Loving Lady Lazuli (London Jewel Thieves Book 1)

by Shehanne Moore

  “‘E will be all right in the morning, Miss. Truly.”

  Why did Charlie hesitate? His face turned a little paler in the candlelight?

  “‘E always is. But I don’t think you should give ‘im any of that. Knowin’ Dev, ‘e’s probably ‘ad a bucketful already. Do you want ter make ‘im worse?”

  “Whether he has or not, I don’t see it would do any harm to clean this wound up. We can’t leave him like this.”

  She reached for the bottle and pulled the cork off. The smell wasn’t exactly what she’d expected. It was brandy, yes. But not as she knew it. The underlying odor was something she couldn’t quite place. She sniffed. Then she held it to her nose and sniffed again.

  Before Charlie could stop her, she yanked the cabinet drawer open. Why she reached for that particular one she didn’t know. Only that she did.

  What greeted her, the bottles clinking and rolling about inside, were things she didn’t need to have had any personal experience of to know what they were. Why Charlie didn’t want her seeing them either. She lifted her chin.

  “So Charlie, just how long has Lord Hawley been an opium addict?”

  ***

  As Devorlane Hawley raised his head to check the time on the fob watch he’d flung on the bedside cabinet last night, his gaze was arrested by what was arrayed around the top of it. Then it was arrested by what, or rather who, sat on the edge of the bed, in that damnable black peignoir, her hair cascading about her shoulders.

  “Very well. So, you think you’ve found me out? Now, how about you put this little stash back where you got it? And go away again?”

  In truth he had never felt more incensed. Or he might were his body not so exhausted by the latest fever to ravage it that his veins were limp as wet dusters. What was she doing in his drawer? Looking for jewels to pilfer? As for being confronted with his misdeeds? Great. He eased back against the bedrail. “It’s hardly what you think.”

  “Then what is it exactly, pray tell, Lord Hawley?” Her voice, cool as the hand she’d placed on his brow last night, slid over him. At least he’d thought it was her hand. Charlie’s palm wasn’t soft like that. Skilled neither. But then, she was a thief. His ruination.

  “It’s nothing you need concern yourself with. I’m hardly an addict.”

  He wasn’t, was he? He didn’t use the stuff every day. Maybe every other one. Although he had sometimes felt that things were getting a little out of hand, he didn’t have cravings. What he had was a tearing agony every time he moved his leg. Either that or a dull throbbing as if a rat relentlessly ate the bone, in some ways as bad. So yes, he took a little something. Why the hell not?

  It was hardly unexpected. Drink, drugs, women. He liked these things. The hell, he wasn’t going to stop because she said so and stuck a few bottles on his bedside cabinet. What else was in his life? What else was it for? Even coming here the only thing he’d discovered, so far as he could see, was that even his desire for revenge had been dissipated.

  “I am concerned, Lord Hawley.”

  His desire to laugh had dissipated too. What pretense. “You and half the county. So please stop sitting there like Lady Muck. What’s the damned time anyway?”

  “You were kind enough to help me the other day.”

  “I was helping myself. And if you think otherwise you’re the damned fool, though I don’t think you are and I don’t think you do. Think otherwise that is. Now then.”

  He glanced around for his dressing gown. He didn’t feel bad for saying it. Why should he, for all she’d sat there last night? It was the truth. He didn’t want her pity or her concern, or her cool hands playing havoc with his already beleaguered senses, making him feel better than he had in months. Not when she was the one who had landed him in this situation. Whether or not she was ignorant of the fact hardly mattered.

  Now he’d had her, it was bad enough she’d initially failed to disappoint him. He had reconstructed this, taking her as he had last night, to prove she didn’t interest him. The last thing he wanted was to find himself thinking she was pretty, perched on the edge of his bed like that, especially for someone who had been up half the night, even if he did.

