The Lady and the Gent (London League, Book 1)

by Rebecca Connolly

  Rook nodded, bowing deeply to Margaret, then following as Rogue led him from the room. Rook barely glanced at Rafe, giving him a faint wink that tempted Rafe beyond belief to blacken both of the idiot’s eyes for good measure.

  Margaret watched him go, shaking her head, then looked down at her paper. “There is really so much to be done.” She looked at Cap with a measure of pity. “You ought to consider a maid, sir. Or a housekeeper. A servant of any kind, really, and sooner rather than later. I am surprised that Mr. Sharp here hasn’t developed a layer of dust himself, but I suspect the three of you keep him busy enough to avoid the settling.”

  Sharp tugged at his limp cravat restlessly.

  Cap stared at Margaret without expression, which was usually how Cap stared at everybody, and then, to Rafe’s astonishment, he nodded. “It is a good thought,” he said quietly. “If we can find the funds, I will undertake the hiring myself.”

  Margaret blushed a little, which made her look all the more fetching. “Forgive me,” she murmured. “I ought not to pry into affairs that are not mine.”

  Now Cap looked sympathetic. “Miss Easton, is it?”

  She nodded, keeping her chin a bit lower.

  “I do not consider an earnest concern prying,” Cap told her, his voice surprisingly kind. “I daresay having a woman of your observation and determination here with us would turn this place on its head and have it in better working order in no time at all.”

  Margaret smiled shyly and looked up at him. “I’m an interfering busybody with little tact,” she said bluntly. “It is a horrid flaw, and probably my chief reason for remaining unmarried at my age.”

  Rafe bit back a laugh at her quip and wished he were closer so he could squeeze her hand.

  Cap smiled with more warmth than Rafe had ever seen him do since the death of his wife. “I doubt your age is that shocking, Miss Easton, and your interference comes with such charm that the so-called tactlessness is irrelevant.”

  Margaret grinned outright. “Well. Maybe I ought to run off with you, Cap.”

  Sharp hooted a laugh that Rafe echoed, and Cap’s smile turned teasing. “I would only be so fortunate.” He nodded to her, then to Rafe, and returned back to the offices behind them.

  Rafe shook his head, coming closer to Margaret at last. “Well, now that you have charmed all of my colleagues, perhaps we should go and find other people to fall at your feet.”

  Margaret laughed and handed Sharp her list of chores. “If we step foot out that door, I think everyone will fall at yours.”

  Rafe switched his cap for another on the wall and picked up a satchel from the floor beneath it. “They just might,” he replied without concern. “In which case, we will walk over everyone at our feet and have a merry time of it.”

  He opened the door for her, let her precede him, then was quick to offer his arm once they were out.

  She took it at once, smiling brightly. “Where to, Master Gent?”

  “Wherever the road may lead, Miss Margaret,” he replied with a cheeky grin. “But first… You need to meet my children.”

  Before she could respond, he whistled three short bursts of sound, and then led her along out of the street and to the meeting place long ago set for his best group of informants.

  Children?

  Margaret could barely swallow as he led her along, blissfully unaware of her torment.

  How could he have children? That positively ruined everything. Did he also have a wife who had borne him those children?

  Oh lord, was she running off on an adventure with a disenchanted husband and father?

  Her face flamed with the shame now filling her.

  Gent was saying something jolly and bright, but she could barely listen at all when she wondered how she was going to disengage herself from such a person. How could she have been so totally mistaken in him?

  “And then Daisy’s mother passed away, and her father drinks his days away when he isn’t at the docks, so there really wasn’t an alternative but to take her in,” Gent said on a heavy sigh. “She’s a bit young, but her details are unmatched by any of the others.”

  Margaret perked up at that. Mother and father? She traced back the conversation as far as she could recall, trying to fixate on what he had been saying while she had worried herself into a frenzy.

  She wet her lips hesitantly. “H-how many are like her?” she asked shakily.

  If he heard her nerves, he gave no indication. “Most of them, sadly,” he told her with a slow shake of his head. “A few are complete orphans, but they look out for each other so well, and having them tied to us gives them some security.”

  “And what do they do for you?” Margaret asked, warming to his conversation more and more. He may speak of them as a loving father would, but he was obviously not biologically their father.

  She ought to have known that from the start. She knew him, after all, despite their lack of interpersonal association, and he would never have betrayed his own family by being so familiar with her. As he had said, he had the honor of two toffs. She’d seen it for herself.

  But honor aside, she was fiercely glad, and desperately relieved, to have been such a ninny.

  Gent slid his dark glance to her, his cap lower on his face than it had been all day. “Whatever we ask,” he said, his tone too stiff. “Run errands, gather information, keep an eye on certain individuals…”

  “Spy?” she asked before she could help herself.

  He smiled at her. “More like pay attention. No one thinks much of a child, so they can gain access in very useful ways. And if there is an individual I wish to protect, for one reason or another, I can easily have a child tail them.”

  Margaret frowned at him. “How would a child keep them from danger? They would be at just as much of a risk.”

  His smile grew slightly cocky. “Not these children. But besides that, we have several other associates that can intervene if needed. But the children can inform us of changes or anything untoward, and they love sneaking around.”

