“Good thing I’ve got such admirable self-control,” Jack drawled.
“Indeed, or the housemaids would be falling about in raptures.”
Jack scowled. “The damned maid did take a long time to light the fire this morning.”
Laughing, Adam shook his head. “Having to fight them off already, are you?”
“Go back to Whitehall, ya toff.”
Adam headed out of the boxing club and Jack leaned up against the wall. Bloody hell, last night had taken an unexpected turn. Lady Regan had virtually taken the seduction into her own beautiful hands. But Jack had never counted on responding so intensely. The wench had somehow managed to coax information about his past that only Dev had known.
He swung the folds of his coat about his shoulders and the rustle of paper rubbed against fabric. They were this weeks’ reports to the duke, ready to be mailed out. He resisted the urge to yank them out and tear them up. But they were a necessary evil and he’d keep writing them and he’d keep as much of Regan’s personal life out as possible. Still, he couldn’t help feeling like some sick bastard… And he was passing the information to a man he despised. Whereas Regan—She was like nothing he’d ever known. No one could be that good.
Letting out a breath, Jack shoved away from the wall. He’d come here to work last night’s frustration out of his system.
That was a ruddy laugh. The woman was slipping into his blood like wine and if he didn’t watch himself, she wouldn’t be leaving. Jack strode to the door and out into the rare, late winter sunshine. He’d mail the reports. He’d watch himself. And he’d stay distant.
Lady Regan wasn’t going to get any closer than she’d gotten. Not unless it was the simple pleasure of her skin sliding against his.
Chapter Sixteen
Regan needed to finish this draft. And she refused to let herself be distracted. Heat rushed to her cheeks and to her belly. Dear Lord, what had she been thinking last night? The soft, strong touch of his mouth on hers was the most glorious thing she had ever felt. It was also absolutely forbidden.
The creamy parchment stared up at her, naked. Her mind refused to focus and she threw the quill down. Black ink spattered over the parchment and onto the desk in long, wet fingers.
“Blast.”
Regan blew out a frustrated breath. It would be unkind to leave such a mess to the servants. Pulling her handkerchief from her sleeve, Regan stared at the jetty ink, the same color as Captain Hazard’s hair. Her fingers tightened on her handkerchief, the feel of his silken, thick hair on her hands taunting her. “Idiot,” she hissed.
She shook the handkerchief then rubbed it over the desk, wiping the ink stains away, hoping Hazard would disappear right along with them.
No. Not Hazard.
Jack.
Not John, the name of a gentleman.
But Jack.
Regan balled her handkerchief in her fist and plunked her elbows down on her desk. He was out somewhere. He hadn’t said where, only placed two extra guards in the house and ordered her to stay inside. This morning, he’d acted as if nothing had transpired. As if he had not brought his lips down on hers and kissed her till she could not breathe or think. Nor be anything but a… woman.
Oh, Lord. What would her father say? What would society say if they found out? Granted, her views made her an unpalatable marriage partner. The ton, however, was not forgiving of transgressions made public, and the only thing that allowed her to continue her work so independently was her pristine reputation.
The door to her parlor swung open, drawing her from her reverie.
Sylvia walked in, a swirl of pink and lace. Her blond curls framed her oval face and slender neck as she hurried in. “Regan, dearest.” Her aunt’s face was alight with mischief. “Now, sit. I’ve sent for tea and we’re going to have a chat.”
Regan forced a smile and stood, shoving her chair back. Her stomach rumbled and she looked at the clock. Half past one and she’d worked through lunch. Perhaps that’s why she was in such an irritable mood. Not bloody likely.
Sylvia strode across the room, her eyes wide and sparkling with information. Regan feared her aunt-in-law might burst with it. Whatever it was, it would help her avoid thinking about her breathtaking, though unwise, transgression.
Turning about, and darting her head to the left and right, Sylvia looked like an overly fluffed hen.
Regan crossed to the nearest Chippendale chair in front of the fire just by the low tea table. “Are you looking for something?”