  “Lord Hawley—”

  He threw the covers aside and reached for his dressing gown. Even the fact she’d seen that wound made his blood boil. It hardly mattered his thigh felt better, cleaner. She wasn’t a nurse, she was a jewel thief, with uppity notions of being a lord’s daughter.

  Yesterday had been a disaster in ways too dire to contemplate, yet contemplate them he did. A more brutal man wouldn’t have found himself pricked by the sight of her at the bedroom door, when she’d entered the room, into feeling ashamed he was there, let alone in the damned bed. A more brutal man wouldn’t have responded to her as he damned well had, letting her even further beneath his skin. A more brutal man could truly have made that screwing a salutary lesson.

  It had worked no magic on him to work none on her. Him, who knew all kinds of pleasure with women, forced to make it the most bland, boring session he could recall, in order to dismiss her from his bed. And he had. Now he really didn’t care what the hell happened next. Apart from clearing his name. Yes he still wanted that. The hell with what that meant for her.

  He tugged on the robe.

  “Just get out, will you?”

  Her eyes widened. Please don’t tell him a malefactor like her wasn’t accustomed to being spoken to in that way. Oh, he forgot. She was a lady. Anyway he’d sooner talk to her like that than admit even the worn furnishings of a room that had been empty for ten years seemed brighter because she was here. Ignoring her, he crossed to the washstand.

  “I don’t want you in here doing things for me.”

  He cursed beneath his breath. Something he didn’t do much of either but was it any wonder? She’d even used all the water. Not a drop of water to be had from the jug even though he upended it, shook it. How was he meant to wash his face with no damned water to wash it with? And where was Etti with the steaming ewer she usually brought, so he could shave? By Christ, he’d had enough of this. Enough of her.

  “In fact you can consider our arrangement terminated.”

  “Terminated?”

  “Oh, I forgot, you probably never went to school. Finished in other words. Take the damn papers with you, if that’s your worry.”

  “The papers?”

  The papers were of course a pressing concern, although not so pressing, she didn’t stand stock still beside the bed as if her slipper clad toes had sprung roots. Or was it simply that, that after the conditions he’d laid down, it didn’t seem possible he would dismiss her quite so easily?

  Whatever it was, now wasn’t the time to think about it.

  For a second he stood clutching the edge of the washstand, contemplating the daisy etchings that ringed the porcelain basin. “I mean, who’s to say I won’t hook you on the stuff.” Then he walked to the bedside cabinet, unscrewed the brandy decanter. “And we wouldn’t want that now, would we?”

  Certainly not the blameless life she’d led.

  He lifted the glass to his lips. “The door’s there, unless you expect me to get it for you.”

  She turned on her heel and padded across the faded Turkish rug. Christ be thanked. Now finally he’d get the peace he so richly deserved to run his morning his way. Pour as much brandy as he wanted down his throat, starting right here, right now this very minute, with this mouthful. Grin fondly at Etti after he’d summoned her with the hot water. Maybe even do more than that, the nicely appointed derriere she had and those breasts that begged to be touched.

  Finally the gods smiled upon him. Life was looking up, in an infinite universe of ways. Give this a day or two and he’d forget this troublesome larcenist ever—care was required with what he thought here … beguiled him, was probably truer than existed. He washed another mouthful of brandy down his parched throat. Given what she’d done to him ten years ago, the likelihood was he’d be indeed fortunate to forget she ex
isted either. ‘Had ever been in his bed,’ were probably the best words of all.

  All it took was for her to go. Every nerve end waited. Why the hell, having reached the door, did she stand facing it like that? As if he was going to call her back or something. He wasn’t going to call her back. And he wasn’t getting the door for her either. This was over. He’d had his fill. All that remained was turning her over to Lord Koorecrofte once she’d failed to find whatever she was looking for in the papers she could take home.

  “Lord Hawley, there’s something I want to show you.”

  “Please no.”

  “But … ”

  “If it’s anything like you showed me yesterday? Well, believe me, I’ve seen it all. There is nothing you can show me I could possibly be interested in.” She didn’t speak and he glanced round. “Miss Armstrong, kindly do not remove that peignoir. I told you to leave. Now. You may take the papers, prove you are Cleopatra’s mother for that matter.”

