and goings.”

  “No. I don’t owe you an accounting, but it would have been common courtesy.” Why was she arguing with him about this? Why couldn’t she just stop talking and let him go?

  He nodded. “Well, then—”

  “Do you still have that scar on your shoulder?” she said, before she could lose her nerve. “The one from that time you fell? May I see it?”

  He took a step down. “Why?”

  How to answer? How to explain that she’d been thinking about that scar, which had been so red and angry when they were children, even if they’d been having so much fun when he acquired it. That she wondered if the scar had faded with time, if the man’s muscles that had replaced the boy’s leanness had subsumed it. That doing so made her agitated, uncomfortable. But that she couldn’t seem to stop.

  “I don’t know,” she finally whispered, feeling too warm suddenly and wanting nothing more than for him to refuse so she could go into her rooms and sit by the open window.

  But it was not to be, because he was beside her, opening her door, gesturing for her to precede him inside.

  She took a deep breath. It was just as well. She’d been hoping to talk to him about the hotel. Business had taken a slight dip in the last several days, and she wanted to hear his thoughts about boosting it again.

  There was also the other project. But she feared she’d lost her nerve on that front.

  Lucy’s rooms were quiet and, during the day, flooded with sunlight, and she had grown to love them. She hadn’t wanted to retain the sample room because, frankly, she hadn’t thought it a good idea to continue sleeping just beneath Trevor’s apartment. He hadn’t questioned her selection, but had insisted on converting the room next door to the one she’d chosen into a study for her. A manager needed a study, he argued, despite her protests that she preferred to work at the small table in the kitchen where she could attune herself to the comings and goings of the staff and be easily accessible should problems arise. Trevor had told her to work wherever she liked and to do whatever she pleased with her second room, but a second room she was going to have. In truth, she’d found it almost unbearably wonderful to have so much space at her disposal. After years of folding herself into tiny rooms adjacent the schoolrooms in the houses she served in—and years before that sleeping six girls to a room at Miss Grisham’s—to have two rooms of one�
�s own amounted to almost untold luxury.

  Trevor hadn’t seen her rooms since he’d dispatched workmen to them. He’d ordered the workers to build an interior door to connect the rooms, instructed them to do whatever else she wanted, and absented himself. Now that the work was done, the rooms felt like hers, and having him in them seemed strangely intimate. Which was silly because Trevor knew her better than anyone.

  As she moved around lighting candles, she tried to see the room through his eyes. It was undeniably feminine, with its floral wallpaper and overstuffed deep green settee. He moved to the window seat she’d asked the men to construct and ran his fingers over a pile of books stacked there.

  He smiled. “I like it. It looks like you.”

  She let go a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. But then she reminded herself that she didn’t need his approval.

  He moved to the small writing desk where she had set her copy of Rousseau when they’d come in. Angling it next to a candle, he squinted at the spine. “Wollstonecraft group widening its scope? You won’t like to hear it, but are you certain it’s a good idea for a group of women to meet this late into the evening? I hope you escorted one another home.”

  She smiled. “Someone would have to be last in that scheme. After the second to last lady was seen home, the last would have to escort herself.”

  He’d crouched at the hearth to build up the fire. “Yes,” he said over his shoulder, “and why do I suspect that someone would be you?”

  “I wasn’t meeting the Wollstonecraft group. I’ve been invited to join another group, a salon run by a friend of Catharine Burnham’s.”

  “Ah.” He fanned the small flame he’d got going. “What’s her name?”

  She paused for only a moment. There was nothing to hide. “His name is Mr. Lloyd. Mr. Jeremy Lloyd.”

  Trevor looked up sharply, then cursed as a twisted piece of newspaper he’d been using to light the fire singed his hand. “And did Mr. Jeremy Lloyd escort you home?”

  She almost didn’t answer and was tempted to remind him of their earlier exchange, in which he’d said she didn’t owe him an accounting of her comings and goings. But, honestly, she didn’t want to fight—and in truth she didn’t want him to leave just yet. “No, I accepted a ride from another attendee.”