Scoundrel in My Dreams

by Celeste Bradley

  It was as simple and as timeless and as effortless as that. She is mine and I love her.

  I would die for her.

  I would most definitely kill for her.

  She’d had a child, but she’d never been a mother. She’d lost and longed and mourned, but this . . . this was an entirely different place in her heart. This burned fierce and hot and forever. This flowed soft and sweet and everlasting.

  As she held Melody in her arms, it was all Laurel could do not to frighten her with the ferocity of her emotion. When Melody put tiny hands on Laurel’s cheeks and peered into her eyes, Laurel blinked back the tears and smiled at her wary child.

  “You cry a lot.”

  “You’re right.” Laurel breathed deeply and shook off her tremendous realization with a smile. “I’m an absolute watering pot sometimes. But I won’t cry anymore today because I have a guest!”

  Melody blinked in surprise, her wariness slipping. “Comp’ny?”

  “Of course!” Laurel whirled them both in a waltz step. “You are my company!”

  “Me?” Melody seemed slightly at a loss, not sure what her role as guest might entail. “But this is my house.”

  “Perhaps, but this is my attic!” Laurel deposited Melody into a chair, although her hands lingered for a tiny moment, loathe to let her go so soon. Then she straightened in order to dip into her very best curtsy. “Lady Melody, how lovely of you to drop by. Might I ask after your husband’s health?”

  Melody giggled. “I don’t have a husband. I just have Billy-wick. And Evan.”

  “Oh, heaven! Man-gossip!” Laurel flung herself into the other chair and leaned forward eagerly. “Now, tell me all about this Billy fellow.”

  As Melody launched into a long, involved description of Billy-wick, who apparently landed somewhere on the scale between ferocious giant and devoted lapdog, part of Laurel’s mind filed away every detail, starved as she was for every moment of those missed years.

  The rest of her burned with plans to steal her daughter away forever.

  Ten

  In his efforts to keep Brown’s running as smoothly as ever despite the addition of ladies, maids, and two rather mishap-prone small people, head of staff Wilberforce was making his daily rounds through every floor of his domain. As usual, there was not a streak of dust or a wrinkle in the carpet. He slowed as he paced down the hallway of the highest floor.

  There it was again. A sound, high and squeaking. A mechanical sound. As he listened carefully, head elegantly cocked, rather like an expensively groomed greyhound had he only realized it, Wilberforce heard the sound come from up, toward him, then stop.

  Though he never ran, he did have a lively-paced stride when he wished to. He made it down the hall and into Lord Aidan’s chambers just as little Melody opened the door of the dumbwaiter.

  She greeted him with a wide baby grin. “Wibbly-force!”

  As she tumbled out he caught her and set her onto her little feet. Straightening quickly, he gazed down at her with stern disapproval. It was the very same expression that had once caused a grown footman to leak tears. Melody only giggled up at him.

  “Lady Melody, is there something wrong with the stairs?”

  Melody pushed a lock of dusty hair from her face by wiping her chubby palm across her brow. It left a grimy smear behind. “I like riding in the box,” she assured him. “But it’s dirty.” She wrinkled her tiny nose. “And it smells funny.”

  Wilberforce tried not to take the criticism of the dumbwaiter’s condition personally, yet the long-unused appliance did fall under his purview, since it definitely was part of Brown’s. He snapped a bow. “I shall have it attended to immediately, Lady Melody.”

  Melody waved a pudgy hand in a childish yet rather excellent mimicry of Lady Madeleine’s graceful gesture. “All right.” She walked away, dragging her rag doll by one “leg.”

  Wilberforce shut the dumbwaiter’s cupboard and still had time to beat her short little legs to the chamber door. He blocked her exit with a bow. “My lady, forgive the impertinence, but I would prefer that you and young Master Evan do not play with the dumbwaiter. It can be very dangerous.”

  Melody blinked at him, one finger in her mouth, sucking contemplatively. He cleared his throat and went on. “Since I imagine that the only place where a young lady such as yourself might become quite so dusty would be . . . the attic . . .” He paused, waiting for confirmation.