  “A moment, Lord Hawley … ”

  She turned round and eased the robe so the material slipped down the milky white curve of her back. He was bound to look. Bound to think she believed he leered and this was how she thought she could play him. His throat dried.

  “Yes.” The silence she broke was brittle and burning. “It’s what I never wanted you to see.”

  Jesus.

  “Then what the hell are you showing me for if you don’t want me seeing?”

  He hated his voice sounded as it did. Frankly, at what laced her shoulder blades, his first reaction was surprise. How could he not have noticed? Yes, the threads were silver with age, but it didn’t make them invisible. So, frankly too, when he considered how viciously that spider’s web had been constructed, he was grateful he sounded like that.

  “And where’s my damned hot water this morning? Do you have any damned idea about that? Or did you use that too so now I don’t have a drop to shave with?”

  The attempt to reach him, whatever it cost her, was one he’d damn well defeat. She was as far as he was prepared to let her. If he allowed her further, it would be the end of him.

  “I don’t much care about your shaving water.”

  “Etti … ” He crossed the floor, grabbed the handle of the other door.

  “I don’t care about much actually. You just need to know you’re not the only one with scars.”

  “Etti … ”

  “Do you think I don’t understand why people turn to certain gods?”

  “Do you? Think that I’m in any way religious? If you do, it just shows how badly you’ve misjudged this situation. Etti!”

  He clawed a short breath and shouted louder along the corridor. Where the hell was everyone this morning? Tactfully keeping their distance?

  “I think you’re the one guilty of that, Lord Hawley, if these bottles are anything to go by. What you suffered last night may even be—”

  Even though she couldn’t see it, he forced a smile. “What I suffered? Who says I suffered?”

  Sometimes in life it was better just to hold your blasted tongue. To offer nothing. Didn’t she know that? Did she want it being put around Chessington she was his mistress? His whore? Sure to happen now if Etti came in here and saw her. It was something he’d given some thought to when he brought her here. If only he could say he hadn’t meant to. But he had and that fact spurred him to round fully on her.

  “The only thing I suffered, so far as I can see, was you using all the water so now there isn’t even a damn drip to wash my damn face with either. As for you standing there like that—you were on your way out. So why don’t you just put that robe back on and go to hell?”

  “Lord Hawley—”

  “Now, preferably. In fact, let me get the door for you.”

  He walked to the dividing door and yanked it open. Whatever she looked like as she sailed through it, he was just glad to see the back of her. Etti now bustled in and out the room again, closing the door behind her. Hot water. Fresh towels. Thank God. Now he could shave the night’s fever from his chin.

  He cursed as a droplet of blood trickled down his chin. Now, to add to his other miseries this morning, he’d nicked himself with his razor. He glared at the leather strap hanging down from the washstand. He must have over-sharpened the thing. How else could he have cut himself? After all his hand never shook. It didn’t matter how he’d spent the night.

  He resumed his stance and sliced a path through the shaving soap on his other cheek. Slow and steady. Perfect. His gaze wandered to the adjoining door. Christ. Just when he needed to keep it fixed on his shaving glass. Now he’d a nick on his left cheekbone to match the one on his right. Both bleeding profusely. Cursing, he threw the razor down. What the hell was wrong with him?

  It was pretty obvious. But if there was anything wrong with him, he could help himself. Yet there was no denying either, he had been aware of her last night. She hadn’t run. She hadn’t left him to it. Her presence had been sweet. He just hated anyone seeing him like that. Weak. Powerless. So it shamed him to think she had.

  That was all bad enough. The worst of it was when she’d stripped off that robe. He’d thought Sapphire had led a charmed life. Well—the way Ruby behaved didn’t exactly say so, but he had convinced himself because he’d had to convince himself. He still needed a reason to hate her.

