by Anna Bradley
“Albina, what do you think?” Lady Chase leaned over Ciaran and tapped Lady Atherton’s arm with her fan. She nodded toward the redhead. “I vow I’ve seen her face, but I can’t quite recall where. It’s excessively provoking!”
“My dear Anne, don’t you know? Why, Lady Essex was talking about her just this morning in the Pump Room.” Lady Atherton leaned across Ciaran, lowering her voice. “That’s the Earl of Bellamy’s daughter.”
Ciaran straightened in his seat. An earl’s daughter? It was the very last thing he’d expected to hear. He’d met scores of earl’s daughters last season in London, and this lady wasn’t like any of them. Not many earl’s daughters hung about at bare-knuckle prizefights.
“Bellamy! My goodness. She doesn’t look much like old Bellamy, does she? At least, not what I remember of him. She must resemble her mother.” Lady Chase lowered her quizzing glass with a sigh. “Poor thing.”
Ciaran’s brows drew together. “Poor thing? Why?”
Lady Atherton echoed Lady Chase’s sigh. “I suppose she’s off to London for the season once she leaves Brighton. She hasn’t even arrived yet, and already the ton is gossiping about her. I’m afraid they won’t be kind to her, given the rumors about her father.”
Ciaran jerked his gaze toward Lady Atherton. “What rumors?”
Lady Atherton didn’t answer him. She was deep in consultations with Lady Chase, and both of them appeared to have forgotten he was there. “Does she have any money?”
“Old Bellamy had plenty of it. Never had occasion to spend it, did he? Well, it will be a great deal easier for her if she’s possessed of a grand fortune. The ton will overlook a good deal if she’s a wealthy heiress, even madness.”
“Madness! For God’s sake, she isn’t mad!” She was unconventional, yes, but there was no crime in that. Ciaran’s own sister Isla was unconventional, and she was the sanest person he knew.
His voice must have been sharper than he realized, because Lady Chase raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh? And how would you know that, sir? Have you met her?”
“No, I…no.” It wasn’t quite a lie. They’d never been introduced. He didn’t even know her name. “That is, I spoke to her once, by accident, and I tell you she’s perfectly sane.”
Lady Chase noticed his distress, and reached over to pat his hand. “Of course, she is, but people will call her mad, just the same. Her father wasn’t quite right in the head, and they’ll imagine the same of her, even if she’s as sane and sober as a judge.”
People will call her mad…
Ciaran closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Bloody, bloody, bloody hell.
He’d called her mad—the day of the bout, after Vale left and he’d been alone with her in his carriage. He’d noticed the notebook and pencil clutched in her fist, and he’d said something about how she must be mad to be drawing in the middle of a brawl.
And she…
Ciaran’s jaw went tight as he recalled the way her dark eyes had dimmed, and the smile had fallen from her lips. She’d gone very quiet, and a few moments later she’d asked to be let down from the carriage.
He smothered a groan. Had she thought he was mocking her, or her father? She’d never told him her name, but if the old ladies in Brighton were already gossiping about her, she might have believed he recognized her.
“What’s her name?” Ciaran asked, his voice hoarse.
“Lady…lady, er…” Lady Chase turned to Lady Atherton. “Albina?”
Lady Atherton looked as puzzled as Lady Chase. “I couldn’t say. I’ve only ever heard her referred to as Bellamy’s daughter. One doesn’t hear much about her, does one, aside from in relation to her father. The girl’s always been rather a mystery. I don’t think she’d ever been out in company before she came to Brighton.”
Damn it. If she’d appeared that suddenly, she could disappear just as quickly. This was the first time he’d seen her since the bout, and there was no telling when she might turn up again. If he didn’t speak to her now, he might not get another chance. He just needed a quick word, a chance to offer an apology, or at least an explanation.
Lady Chase tapped his arm. “If you wish to speak to her, you’d best do it at once. It looks as if they’re leaving.”
The concert wasn’t over, but her party had risen from their seats and were making their way toward the exit. Without thinking, Ciaran shot to his feet. His sudden movement caught her attention, and her head snapped toward him.