  Suck, suck. Blink.

  Yes, most definitely the attic. He was actually quite surprised that she would go anywhere near the attic, considering the alarming situation she’d suffered a few months ago.

  Lady Madeleine’s rather regrettable husband had stolen Melody in an effort to punish his runaway wife. In fact, the madman had actually taken Melody out onto the roof and had dangled her far over the cobbles, threatening to dash the life out of her. Wilberforce found himself becoming rather overemotional at the memory.

  It was the first and last time he’d ever fired a pistol. However, he held no regret for terminating the membership of that particular patron of Brown’s. Some people simply were not cut from the appropriate cloth.

  “The attic is perhaps not the best playground.”

  This blink was longer and, if possible, bluer. Perhaps a more direct approach was needed.

  “What were you doing in the attic, Lady Melody?”

  Melody removed her finger with a pop. “Playing with the queen in the tower.”

  Ah. An imaginary game. A version of Lady Madeleine’s brief incarceration by that very former member.

  Current wisdom had it that imagination was a good thing in a small person. Wilberforce had consulted a volume on the subject of small people, as he always wished to deliver the finest possible service to his charges, be they elderly lords or little girls with large blue eyes.

  The attic itself was fairly harmless, now that he knew that she was likely to be found there on the occasions when she went missing, but the dumbwaiter was another matter.

  “Might I caution you against further implementing the conveyance from which you have most recently disembarked?” He gestured regally at the dumbwaiter. “It is a highly suspect mode of transportation and likely to fail your expectations in ways both dangerous and tragic.”

  Blink.

  “Do you take my meaning, my lady?”

  She swung Gordy Ann dreamily back and forth. “No.”

  Wilberforce gazed at her for a long moment. “The dumbwaiter is bad. Do you understand?”

  Melody brightened with comprehension. “No more rides?”

  Wilberforce nodded briskly, satisfied. “Precisely.” Then he withdrew the ring of keys from the inside tab of the coat of his livery. Detaching one with a snap of his wrist, he bowed, presenting the key to Melody across his palm. “This key will open any door you wish,” he told her.

  Melody clutched Gordy Ann beneath her chin and gazed at the key in awe. “It’s magic?”

  “Indeed.” Since Melody could likely gain entrance to any room in Brown’s using only her cherubic smile, Wilberforce didn’t see much harm in giving her the run of the place. Better that she was able to come and go than to become locked in somewhere she couldn’t be found. “Use it in good health, my lady. However, you must not play in the attic alone.”

  “All right.” Melody picked up the key. She could wrap her fist about the shaft and not even touch the ornately curved bow or the businesslike bit on the other end. The hammered iron looked black and rough in her little pink hand.

  She granted Wilberforce a glowing smile that made his own expression slip ever so slightly toward doting. Then she wrapped her arms around his knee in a quick hug. He felt Gordy Ann thump against his shin and then she and her mistress were both gone, Melody scampering down the hallway and out of sight.

  Wilberforce passed a quick hand over his face to wipe away the smile that threatened to disturb the grave serenity of his demeanor. At least the little milady was getting over her fear of the attic. Life we
nt on. After the disquieting events of the last few months, it was probable that life at Brown’s might even become desirably dull once more.

  Or, if not probable, at least it was something a devoted servant could secretly hope for.

  Someday.

  When Melody found Evan, he was too absorbed in the array of tiny metal soldiers he’d arranged on the floor of the room Wibbly-force called the smoking room even though it didn’t even have a fireplace.

  Evan lay on his belly with his chin on one crossed arm as his other hand rearranged the tiny soldiers once again. “Uh-huh,” he grunted as Melody told him that there was a beautiful queen in the tower and that she was going to scold Cook for not having baked lemon seedcakes and that Gordy Ann thought that the queen was very nice even though she said she was a flowerpot.

  Or was that “watering pot”?

  Melody scowled at Evan’s lack of attention. Finally, she flung Gordy Ann into the soldiers, knocking half of them down like bowling pins.