  These marks on her back didn’t say so. They spoke of beatings. Of beatings upon beatings. Of mistreatment even he hadn’t suffered. A mistreatment that said she’d done nothing willingly.

  She’d tried to tell him that day about Matthew. He hadn’t wanted to listen. He didn’t want to listen now. At least a half hour had passed since he’d told her to go anyway.

  That was fine. Because he didn’t care about these marks. He didn’t care about Matthew. Most of all he didn’t care about her.

  And he would first see himself in hell before he stopped her leaving Chessington.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Lord Hawley …”

  As the coach door shut behind him, Cass snapped her mouth shut in advance of asking what he wanted. After all the last time she’d asked him that, look at the resulting mess. Anyway nothing would stop her leaving.

  “Checking for stolen silverware, are you?”

  In reply he eased his limbs, long and lean in immaculate fawn breeches and a robin’s-egg colored coat, onto the seat opposite. Good God, what had he done to his face? Two of the worst nicks she’d ever seen sliced his wonderfully chiseled cheekbones.

  He canted his jaw. “That depends on where the hell you’re going, Miss Armstrong.”

  Although she gave a little laugh, it took every ounce of her self possession not to open the other door, gather her skirts, and leap out onto the driveway. Going? Where indeed was far enough?

  She should never have shown him her scars. What on earth was she thinking? He wasn’t a man she could help, any more than she was a woman who ever did such things.

  “It’s fine. I can walk.” She reached for the handle. So did he.

  “I advise you not to tempt me.”

  “Really?” She jerked up her chin. “And I advise you to do the same. I won’t withdraw the accusation a second time.”

  She waited for the rejoinder. In all probability something about shrubberies and Gil. Unless that was what he meant to accuse her of?

  She could explain Gil. The notion of trying to avoid notice and not wanting to cost the state a fortune for a funeral was tempting. She was sure she could get Lord Koorecroft to believe it. Devorlane Hawley would look dumber than a tongue-less donkey trying to rescind the fact he’d helped her.

  If not she could leave the area before ever a party arrived with spades to dig Gil up.

  He shifted uncomfortably, then he cleared his throat. “I’m not asking you to withdraw anything.”

  “Goodness. I should be flattered. But I’m not.”

  “Look you … you showed me something and I was undeniably rude to you about it.”

  “Dear
me, how much opium have we taken this morning, Lord Hawley? It’d have to be the whole bottle for you to imagine I showed you anything, and even more, that you, of all people, were rude about it. A paragon of politeness like you? Oh, and really, you should try not to shave when you’ve—”

  “You took me by surprise. I didn’t realize just how hard your life must have been and that’s the truth. Now I do—”

  “You what? Want to make me laugh?”

  “No. What I want—“

  “Oh, we know what you want. So save your sodding breath." She lowered her eyelashes. It was far more important she veiled her gaze than meet the one he leveled on her. She knew exactly what he thought of her, so an apology now amounted to nothing. “That bit of my life is what it is. Past."

  "It can't be, because you talked to me about your brother the same way, so don’t lie.”

  “Yes. Yes, I did tell you. I did it in the hope that maybe you wouldn’t demand what you soddin' did. But then that hope left me, like every other soddin’ one’s ever done my whole life, so there’s not a great deal more to be said. Not about Matthew. Not about anything real—”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  She muffled a shriek as the coach turned sharply and inexplicably to the left. Every thought about Matthew and that night ripped from her head as the gates flashed past, with her clinging to the leather coach seat on the wrong side of them. A mistake to think it was anything other than deliberate. Her orders to Carson were precise. A bigger mistake would be to do more than fix her bored glance on Devorlane Hawley’s waistcoat.

  “I think you’re the one who’s wrong, my lord. You must excuse my sense of geography being on the same par as the rest of my education, certainly you must excuse it not being on a par with yours, but Barwych isn’t this way. But then I suppose it’s not that long since I saw you pouring narcotic-laced brandy down your throat? Or maybe it was brandy-laced narcotic?”