by Shana Galen
She crossed her arms under her ample bosom. “Really? Don’t you think I know who I am? I told you my name is Marlowe. I don’t know this lady you’re talking about. Now, tell me again my name is Elizabeth, and you’re calling me a liar.”
Dane stared at her for a long moment. Shocking to admit, but the girl had a point. He was, in essence, calling her a liar. “I didn’t intend to offend you.”
“You can dress a pig up however you want, but it’s still a pig.”
Now they were speaking of animals? Or was this girl more intelligent than she looked? “Are you using a metaphor?” he asked.
“No more fancy words,” she demanded. “Let me go!”
He refused to sink to her level and holler back. “There is no point in allowing you to go. My brother will only find you again.” And Dane would have to listen to a lecture for allowing the girl to escape.
“No, he won’t. I can hide so I’m never found.”
She didn’t know Brook. He could find anyone, and he was patient. He could wait years for a man or woman to surface. But Dane wasn’t going to argue that point with her. He had others yet to be introduced. “Be that as it may,” Dane conceded, “I am not about to let you go. As I see it, you have a choice: either willingly take a bath, don clean clothing, and eat a hot meal…”
“Or?” She tapped her foot rapidly.
“Or do all of that—except perhaps the hot meal—under duress.”
“Duress?”
He smiled thinly. “I force you.”
“You think you can make me do something I don’t want?” She notched her chin up in a challenge.
“Yes.”
She looked at him for a long time. He didn’t know what she saw in his eyes, but finally she nodded. “All right, but you’re not watching the bath.”
“Madam, I assure you, I had no intention of doing so. I will stand in the kitchen with my back turned. I give you my word as a gentleman.”
She rolled her eyes. “Some gentleman, forcing me to take a bath against my will.”
“Yes, I know. The horror.”
“And another thing.”
He sighed. “What now?”
“I’m not putting on a dress.”
He raised his brows.
“I want trousers and a shirt like you have.”
“You want to dress as a man? Why?”
“Because I do.”
“Strange,” he muttered to himself, but at this point he did not care. His mother and sister would be home soon, and he wanted the girl dealt with. Dane went to the door and called, “Ezekiel! Come here.”
The jehu must have been loitering nearby, because he appeared within seconds.
“Fetch Crawford.”
The words fell like boulders. The coachman twisted his hands together. “Crawford, my lord?” He glanced over Dane’s shoulder at the girl. “Are you sure?”
No, Dane wasn’t sure. He was relatively certain he’d regret involving Crawford almost immediately, but there was little about this night he did not already regret, and he was at the limit of what he could accomplish without detection. At any rate, he’d probably burn the whole kitchen down if he attempted to use the stove, even to warm water. He might be able to find the chit some food, but he had no idea where he might locate clothing that would fit her, especially if he had to keep watch over her to prevent escape.
Dane sighed and closed his eyes. “Just fetch him, Ezekiel.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Behind him he heard the girl ask, “Who’s Crawford?”
“You’ll see.”
Five long minutes later, a short man with a balding pate and a crooked nose that made it appear as though he looked down on everyone—although he was generally shorter than everyone—walked ceremoniously through the kitchen door. Dane thought of a king returning to his castle, and in a sense the kitchen and all of the servants’ areas were Crawford’s castle. “My lord,” Crawford said, bowing. His gaze immediately focused on the girl. Crawford missed nothing. “You called?”
“I need your assistance.”
“Of course, my lord.” The implication in the butler’s tone was that no one, ever, accomplished anything without Crawford’s assistance.
“I need warm water for a bath, food, and boys’ clothing to fit this girl.” He gestured to her.
Crawford did not even blink at the odd request. “Of course, my lord. May I ask why we are washing, feeding, and dressing this…street urchin?”
“I’m not an urchin!” the girl yelled.
Crawford’s gaze never left Dane’s.
“She is one of Brook’s projects. That is all you need to know.”
“Of course, my lord.” He turned, presumably to work his magic and accomplish all of Dane’s requests, but then he turned back. “We will not be housing the creature for the night, my lord?”
Dane licked his lips. He could have used a glass of brandy right about then. “I don’t know yet, Crawford.”
“Of course, my lord. Excuse me, my lord.” He made for the door, presumably to carry out Dane’s orders.
“Crawford, are my mother and sister home yet?”
“I expect them at any moment, my lord.” And Dane knew how Crawford hated to be away from his post when the countess arrived. Crawford had definite opinions as to how Derring House was to be run. Dane might be the captain, but Crawford was the helmsman, and he turned the ship. He had been steering the ship for longer than Dane had been alive. He’d probably still be here when Dane was dead.
Crawford gestured to the girl. “I will not mention…this to the countess and Lady Susanna, my lord.”
“That would be best,” Dane agreed.
“Your father will turn in his grave,” Crawford muttered.
“What was that?”
“If that is all, my lord.”
Dane nodded. He could hardly chastise the man. His father would have turned in his grave. It was rooks like this girl who’d put the late earl in his grave to begin with.