Sylvia smiled then tugged at her bonnet strings. “Don’t be coy, Regan. I have yet to have seen him.”
Regan lowered herself onto the chair and smoothed out her dark skirts. She was not revealing any unnecessary information to Sylvia. As well-meaning as her young aunt was, she didn’t want all England to know of her foolishness. “You’ve obviously heard something most interesting.”
Sylvia rolled her eyes and sat across from Regan, arranging her skirts. She pulled her pink watered silk bonnet off and placed it beside her.
“Of course I have!” Sylvia shook her gloved finger at Regan. “And I should have heard it from you. Not from Geoffrey. And my maid. She went on and on this morning about the good fellow.”
Regan winced. “You are speaking of—”
“Captain Hazard, of course. It is circulating London that he has been hired as a servant in a professional capacity to the house and your person,” Sylvia said, her voice deep with excitement.
“To guard me,” Regan corrected. She lifted her hand to her cheek. The bruise had faded slightly, along with the pain.
Sylvia waved her hand, her lips pursing. “Yes. Yes. But he hasn’t deigned to personally guard anyone in at least two years and that was a cousin of the king.”
Regan squeezed her hands together in her lap. He was that exclusive? “I didn’t realize.”
Looking right to left again, Sylvia whispered, “Where is he?”
“I believe he’s at Hazard’s Outriders.” Which was untrue. She had no idea where the man was. Though one of her guards most likely knew how to reach him if there was a need.
Sylvia’s blond brows drew together. “But I thought he was your guard?”
“He cannot guard me every hour of the day. He has a business to oversee.”
Sylvia arched a slender brow. “What about nights?”
“Sylvia!” Regan’s voice strained from her throat. She felt her cheeks heat. A sudden image of Captain Hazard in her room, alone with her, in the dark, appeared before her eyes. She could still taste the warm feel of his velvety soft tongue.
“Oh, Regan. I know you too well to suspect such a thing.” Sylvia smiled, a hint of regret tugging her lips. “You’d never create that sort of scandal.”
The rapid beating of Regan’s heart slowed and she tilted her head to the side. “What do you mean?”
“Just look how you lead your life. You control yourself so admirably. Like a nun.”
Regan swallowed. It was true. She never allowed herself to do anything that might hurt her cause. Until last night.
“On the other hand, you do cause a scandal with that business of yours in Whitechapel—”
Sylvia glanced towards the door as it opened and she leaned back.
The maid carried in a hefty silver tray and placed it on the table between them. The scent of tea wafted towards Regan, mixed with the odor of cheese and pastry.
Anne, one of the many upstairs maids, bobbed a curtsy and hurried out.
“Shall I pour?” Regan gestured toward the china tea pot edged with gold, a relic of her grandmother’s excursions in France. It was Sylvia’s right to disperse the tea, but she did love to do it.
Sylvia removed her gloves and nodded. “And I shall take half these lovely sandwiches and cakes, thank you.” Sylvia leaned forward and picked up a small white and gold plate.
“You eat like a giant, Sylvia.” Regan envied her aunt’s ability to do as she pleased, including eating to her heart’s conten
t without it affecting her figure.
“Only with you about.” Sylvia picked up three cucumber sandwiches and placed them on her plate. Her fingers gripped the china, her knuckles a surprising white. “But I must speak to you seriously, dearest.”
Regan grasped the delicate handle of the silver tea pot and poured. She focused on the task, gathering herself. Her aunt was not prone to seriousness. And it worried her.
“Yes?” Regan asked as she passed her tea.
Sylvia took the cup and saucer and sighed as Regan poured a cup for herself. Regan chose a cake and was determined to eat before Sylvia could tell her anything too disturbing.
A false smile tilted Sylvia’s lips, but her face remained pale. “I would like to invite you to accompany me to a house party at Lord Wells’. It’s near Blenheim Palace. It will be great fun. There will be dancing, and amusements, and…”
Her voice died off, the bright, brittle sound fading away like the ring of a bell.