  “Oy!” Evan scrambled up to his knees and began to pick the soldiers up. He shot Melody a furious look over his shoulder. “What’d you do that for?”

  Melody scowled more blackly, feeling sorry but not wanting to say so. She didn’t like it when Evan was mad at her.

  Still, mad was better than nothing.

  Evan grumbled as he gathered his fallen men. “You knocked down Britain, you know,” he told her. “You made us lose the battle.”

  “Don’t care.”

  He made a disgusted noise. “I can’t wait to go away to school!”

  Melody’s brow grew thunderous. “You don’t want to go to school. You hate school!”

  Evan snorted. “No, I don’t. School is grand. They’ve got hundreds of boys there, and there’s riding and sports and I get to bring Ramses with me.”

  “School has lessons.” Melody didn’t know where she’d heard that, but she was quite proud to remember it. “You hate lessons.”

  “No, I don’t hate ’em. I just don’t like doing ’em when I could be riding with Bailiwick instead.”

  “Uncle Colin won’t be there. Pru won’t be there.” She’d held back her best and last ammunition. “I won’t be there.”

  Turning to her, Evan grinned. “Hey, that’s right. Even better.” He poked her gently in the belly. “No more Mellie the Monster.”

  When her bottom lip began to emerge, he relented and hastened to reassure her, “Listen, Mel, I’ll be home lots. I’ll be home at Easter and Christmas.”

  Melody was distracted by the thought of Christmas. She’d heard a great deal about it since she’d come to Brown’s. She didn’t remember the last one, except she thought it might be that time Nanny had given her a plum tart and a hair ribbon. Nanny had told her a story about a baby, but she hadn’t been listening because she really wanted to eat her plum tart. “I like Christmas.”

  Evan gave her a quick hug. “There, you see? You’ll hardly miss me.” He released her before anyone could catch him being nice to Melody. “Now, go on and play somewhere else. I’m busy.”

  Melody narrowed her eyes. “Playing with soldiers isn’t busy.”

  Evan gave her a push and stretched out on the floor once more. “I’m not playing. I’m going to show Lord Bartles the Battle of Fontenoy.” He happily began to arrange the soldiers once more.

  Melody shuffled off, her head down. Then she stuck her hand in her pocket and remembered the key. Wilberforce said it was a magic key. Maybe it could open the attic door so that she didn’t have to use the smelly box anymore. With a skip in her step, Melody scampered off to give it a try.

  Maybe she would give it to the queen.

  A present, like Christmas.

  Laurel sat in one of the chairs at her table. The remains of Melody’s little tea still sat untouched. A plate. A few crumbs. A little wedge of cheese with a wee precise bite taken out. It was all Laurel had to remind her of her daughter’s presence.

  That and the iron key in her hand.

  A half hour ago she’d heard a little scratch at the door. The moment she had turned away from her contemplation of the street from her lofty window, she’d spotted the key being slid beneath the door.

  She’d run to the door and knelt to take up the key, just in time to hear the faintest echo of Melody’s giggle on the other side of the thick oak.

  With the breath stilled in her lungs, Laurel had inserted the key into the brass lock plate.

  Turn.

  It turned. The tumblers rolled over easily and the bolt slipped back into the door with a clear click.

  I’m free.

  The impulse to run flooded her. She opened the door to find that Melody was gone. Laurel dashed down the attic steps, intent only upon escape.

  Yet she would be escaping alone. Although she might take everyone by surprise and be able to dart to freedom herself, they would never allow her to snatch Melody up and run out the front door!

  As Laurel stood there on the attic stairs, one hand gripping the handrail so tightly that her knuckles went white, the war waged within.

  Run. Get out. Flee the walls and the locks and, most of all, flee the evil captor!

  Stay. Stay close to Melody, close to her tiny daughter, found at last.

  Or . . . could she possibly do both?