Crawford departed, and Dane knew that within moments footmen and maids would swarm to carry out his orders. He moved away from the door and out of the kitchen proper so as not to be in the way. That put him in the same room with the girl again. She scowled at him, her small face screwed up in an angry snarl. He ignored her. They’d struck a bargain, and he expected her to follow it. There was no honor among thieves, but she was clearly not an idiot. She did not want him holding her down in the bath and scrubbing her.
As predicted, the swarm descended. The servants gave the girl odd looks, a few wrinkled their nose at her stench, but no one spoke any word other than what was required to accomplish his orders. Half of them must have been asleep, but they marshaled as though they’d been standing at attention, awaiting his order. The only clue that he’d interrupted what should have been a restful night were the maids whose caps did not quite cover the rags they’d tied in their hair to produce curls when they woke in the morning.
The housekeeper and Crawford did not get along, she having been in residence only six and ten years and thus still an interloper, and Dane was not surprised to see that Crawford had not roused her. Instead, the cook took charge. She bellowed orders for warm water, and Dane watched as the hip bath was moved into a small room he had not known was there. This must be where the servants bathed. The tantalizing smell of fresh meat and broth made his mouth water, and he noted the girl turned her head in the direction of the kitchen as well.
“The bath is ready, my lord,” one of the maids informed him. She held up a boy’s clothing. “This was Jimmy’s. It’s a bit ragged, but it’s clean.” She handed him the clothing. Jimmy had been a tiger and was now working his way toward becoming an under footman. “Crawford requested extra soap. There’s plenty in there, and towels for drying.” She bobbed and walked away.
; Only Crawford, the kitchen maid, a footman, and the cook were still about.
“Here,” Dane said, handing the clothing to the girl. “Put it on after you bathe. And use soap. A lot of soap.”
She peered into the room. It was small and dark without a window. He knew she could not escape. It was just big enough to fit the bath and one person. A lamp hung on a peg on the wall, and several towels were stacked beside the bath.
“I’m going to catch my death, sitting in water like that. It’s not natural.”
“I have survived the ordeal hundreds of times.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, as though evaluating his heartiness against her own. “How do I know you won’t come in when I’m undressed?”
“I give you my word as a gentleman.”
She gave a short laugh. Apparently, she knew the worth of most gentlemen’s promises. He gestured to the butler. “Crawford will keep me in check should I be overcome with raging desire at the thought of you without clothing.”
“What?”
He shook his head and left her to it. In the kitchen, the cook had set out a bowl filled with some sort of hearty soup, a crust of bread, and a cup of the wine the servants drank. “I did not think it appropriate that she eat at the table, my lord,” Crawford informed him. “She may stand in here and eat.”
Dane shrugged. He didn’t care what she did. “Has my brother returned?”
“No, my lord, but your mother and sister are preparing for bed. Or so I have been informed.” His tone held a measure of censure, and Dane realized he would have to make amends for the disruption he’d caused in the nightly ritual. “I only hope Lloyd was able to see all was done correctly.”
Lloyd was the head footman.
“I am certain all was done to your specifications, Crawford. Mrs. Worthing, might I trouble you for a measure of that cooking sherry?” He nodded to the bottle on a shelf behind her. It was not brandy, but it would have to suffice for the moment.
“No trouble ’tall, my lord. No, it’s no trouble ’tall.” She poured him a hearty measure, and he drank it down.
“Is there anything else you require, my lord?” Crawford asked.
Dane ran a hand over his face. If Brook wasn’t back yet, he had to do something with the girl. He couldn’t put her in one of the house’s bedrooms. Even if he hadn’t thought she’d rob them blind and run away at the first opportunity, Crawford would never allow it.
She would have to stay where he could keep an eye on her. His dressing room? Dane closed his eyes. He needed to consider that this might turn out to be Lady Elizabeth, however unlikely that seemed at the moment. If rumor that he’d shared the night with her circulated, she would be ruined. Of course, wasn’t she already ruined? God knew where she’d lived or what she’d done all these years. Crawford was capable of discretion, even when he ardently disapproved. His loyalties to the family usually outweighed his rigid sense of propriety. Dane, having relied on Crawford’s discretion a time or two, knew this firsthand. And Crawford could bully any of the other servants into keeping quiet should they realize the girl had slept in his room.
“Crawford, I shall need your assistance with a delicate task.” He pulled the butler aside and explained quietly. The man pursed his lips, but that was the only outward sign that he disapproved.
Dane sent Crawford to do his bidding, then checked his pocket watch. It was late. Very late. He strolled to the door where the girl was bathing. “Are you almost done?”
“Don’t you dare come in!”
Dane looked heavenward in silent entreaty and stepped away. He was going to throttle Brook when he saw him. Dane could not believe he was sneaking a girl to his room. He felt like a randy youth again. At least when she emerged, she would not look like a girl anymore.
But then the door opened, and he realized he was very, very wrong.
Three
Marlowe had never liked baths, but she had not realized they could be taken in warm, clean water with fragrant soap. She didn’t particularly want to smell like a flower, but it wasn’t the worst thing she’d smelled like. The towels she’d dried herself with had been soft and fluffy. She’d never had a towel before. She’d had a small, scratchy cloth she could use for her face, but it rubbed her skin raw with its coarseness. These towels were so soft she wanted to wrap herself in them and wear them all the time.