Their gazes locked, and the room seemed to blur around him as they stared at each other.
Such dark eyes…
Dazed, Ciaran took a step toward her, but a single step was as far as he got.
She blinked, her face expressionless, and then…then she deliberately dropped her eyes, and turned away.
* * * *
“Lucy, who is that man staring at you?”
“Nobody.” Lucy took her aunt’s arm, but as she hurried her toward the door Eloisa paused and turned to glance over her shoulder. It caught Aunt Jarvis’s attention, and she stopped as well.
She let out a little gasp as her gaze fell on Lucy’s dark-haired tormentor. “My goodness, he’s a handsome, gentlemanly looking sort, isn’t he? Have you an admirer already, dear?”
Lucy smothered a snort. Her reluctant hero was still staring at her. He had a decidedly odd look on his face, but she doubted it was admiration. Disdain, perhaps, or some sort of gastric ailment. This was Brighton, after all. Didn’t everyone here have gastric ailments?
“No, Aunt. I’ve, ah, never laid eyes on that gentleman before. He must have mistaken me for another lady.” Lucy flinched at the lie, but she could hardly tell the truth, could she?
He saved me from being trampled to death in a brawl at a bare-knuckle boxing match.
No, a lie would have to do.
“It’s very rude of him to stare like that.” Lucy sniffed, trying once again to herd her aunt and cousin out the door.
But Eloisa refused to be herded. “Are you certain, Lucy? Because he’s still watching you, and he looks a bit, oh, I don’t know…dejected?”
Dejected? Lucy was tempted to look back at him to see for herself, but she resisted the urge. What was the point? It wasn’t as if the two of them were going to become friends. She’d already tried to befriend him, and he’d rejected her both times. She had too much pride to offer a third time, and anyway, she’d changed her mind about him.
She didn’t care for rude gentlemen who so carelessly tossed about words like mad, no matter how pretty their eyes might be. “Yes, yes, I’m quite certain. Come along, Eloisa, before your mother becomes fatigued.”
Aunt Jarvis had had a good day today, and Lucy wanted to keep it that way. Uncle Jarvis had taken himself off somewhere, and her aunt’s spirits had risen with every hour of his continued absence.
Lucy didn’t suppose it was a coincidence.
It was true her Aunt Jarvis could be tedious, with her dozens of bottled cures and hosts of imaginary ailments, but underneath her fits and palpitations she had a good, kind heart. On her best days, Lucy could see glimmers of the mother she’d lost in her aunt, and she was growing quite fond of her.
Aunt Jarvis sighed. “I am indeed fatigued, but my nerves are a bit agitated. I’m afraid I won’t sleep tonight.”
Lucy had taken Eloisa’s arm to hurry her out the door, and she felt it stiffen under her fingers. Whenever her aunt complained her nerves were agitated and she wouldn’t sleep, it meant she intended to dose herself with laudanum. Aunt Jarvis’s appetite for the stuff alarmed Eloisa. So much so her cousin would now insist on staying at her mother’s bedside all night to watch over her.
No, no. This wouldn’t do. Aunt Jarvis was becoming dozy and dull-witted, and Eloisa was worrying herself to a frazzle. “Never mind, Aunt. I have just the thing to soothe your nerves.”
Lucy patted her aunt’s hand.
“Have you, dear? What is it?”
“It’s ah…it’s called Dr. Digby’s Healing Tonic.” The lie rolled so easily off her tongue Lucy wondered if she shouldn’t be ashamed of herself. “You’ve heard of Dr. Digby, of course.”
Aunt Jarvis gave her a blank look. “No, I can’t say I have.”
“Indeed? How curious. Everyone in Devon knows of him. He’s dead now, but in his day, he was one of England’s most famous apothecaries. His tonic was said to cure every ill.”
“Every ill? Even the headache? You know how badly I suffer from the headache, Lucinda.”
Lucy did know. A headache that could be traced directly back to Uncle Jarvis. “I know, Aunt, but I’m certain Dr. Digby’s tonic will set you to rights. Shall I make up a batch for you tonight, to help calm your nerves?”