  If she stayed only until midnight she could flee this place with her child. It was simple enough. She had her own small bag already. She could sneak down, find Melody’s room, pack another valise, and she and her daughter could be on the first ship leaving the London docks at dawn!

  She would never have to see Jack again. Fury made her hands shake. Perhaps she could not blame him for the past, but she could most certainly blame him for the present! The worst of it was, it was as if he still didn’t realize what he’d done to her with this locked door!

  Should she steal from Jack? Blackmail him? All sorts of wild options ran through her mind.

  No, it was best to make a clean escape. She had some resources, enough not to starve. When her parents had passed, she’d inherited a small portion from their estate. One day she might even thank them for that, if she could ever forgive them for their lies.

  Yes, as plans went, hers was simple and elegant. The beauty of it was, no one would see it coming. All she had to do was take her plan back inside and lock herself away again.

  So what was she waiting for?

  Her feet moved slowly and reluctantly back into captivity. She closed her cell door and locked herself back into her attic prison. Even as the lock clicked back into place, a portion of her mind was screaming that this was madness.

  So here she sat, gazing at the key that lay heavy in her palm, listening to the bells ring out the hours in some far church tower. London still bustled outside. The silent late-night hours were still far away.

  At length, she thought to take a ribbon from her valise and tie the key around her neck. She dropped it deep inside the bodice of her dress, beneath her chemise.

  Hours to wait until midnight. Then escape, fleeing into the night, braving the city on her own. She ought to rest.

  She removed her gown and gave it a good brushing, hoping that the good black fabric would recover from her two days in the dust. It was unsurprising that Jack had not thought of providing her some way to keep clean.

  The dress recovered well enough. Good. She wouldn’t want to give a hack driver or a ship captain reason to think she couldn’t pay her fare.

  Then she hung the gown on a peg and placed her neatly packed valise beneath it on the floor.

  She lay down in her nest of linens, but she knew she’d never be able to sleep.

  Not a wink.

  Eleven

  Jack tapped hesitantly on the door. This time he heard nothing at all. Was she asleep? Ill? Had she flung herself from the window as enthusiastically as she had flung the cracked pots at him?

  Opening the door slowly, he edged his view around it, prepared for incoming missiles. The room was silent and dark.

 
Well, it would be dark. You left her with not a stub of a candle.

  Jack thrust his own candle through the door like a peace offering. Following it carefully, he waved it high to get the best view of the room. Where was she?

  Lurking, probably. He ought to check behind the door itself.

  No, not a sign of her. “Laurel?”

  A small protesting murmur came from the corner of the room farthest away from the window. Jack stepped fully into the room and followed the noise until he found her, curled up on a pile of discarded linens. She’d made herself a sort of pallet, or perhaps “nest” might be a better word. All that Jack could see of her was her sleeping profile. Thick black lashes lay on her pale cheeks. The flickering candlelight gave away the bluish shadows beneath her eyes. Her nose was red. Had she been crying? Or merely screaming in rage?

  She was so different now. When he’d known her she’d been a shy, serious girl, very unlike her sister. However, it was clear that the two women resembled each other more than he’d realized before. They had the same hair, the same eyes, even the same stubborn chin. It was more their personalities that had set them apart. Amaryllis had been a sprightly charmer, highly interested in lively entertainment. Young Laurel had been more interested in books than in parties and definitely not inclined to towering rages that involved quantities of porcelain shards.

  That had been such a very long time ago. . . .

  “Hello, Lord John.”

  Jack turned to grin at the slender girl hovering in the library doorway. “Well, if it isn’t little Bramble Bush!”

  That nickname always made her toss her head. She did it now. “My name is Laurel, Lord John.”

  He leaned his shoulder against the alcove wall and smiled down at her. “And my name is Jack. Lord John was my father.”

  She gazed up at him seriously. “All right . . . Jack.”

  Since he ought not to be noticing how her eyes were a softer, prettier blue than her sister’s—especially since he intended to marry said sister!—he playfully slipped Laurel’s book from her unresisting fingers and held it sideways to read the spine. “Childe Harold? Surely not?”