  Margaret thought back to her own childhood and the number of times she had thought herself so very sly. She had to smile; she’d loved doing that too.

  Gent stopped and stared at her, his smile gone, his eyes unreadable.

  “What?” Margaret asked, tilting her head, still smiling.

  He reached out and gently touched the corner of her lips. “That smile,” he murmured. “You have no idea what it does to me.”

  His tone sent a shiver down her spine and it was all she could do to avoid actually leaning into his touch. “I can’t help but smile,” she managed to squeak. “You’re speaking of children so warmly, and I thought of when I was a child myself, and…”

  He pressed that same finger to her mouth, silencing her. “I didn’t say I minded,” he said gently, his mouth curving slightly. “I don’t. Not at all.”

  Margaret inhaled a rough gasp, sure that she was going to expire on the spot.

  Gent heard the sound and his eyes trained on her lips, where his finger still rested.

  “Gent!”

  Margaret jerked at the chorus of voices and the scampering sounds of little feet and took a step back, breaking the contact between them in favor of gathering her wits. And if these children saw and remembered as much as Gent said they did, she dared not give them an excuse to include her in their reports.

  Gent had turned at the first sound and now swept two girls into his arms, nearly over his shoulders, while three boys grinned up at him as though he were their hero. The girls giggled madly and tried to get away, but he held them fast. A trickle of more children, some nearly adults, joined them and all held the same apparent adoration for him.

  Margaret hung back, afraid that if she joined the throng, she would wear a similar expression, but without their reasoning.

  He spoke to them all, somehow paying attention to each individual child, even the squirming ones in front and the ones who scuffled with each other. They did not take turns speak
ing, but he seemed to catch all of it, every interruption, every stammer, and every wrong word. The older children had a measure of reserve that she assumed meant that they had been given more stringent duties and felt the responsibility of it, but he treated them with no less concern and enthusiasm than he had the younger ones.

  Margaret watched the entire interlude, her heart growing and expanding at what seemed to be an impossible rate. Was this what a woman with a husband and children witnessed on a regular basis? How did any female stand to see something so sweet and tender and attractive?

  She was near to swooning once more, and it had nothing to do with a corset, or lack thereof.

  As if he could hear her thoughts, Gent turned slightly and smiled warmly at her, winking a little, which did nothing for the state of her knees.

  “Do you all see that woman over there?” Gent said to his gathering, his eyes still on Margaret.

  Several heads nodded without any sort of synchronization.

  “That is Miss Margaret,” he told them with a smile that sent her toes tingling. “She is a very special friend of mine, and ought to be minded with care.”

  “Not too much care,” she muttered as her cheeks flamed, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

  He grinned rather boyishly. “Right, not as though she would break into pieces, but rather like a treasure. As if she were something precious.” His smiled turned tender and soft. “For she truly is.”

  Lord, how was she to breathe properly after that?

  She could not have looked away from him if she had wanted to. And she could not imagine ever wanting to do anything so ridiculous.

  He said nothing as he, and the children, stared at her, but his smile told her he knew exactly what he was doing to her. And by the change in his breathing, she had the sense he was not so unmoved either.

  She felt a tug at her dress and managed to wrench her gaze from him to the dark-haired urchin in a poorly patched dress. “Yes?” she asked primly, smiling.

  The girl gave a shy smile, revealing a few missing teeth. “Are you Gent’s lady?” she asked in a very rough and lisping voice.

  Margaret could almost hear Gent’s groan, but chose not to look at him. “What do you think?”

  Her little friend grinned widely. “Yes. He has us watch ladies sometimes, but he don’t say such nice things.” She clicked her tongue against her teeth in a distinctive way. “I think you mus’ be his favorite.”

  Enchanted, Margaret leaned down and cupped her hand around the girl’s ear. “I certainly hope so,” she whispered, making the girl giggle.

  “Daisy, don’t get the lady’s dress dirty,” one of the others called, coming over. He put his hands on Daisy’s shoulders and gave Margaret an apologetic look. “Sorry, miss. Daisy don’t mean to smudge.”

  The boy was obviously protective, but respectful. He seemed the oldest by a few years, and was without any of the rudeness that seemed prevalent in boys his age. Margaret smiled at him, feeling a surge of tenderness for a lad who could somehow be more gentlemanly than many gentlemen she knew. But with Gent as his mentor, that should not have surprised her one bit.

  “I don’t mind a bit of smudge,” Margaret admitted, winking at Daisy, which made her grin. “I am not so fine as to be fussy, and certainly not if the smudge came from a sweet girl like Daisy.”

  Several of the other children giggled and a few more girls came over, eying her dress with awe and appreciation, though it was simple and ill-fitting.

  The lad still holding to Daisy smiled a little, and she had the sense he did not do it often. “You ain’t like other women, Miss Margaret.”

  She smirked. “I should hope not. What is your name?”

  “Jamie.”

  She held out her hand. “Very nice to meet you, Jamie. Now perhaps you might introduce me to the rest of your friends, as Gent seems to be stuck in his present location without manners?” She tossed a teasing grin his way, loving the way he returned it, and how the children whooped in delight.