Instead, she wound one about her dripping wet hair. She would probably die from a chill, but once she’d begun to clean her body, she couldn’t stop there. Her hair felt heavy with grime, and she’d washed it until it rinsed clean. The water, when she stepped out, was black. She hadn’t realized she had so much dirt on her. As she dressed, she noted her fingernails had white half-moons at the tip, and her skin had a pinkish tinge.
The clothing the bastard had provided her was a bit snug. She didn’t have any strips to bind her breasts, and she couldn’t put her stays back on by herself, even if she’d wanted to. Looking at them now, all gray with grime, she was not sad to be free of them. But without anything between her skin and the shirt, her breasts stretched the material slightly. The trousers were snug as well, but the shirt was long enough to cover her hips and bottom. She found a cap tucked into the pocket of the trousers, and after drying her hair as best she could, she piled it on her head and set the cap on top.
That was about the time the bastard knocked on the door. She jumped at the sound, and though she was dressed, ordered him not to enter. She needed another moment. She had to don her own shoes again, and took the dagger she had hidden in the pockets of her dress and shoved it in her boot as she usually did. She wouldn’t be unprepared for whatever the bastard had in mind.
But the bastard was the least of her worries. Satin was going to kill her. It wouldn’t matter if she’d been abducted; she would be to blame for the loss of the cargo Gideon and the boys would have taken in the better-racket. Gideon…what did he think had happened? Had Joe told him she’d been snapped and carried away?
She had to get out of here and get back. She’d take Satin’s punishment and promise to make up for tonight next time. Next time she’d make a rum speak. First, she had to escape, but the bastard was proving difficult to evade. He and his brother seemed to think she was the daughter of some swell or other—a Lord Lyndon. The thought made her laugh—and it also made her belly hurt for reasons she did not want to think about too closely. Apparently this swell, Lyndon, was looking for a girl named Elizabeth. It was curious that this girl would have the name Marlowe used in secret, but that did not mean Marlowe was this girl.
She was a bawd’s by-blow, not some swell’s little princess. And besides, even if her name had once been Elizabeth, that did not mean she was the swell’s daughter. It was a common enough name.
So why had Satin given her another?
She shook her head. Better not to question. If Satin gave you a gang name, you used it. Hers was Marlowe, and she’d never told anyone except Gideon that she remembered being called Elizabeth.
She couldn’t put off the inevitable much longer. With a deep breath, she opened the door and stepped out of the little bathing room. The bastard was waiting outside. His back was to the door, his shoulders broad and his waist narrow in the tight coat he wore. He was a bang-up cove, that was certain. She’d gotten a close look at his clothing, and it was finer than any she’d ever seen. A knave in grain, as Gideon would have said, as well as a long shanks. She’d known tall men, but they’d always been scraggy. This man had substance.
He turned, and she caught her breath. She didn’t like that he could do that to her—make her throat feel tight and her heart race. But he was handsome—far too handsome. He had thick, dark hair that fell to one side of his face and sort of curled about it. His eyebrows were thick slashes over wide brown eyes. She’d seen innumerable people with brown eyes, but no one had eyes like his. She didn’t know how to describe them except that they w
ere sort of soft and beautiful. They were almost a woman’s eyes—but this man was no woman. He might be clean-shaven, but his jaw was strong, and there was power within him. She’d felt the iron of his strength when he’d carried her. The man did not have a bit of soft flesh about him.
She’d been watching his eyes, so she noticed when his gaze met hers and how his eyes widened. She almost looked down at her clothing, to see what troubled him, but she thought she knew. Men were always interested in bubbies. “I don’t have anything to bind them,” she said. “If you give me your neckcloth, I could use that.”
He stepped back as though he’d been burned. “My cravat stays where it is.”
“If you’re not going to give me your cravat”—she mimicked his pompous way of saying the word—“then I need something else.”
He took a deep breath. “This is not a subject I prefer to discuss. You will want to eat?”
She didn’t know why he asked the question. Of course she wanted to eat. He could probably hear her stomach rumbling at the smell of the food. She followed him into the kitchen, half perplexed and half amused that he did not want to discuss binding her breasts. These swells had their own rules.
She stepped into the kitchen, and an older woman with her hair in a cap and wearing a clean apron smiled at her. It was a kind smile, but Marlowe didn’t smile back. She didn’t trust these people. The woman was probably a cook, because she indicated the food on the preparation table near her. Marlowe didn’t need it pointed out. She’d spotted it the moment she entered. But she took the gesture as an invitation to begin, and she attacked the meal like a mongrel attacks a bone. She lifted the bowl and drank a hearty measure of the soup, then dipped the hunk of bread in and scooped up the remaining liquid. She shoved the bread in her mouth, chewing quickly and washing it down with a measure of wine. The wine was good, and she drank it all.
She shoved another hunk of bread in her mouth and held the glass out. “More wine?” she said around the bread.
The bastard and the cook stared at her as though they had never seen a person eat. She waved the glass to get the cook’s attention, and the woman finally blinked and poured more. “Er…more soup, dear?”
