by Anne Gracie
They moved on. Zach found himself unexpectedly touched, by her words and by the way she’d watched the little boy and his sister. There was a depth of yearning there that surprised him. He’d imagined she was the type who’d grown up having everything she wanted provided for her, with no effort.
Then again, he’d grown up with all the material things any child could want, but by her definition he’d never actually lived in a home. Not even when he was the size of that small boy. He’d never felt safe, never felt loved—not when his father was at home.
Or had he? Certainly his father had been a brute, and unpredictable at the best of times.
Zach had been sent away to school when he was seven, but before that, there must have been people who’d cared for him. Servants, at least, and surely one or two of them had cared for him more than just because they’d been paid to? Had he blocked them from his memory, the way he’d tried to block all thoughts of his childhood home?
He was responsible for those people now. The thought pricked his conscience. He didn’t want to be responsible for anyone.
The nurse collected the children and Zach and Jane resumed their walk. He thought about her expression as she watched the children. And he wondered.
“Tell me something,” he said, standing back so she could step around to avoid a puddle. “When we first met, you were using your reticle as a cosh.”
She tensed, and darted him a cautious sideways glance. Zach pretended not to notice. “Was I?” she said in a careless voice. “I don’t remember.” And a moment later she added, “What’s a cosh anyway?”
Zach hid a smile. For a girl with invented Venetian antecedents, she was a terrible liar. He didn’t bother explaining. She knew very well what a cosh was. But her affectation of ignorance increased his curiosity. “You said you usually carried a stack of pennies in a coin purse. Why pennies?”
“Oh, I probably just meant change, loose change. Oh, look, is that a squirrel?”
No, a red herring, Zach thought. “You were quite specific at the time; you said pennies.”
She shrugged and looked away.
“Only you said you’d given them all away.”
“I did not. I said no such thing.”
That touched a nerve, he thought. “No, you’re right. You stopped halfway through the sentence, as if it were a guilty secret.”
“What nonsense.”
They strolled on a little way. “Whom do you give pennies to?” he asked quietly. He thought he knew, but he didn’t understand why she would hide such a thing. And why specifically pennies?
She stopped and turned toward him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Besides, it’s not your business how I spend my money.” She took a deep breath and said firmly, “Caesar is healing well, don’t you think? That ointment you gave me seems very efficacious.”
“Why pennies, I wonder. Why not halfpennies, or farthings, or threepences or sixpences or even shillings? You said pennies.”
She made an impatient gesture. “I told you I don’t remember. And a gentleman would not persist with a topic of conversation a lady has indicated quite clearly she has no interest in.”
Her expression made him smile. “Ah, but then I’m not a gentleman—I’m a gypsy, remember? And the first time I saw you, you were surrounded by street children.”
“Oh?” she said in an attempt at vagueness that didn’t deceive him in the least.
“Yes, and after a few moments they’d melted away. You gave them pennies, didn’t you? That’s why your purse was almost empty when you tried to use it later as a cosh. I’m not at all critical of the act, but I’m curious as to why you collect and give pennies, instead of sixpences or some other coin that would make more of a difference to their lives.”
She hesitated, and then said a little crossly, “Well if you must know, it’s because if I gave them sixpences or anything bigger than a penny, it would be taken from them by some bigger person, that’s why. A copper coin is not worth fighting over, but with a penny you can buy a loaf of bread, or a half loaf and some cheese, or”—she made a vague gesture—“that kind of thing. With a penny they won’t go hungry. It’s not much, but it’s something. And that is all I wish to say on the matter.”
“Very well, I won’t press you further,” he said, intrigued and not a little impressed by her reasoning. Young ladies of the ton didn’t generally have any idea of the realities of life in the street. Most simply thought of street children as nuisances to be avoided. But Miss Jane Chance had clearly given their situation a lot of thought. And responded in a surprisingly practical way.
They moved on, and as they walked back in the direction of her aunt’s house, a large, well-upholstered woman in a buttoned-up purple pelisse came toward them. In front of her, attached to white leather leads, scampered two white balls of fluff.
Seeing them, the woman halted in mid-path. She looked at Jane in seeming outrage. The balls of fluff yapped and growled hysterically, apparently just as outraged to see RosePetal in their park as the woman was to see Jane in hers.
“Lady Embury.” Jane smiled warmly at the woman. “How lovely to see you. Don’t mind Caesar, he won’t hurt a fly.”
Caesar barked a couple of times at the yapping balls of fluff, fooling nobody, as his tail hadn’t stopped wagging. He was, Zach had to admit, a fearsome sight, however—even in welcome.
The woman completely ignored Jane’s greeting. Her gaze swept Zach from head to toe, eyeing him with magnificent disdain. He instantly swept off his hat and gave her a raffish bow.
She stiffened, glared at Jane and then passed them with her head turned pointedly away. She marched away, dragging the fluff balls with her.
Jane looked after her in surprise. And perturbation.
“Who was that old tartar?” Zach asked.
“A neighbor. A friend of my aunt’s. She’s the aunt of—” She broke off.
“Whose aunt?”
Jane just shook her head. She’d gone pale. The incident had obviously upset her. “She attends my aunt’s literary society sometimes. I—I cannot think why she would give me the cut direct. I—I have to go home now.” She hurried across the square toward her aunt’s house.
Zach followed. “It was me, wasn’t it? The blasted harridan cut you because of me.” Damn. He knew it wouldn’t be precisely approved of for Jane to be seen walking with an unprepossessing fellow such as himself, but that a friend of her aunt’s would give her the cut direct, in a public square . . . The sight of Jane’s ill-concealed distress infuriated him.