Taking a sip of tea, Regan wondered why Sylvia would even ask. “You know I don’t attend such things. There’s The Refuge I assist at and I have my father’s hospital to see to. It is almost finished.”
Sylvia smiled, her pink lips tight. “I know.”
Regan bit into the delicious fruited cake, trying to fight back her growing unease. Chewing slowly, Regan forced herself to remain calm. Since her father’s death, Regan had learned that these kinds of conversations didn’t bode well. Especially if they were with her family. “Why did you ask then?”
Lowering her head, the soft curls of Sylvia’s head touched the sides of her cheek. “Geoffrey.”
Nodding, Regan put her plate on the table. Geoffrey always did the worst things to her appetite. Or at least, he had since her father died. “Has he been troubling you about me?”
Sylvia looked up and her eyes glimmered with unshed tears. She tried to smile, but failed. “I never wanted to do his dirty work.” She spoke softly, almost to herself. She blinked away her tears. “But they claim to be concerned about you.” Sylvia’s eyes turned hard, their blue glinting with anger. “They want you safely married. Safely tucked away.”
Regan turned her eyes to the fire. “They means grandfather, of course.”
“Yes. The duke visited us. They were discussing you.”
Regan exhaled with fury. Geoffrey was nothing short of cruel to make her aunt play servant to him.
Which was one more reason not to marry. Her father had warned her that, once married, a man could treat her like a possession and stop her from pursuing her wishes. It was a husband’s legal right.
“Geoffrey never interferes in my life,” continued Sylvia. “Not usually. We understand each other. He does things that I—” Her lips curled in disgust. Then she closed her eyes and breathed, “But he—He made it very clear that you should accompany me in a weeks’ time to this house party.”
The last thing Regan wished was for Sylvia to be hurt or harassed by the damned Chance family. The Chances were powerful and hard, especially on those who might dare to act outside the duke’s control. Such as herself and Sylvia.
Despite her wild behavior, Sylvia was such a good person at heart. Regan wouldn’t see her stomped on. “Then I shall. For you. Not for him.”
Relief relaxed Sylvia’s tense face. “Thank you.” She raised her cup in a slight salute. “And will Captain Hazard be coming with you?”
“Pardon?”
“To the country?”
“I suppose he must. He is my guard.”
Sylvia’s eyes narrowed and she put her tea cup on the table. “You must be careful. I know how much you value your independence.”
Regan narrowed her eyes. “Whatever can you mean?”
“When spending so much time with a man, a man like Captain Hazard, it could be quite easy to be caught in a delicate situation.”
Regan laughed, but it rang false. A dry, brittle sound. “You said yourself that I would never commit such a scandal.”
Picking up her bonnet, Sylvia caressed the long ribbons. “Sometimes, my dear niece, even scandal comes to good, little nuns.”
Fighting a vision of Jack on her bed, his strong hands on her body, Regan said ruefully, “I shall keep that in mind.”
Chapter Seventeen
Jack followed Regan up the narrow stone steps of The Refuge House on Turner Alley. He kept his eyes focused on everything except her lush bottom.
The setting sun peered through gritty clouds, splotching the gray stones with drab light. Checking over his shoulder, Jack searched the narrow alley. Water ran in a thin stream down the muddy road and the dark buildings pressed in on each other.
Regan opened the door and started through.
“Wait!” he demanded. Good God, the woman was determined to march blithely ahead, unaware of the dangers that lurked around every corner. It was a miracle she had lived this long.
She stopped, tilting her head towards him. The black veil hiding her face swayed gently as she stepped aside. He hated the damned thing, and yet it made him want her even more. Made him wish to be the one to break her free of the world constricting her to such a rigid life. But they’d barely passed the awkwardness of the other night.
Jack walked through the door, his body less than an inch from hers as he passed. He felt her tense in response.
The bright, beaming light inside hit his eyes and he blinked. Pictures of fairy castles and trees and animals hung on the creamy white walls. A lamp swung from the ceiling, adding to the dull sunlight falling in through a window at the far end of the hall.