“Can’t we simply go to the apothecary and fetch a bottle tomorrow?” Aunt Jarvis asked.
“Oh, well, as to that…er, you can’t buy it anymore. Dr. Digby has been dead for some years now. My father was friends with him, though, and the doctor was good enough to share the recipe with him. I made it for my father countless times, and I know it by heart.”
Eloisa made a small, choking sound. Lucy glanced at her cousin out of the corner of her eye and saw the tiniest smile on Eloisa’s lips.
“Indeed, Mama, it sounds like just the thing.” Eloisa cleared her throat. “I think you should try it.”
“I daresay I will, if Lucinda doesn’t mind taking the trouble to make up a batch for me.”
Lucy hid a grin. “Not at all, Aunt.”
“Well, well. You’re a good girl, Lucinda.” Aunt Jarvis settled her arm more comfortably against Lucy’s. “Shall we go, then?”
Lucy could feel a pair of blue eyes boring into her back as they made their way out the door of the New Assembly Rooms and toward the line of waiting coaches. She shivered as the hair on her neck rose, but she didn’t turn around.
With any luck, she’d never lay eyes on the man again.
Chapter Six
The following day
Five o’clock in the morning
“For God’s sakes, Ramsey, be still, will you? You’re as jumpy as a scalded cat tonight. You’re distracting me from my cards.” Lord Godfrey slammed his fist down and the mess of discarded cards, coins, and slips of paper scattered across the table jumped from the force of the blow.
Ciaran’s head jerked up. He’d been restless all evening, fidgeting and cursing over his cards, and if the scowls on the faces of the other six gentlemen at the table were any indication, Godfrey wasn’t the only one who was distracted.
Something hot and angry flickered in his chest, and his jaw went tight. He glanced from one face to the next, his eyes narrowed.
I don’t want to be here.
Just like that the truth burst upon him, as sudden as it was undeniable.
He hadn’t wanted to be here for days now. He was sick of this cramped room in the back of the Castle Inn. Sick of the smoking fire, and sick of the haze of snuff dusting the air. Sick of the company. Especially Lord Godfrey, who was slipperier than a muddy London street and about as honest as a pickpocket.
Sick of himself.
He tossed his cards face down on the table, snatched his coat from the back of his chair, and slammed out the door without a word of explanation to anyone. He turned left on Castle Square and kept walking until he disappeared into the small, winding streets off Lewes Road.
He wasn’t going anywhere in particular. Just a random stroll, to clear his head. He didn’t have a destination in mind, or someplace special he needed to be.
Or so he told himself, as he wandered the darkened streets.
If he gave any conscious thought to his direction, he wouldn’t go. He’d been fighting the urge to return to the lonely little stretch of beach since the morning he’d dragged her out of the water. He didn’t want to go there now, but he knew he’d never have another moment’s peace until he did.
He couldn’t say whether he hoped she’d be there, or if he hoped the opposite. He wasn’t sure it mattered. Either way his footsteps led him there, to the rock wall circling the beach where he’d last seen the troublesome redheaded chit who, despite his every attempt to banish her, still haunted his thoughts.
He didn’t want to be her friend. Between the prizefight brawl and her ill-advised swimming adventures, he couldn’t imagine a more troublesome young lady. But he found he no longer had a choice.
He couldn’t stay away.
He scanned the surf, straining for a glimpse of a dark, wet head bobbing among the rolling waves. It was some time before he caught a quick movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned just in time to see her toss her head to clear the mass of wet hair from her face.
As soon as he saw her, the tight thing he’d been carrying inside for days unfurled and loosened. He filled his lungs with the crisp sea air and tried to remember the last time he’d taken such a deep, cleansing breath.
He watched her for a while as she kicked and frolicked in the water, then he leapt from the rock wall to the beach. He waited until she rose dripping from the waves, looking like some sort of mythical ocean creature with her bright hair lying in tangled curls down her back. A harmless mermaid, or a dangerous siren. Ciaran wasn’t sure which, but after days of struggling to stay away from her, he no longer cared.