  Jamie made a noise she took for a laugh. “With pleasure, Miss Margaret. This one here is Sarah, and mind you don’t get between her and sweets, or your shins will feel it…”

  Chapter Eleven

  They walked in silence, not touching, but the air between them somehow filled with words and emotions and thoughts that neither could bring to light.

  Margaret, for her part, could not think how to tell him what she had thought of their brief interlude with the children. She had never thought much of motherhood, as she had always been more fixated on the idea of being a wife and finding love. That was not to say that she was opposed to the idea or that she disliked children, she had just never been particularly exposed to them.

  Seeing Gent’s tenderness with them, and spending a bit of time with them, knowing how little attention they received in their own life, she was moved beyond expression.

  And her heart was on a very precarious slope as it was.

  She had met all of the children present, though she had been repeatedly told that not all of them were there, and once she had done that, Gent reminded the children that they had business to attend to, and he really must be getting on with Miss Margaret. They had all rushed off at that, and in a few moments, the street was as empty as it had been before, with no sign that anything had disturbed it.

  Gent had not said more than three words to her since then, but an echo of his look from before remained.

  Silence was not something that made Margaret particularly uncomfortable, and even with Gent it seemed to feel rather nice, but with the way she felt now, she would have preferred he speak. Otherwise, she was likely to say or do something she might have cause to regret. Like throwing herself on him and kissing him with all of the inexperience and innocence she possessed.

  It might not amount to very much for a man such as him, but she was feeling excessively passionate right now, and untried as she was, there was no way to know what to expect.

  She bit down on her lip as they slowly walked; no doubt he was taking special care because of her ankles. He had never said a word, but his eyes were raking over her with enough frequency that she suspected he was analyzing her for injury. She walked perfectly, however, and gave him no cause for concern.

  Her heart was racing within her, but that had nothing to do with this morning’s excursions.

  “You were perfect with the children,” Gent suddenly said, making her jump as his arm brushed against hers gently. She hadn’t known he was so close…

  She managed to swallow. “Was I?”

  He made a low humming sound that did nothing for her current state. “Yes, perfect. They don’t have much exposure with fine ladies, only the whores and fishwives of the streets. And Tilda, I suppose, but she doesn’t count.”

  Margaret smiled at the offhand manner he suddenly used. “Why doesn’t Tilda count?”

  He gave her a grin. “Tilda could pass for a queen if she wanted. But she works in the theaters at Covent Garden, mostly. Costumer and former actress. Loud and demanding, will do just about anything for crumpets, and does not take kindly to patronization. Quite a character. You’d like her.”

  She laughed merrily and looped her arm through his, taking the liberty of leaning against him a little. “I’m sure I would.”

  “Are you tired?” he asked immediately. “We can rest.”

  She shook her head, smiling. “No, I am not tired.” She looked up at him with a bit of a dreamy expression. “If we stop to rest, I may realize this is all a dream and I am back with Miss Ritson, listening to her horrid plans for me. I much prefer being here with you.”

  His dark eyes searched hers, a peculiar light in them. “Oh, Margaret,” he murmured, his look a caress. “You are here with me. This is no dream. I should know, I’ve dreamed often enough, and nothing was ever so pleasant.”

  “Of what were you dreaming, then, that this should be so pleasant?”

  “You.”

  She blushed furiously and
averted her eyes, her throat tight. There was the kissing impulse again, and her stomach seemed to pound furiously with some agitated fire. “Pleasant, is it, to have your day disrupted by a simpering female in shocking garments who is unwilling to return home?”

  Gent chuckled and took her hand in his, pressing it to his lips. “Pleasant to be with you, Margaret, however the situation arose.”

  Margaret sighed a rather pathetic and swoony sigh that she ought to have been embarrassed about. “Gent, you really must stop saying such things. I might believe you.”

  He stopped them suddenly and turned to face her. “You ought to believe me,” he told her with a fervent squeeze of her hands. “I’ve never meant anything more than the things I’ve said to you. Everything about you is different for me, Margaret, and I would never say or do anything where you were concerned that I did not mean to my core.”

  Her lips parted in surprise and she stared at him rather stupidly while her sense went to pieces. “Oh,” she finally managed. “I… didn’t know. I’m not used to such things.”

  He snorted softly. “That is just ridiculous.”

  She swallowed and managed a shrug. “‘Tis my reality, Gent.”

  “Ridiculous,” he repeated, more firmly. He suddenly frowned, staring at her without speaking. Then there came the barest hint of a nod, as if he had come to some sort of decision. “Call me ‘Rafe’,” he said in a low voice.

  Margaret tilted her head up at him, bewildered by the sudden suggestion. “Rafe? Why?”

  “It’s my name.” His tone was simple, but the gravity in his eyes told her this was no trifle.

  Her eyes widened. “Your… your real name?” she squeaked.

  He nodded once, his gaze steady.

  “Why not your street name?” she asked, wishing she didn’t sound so wildly breathless.

  He stepped closer, still holding her hands, though now they could easily have slid to his chest, and she was beyond tempted to indulge in that image. “Because,” he murmured, “I want to be Rafe to you.”