The sounds of voices, high and childlike, buzzed down the hall. His stomach tensed as he half expected the dark corridors of his old workhouse. He drew in a deep breath then stepped further inside. He looked left to right. Plants, green and lush, filled little pots on a table just to his right.
She stepped up behind him. “Any sight of bandits?” Her voice lilted with mirth.
“No. Just plants.”
Moving past him, she gestured to a narrow door to the left. “Yes. I like growing things, as do the children. They’re so rare in London.” Her fingers tugged at her bonnet strings. She lifted it from her head and placed it in the closet along with her cloak.
Jack took off his overcoat and adjusted the folds of his long day coat over his pistols.
A tall woman with graying hair and a rounded waist walked down the hall. She smiled, lines wrinkling her soft face. “Good afternoon, Regan.” Turning towards him, the full brightness of her smile hit Jack. Genuine and warm. “Sir?”
“This is Captain Hazard, Madeline. He will be assisting me over the next weeks.”
“That is very good of you, Captain Hazard.” She narrowed her eyes at the lavender mark lingering on Regan’s cheek before returning her attention to him. “Nothing must happen to our Regan.”
“Ma’am.” He inclined his head. Jack shifted on the balls of his feet. A desire to turn right around and leave the building struck him, but he shoved it away. The memories of his childhood would not interfere with business.
“Please. Call me Madeline. We don’t use titles here—Unless absolutely necessary.”
Jack tilted his head to the side. “I don’t understand.”
“Some of the people who have come here,” supplied Regan, “thinking on being patrons, have insisted we use their titles.”
“I see.” And he did. It was perfectly good to help the poor as long as they knew their place.
Regan arched a red brow, as if knowing his thoughts. “We show those types of people the establishment and then the door.”
Jack tried not to gape. She turned away closed-minded people? It seemed completely against every mindset of the charities that he had ever run across. No wonder the Tories wanted her father shunted off. Doing away with titles smacked of Republicanism.
Regan started down the hall, Madeline by her side. Regan’s frock swished about her ankles and shifted against her round bottom as she walked. Jack forced his eyes up and
even with the ladies’ necks. The red wisps of Regan’s hair caressed her nape and Jack felt the sudden desire to sweep aside those curls and kiss her skin.
Jack cleared his throat. “Isn’t that difficult for your… Cause?” He hated thinking of it that way. As if the poor were some bloody battle that needed to be fought over and won.
“Certainly,” said Regan, glancing back over her shoulder at him. “But since that is exactly the attitude we wish done away with, we don’t take their money.”
They turned to the right at the back of the hall and Jack followed in silence. He knew Regan did a great deal of work here as well as planning for the hospital. But what, exactly, she did, he did not know. Something to do with children.
The smell of gravy and bread drifted down the hall. Whoever lived here got fed well, to say the least. The hall darkened and the heads of the two women leaned towards each other as they spoke in quiet tones. He caught a few words. “Tommy” and “bed” the main two.
Madeline stopped at a door to their right. “I must go to the kitchen now and see to lunch. The boys’ lives are very hard, so, I won’t say I hope you enjoy your tour, but I am glad you are here for Regan.”
Here for Regan. He wanted to laugh as bitterness gnawed at his insides. He was here for himself. For his own selfish need for revenge. But it wasn’t selfish, damn it. It was for Devlin. “A pleasure.”
She smiled again and bustled off down the hall towards the kitchen.
Quiet enfolded them. Regan lingered near the door. She lifted her chin and looked up at him, as if about to say something. Shaking her head, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.
“This is the boy’s living quarters,” she stated quickly.
Jack stepped in behind her.
Thick quilts in bright blues and greens covered each bed. Dusky, gray-blue light poured in from two windows on the opposite wall, and the cream walls reflected it, making the room seem brighter.
Swallowing, Jack stared at the pictures above the beds. Letters, knights, great bears, and horses filled the frames. And of all things, a small table with a lantern stood by each bed. As if the boys might be allowed to read or simply enjoy a bit of light when darkness came.
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