She emerged from the sea, water streaming from her hair, and began to make her way up the beach. Ciaran saw the moment when she noticed him, but she didn’t stumble or stop, nor did her expression change. She wandered toward the rock where the gray cloak and length of toweling were folded neatly, just as they’d been that first day. She didn’t speak to him, or even spare him a glance until she’d run the towel over her hair, tugged her cloak on, and laced her boots. Only then did she turn to him. She fixed him with a look that was both bland and penetrating at once, and asked, “What are you doing here?”
Ciaran’s cravat suddenly felt as if it were choking him. He had to resist the urge to slide a finger underneath to loosen it. “I, ah…I have something of yours. I wanted to return it.”
It wasn’t the real reason he’d come, but she looked so forbidding he couldn’t bring himself to tell her he’d changed his mind and wanted to be her friend, after all.
Wanted it with the sort of desperation he hadn’t felt in months.
“My notebook.” She held out her hand.
Ciaran swung the coat off his shoulder, dug around in the inside pocket, and placed the small book in her palm.
Her fingers closed around it. “Did you look through it?”
He briefly considered lying to her, but that was no way to start a friendship. “I did. They’re very good.”
She frowned. “No, they aren’t. You needn’t flatter me. I don’t pretend to be an artist.”
“But they are good, though not in the usual way.” Why should they be? Nothing else about her was in the usual way. “Shall I tell you which are my favorites?”
She hadn’t expected that. Her brows rose in surprise. “If you like.”
“The older gentleman, with the thick, white hair and the flushed cheeks. He looks both disapproving and delighted at once. Is he your father?”
“No. Our butler, Popple. He was trying to teach me the quadrille, but I’m afraid I’m an indifferent pupil.”
“An excellent swimmer, though.” Ciaran offered her a hesitant grin.
She tried to resist a return smile, but her lips gave an unwilling twitch. “An excellent swimmer, yes. Do you have any other favorites?”
“The Famous Battle between Dozens of Unknown Scoundrels Fought at Brighton in Sussex, May 1818,” Ciaran answered at once. “Clever reference to Gillray’s print.”
Another reluctant twitch of the lips. “My father was fond of Gillray.”
They stood there staring at each other. Her expression was faintly puzzled, as if she didn’t know what to make of this encounter, but after a moment she drew up her hood. “Thank you for returning the notebook to me. You’re very kind,” she said, before turning away.
Ciaran watched her stroll down the sandy beach, a slender, hooded figure, a few strands of her red hair blowing in the breeze. She’d made it halfway—just far enough for an odd sinking sensation to squeeze his chest—when he gave in to the sharp urge lodged somewhere under his breastbone.
Before he could talk himself out of it, a shout burned its way up his throat and flew out of his mouth. “Tell me your name, lass!”
She turned back to him, hesitating, but just when he’d given up any hope of an answer, she cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted something to him.
“What?” He couldn’t make it out. He started toward her, but she waved him back.
“My name is Lucy!” she called again.
When she lowered her hands from her mouth, Ciaran saw she was smiling, and his lips curved in response.
“Just Lucy?” he called back.
He was certain she’d heard him, but she didn’t reply—only resumed her trek across the sand. Once she reached the road she paused, then turned and gave him a small wave before disappearing around a corner.
Lucy. The Earl of Bellamy’s daughter. It wasn’t much to go on. It would be difficult to find out much about her until he discovered her full name.
Ciaran was halfway to his lodgings before it occurred to him she didn’t want it to be easy. This was just the way she’d intended it.
* * * *
The following day
Five forty in the morning.
Lucy rested her arms on her bent knees and squinted at the bluff, her bare toes curling into the sand. She’d been coming out to the beach for her sunrise swim every morning since her arrival in Brighton, but this morning she didn’t venture into the water.
She was waiting.
She’d have to return to her lodgings soon. Her Uncle Jarvis didn’t generally wake before noon, but she wouldn’t tempt fate, just the same. The servants didn’t pry into her comings and goings, but if her uncle found out about her solitary jaunts to the beach he’d fall into a dreadful temper, and her cousin and aunt would feel his wrath just as surely as Lucy would.