“You’re not going to let that woman upset you, are you?”
She didn’t respond.
“You were hardly behaving improperly. Granted I’m not the most ideal companion for a walk, but we were in the full public eye, for heaven’s sake, hardly the illicit meeting her attitude implied. And you were accompanied by your maid and footman.” He gestured to William and Polly walking stolidly behind them.
Jane took no notice. “I’m sorry, Mr. Black. I must go now.” She was about to cross the road when she stopped suddenly, turned and faced him. Her face was pale, the set of her jaw resolute. “And I’m very sorry, but I must ask you not to return. I cannot meet you again. Too much is at stake.” Her eyes were apologetic, but her words were clear. “Good-bye, Mr. Black.”
Chapter Thirteen
Angry people are not always wise.
—JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
Jane hurried home, feeling slightly sick. Lady Embury wasn’t a close friend of Lady Beatrice’s, but she came quite regularly to the literary society and had always been pleasant enough. And since the betrothal, she’d become quite warm toward Jane.
But now Lady Embury had given her the cut direct. In public.
It could only be because she’d been seen with Zachary Black.
But what was wrong with that? I
t was a public square, she’d only ever walked and talked with him and she’d been accompanied by her maid and footman.
It wasn’t as if she’d encouraged him.
Well, perhaps she had. A little. But what was wrong with walking and talking? And being friendly?
Zachary Black was a fascinating man, and he seemed interested in what she had to say too. And if she thought of him rather too often for her own peace of mind, well, one couldn’t be blamed for that, surely? One couldn’t help one’s thoughts.
Her thoughts were private, secret, her own little . . . fantasy.
One’s actions were what counted, she reminded herself, and she had done nothing underhanded or illicit. Certainly she’d done nothing to jeopardize her betrothal.
She had a cup of tea, which did a little to settle the hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach, then went upstairs to join Daisy. Sewing seams was always quite soothing. There was nothing to worry about. She’d overreacted. Lady Embury probably hadn’t meant any such thing; she was just distracted.
Two hours later, Featherby came to the door. “Lord Cambury is downstairs, Miss Jane, asking to speak with you.”
The sick, hollow feeling returned to her stomach. She tidied her hair, striving for composure. She had done nothing wrong.
Lord Cambury came straight to the point. “Aunt tells me you’ve been associating with some low fellow in the square opposite. Won’t do, y’know. Can’t have my betrothed associating in public with shabby fellows. Bad ton.”
Seeing Lord Cambury’s grim expression now, as he waited for her explanation, she wondered whether he might be jealous. He’d never indicated a hint of any warm feelings toward her, but it was possible, she supposed.
The trouble was, she didn’t know him very well. Hardly at all, to be truthful.
“I have talked to a man in the park several times, but I assure you, Lord Cambury, there has been no impropriety.”
He snorted. “My aunt saw you with her own eyes, talking and laughing with the fellow. So what have you got to say to that, eh, missie?”
Jane stiffened. She’d intended to apologize, but the thought that his aunt was spying on her and telling tales was infuriating. “I don’t see what business it is of Lady Embury’s who I walk with in a public square opposite my home. Especially since I am accompanied at all times by my maid and footman.”
He frowned. “My aunt is my family. And what my betrothed gets up to while I’m not there is my business.”
“Gets up to?” Jane flashed. “I don’t ‘get up to’ anything!”
“Seen walking out with a dashed shabby fellow. More’n once too—practically every morning this week.”
Jane forced herself to sound calm and reasonable. “I’m not ‘walking out,’ as you put it, with anyone. It’s true that I’ve met him on several occasions but none of them were by prearrangement. His behavior each time has been perfectly polite, and mine above reproach.” She was shaking; she wasn’t sure quite why. Was it nerves? Or indignation? Or guilt?
He poked his head forward. “You saying he’s not shabby?”
“I just told you that he has behaved like a gentleman every time.”
“Gentleman?” He made a contemptuous sound. “What’s his name?”
“We haven’t been introduced.” It wasn’t a lie.
“Aunt said she saw him offer you his arm.”
“He did, but—”
He broke in, appalled. “You touched him? You might have caught fleas. Or worse!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped, seriously annoyed now. “As I was about to say, I did not take his arm—which I’m sure your aunt saw—but only because we hadn’t been introduced. He is as clean as you or I.”
Lord Cambury snorted again. “I doubt that. Shabby, my aunt said. Outmoded old coat, unshaven. Needs a haircut.”
Jane frowned. “Yes, his clothing is rather well worn, though what’s that got to—”
“See? Shabby.” Satisfied that he’d made his point, he sat back in his chair.
“I don’t see what an outmoded coat has to do with anything.”
He sat up, clearly shocked. “It’s everything, dash it. Consider my reputation.”
“Your reputation?”
He gave her an incredulous look. “Good God, gel, the Prince Regent himself consults me on matters of taste and beauty. No point in becoming betrothed to the most beautiful gel in the ton if she’s seen in public with some shabby good-for-nothing, now is there? The company you keep reflects on me.”
Jane could hardly believe her ears. He wasn’t objecting so much to her meeting another man—it was Zachary Black’s clothing that was the offense, and its effect on his own reputation. Presumably an exquisitely dressed villain would be preferable.
“I forbid you to see any more of this rogue.”
“I will try, but I cannot promise—”
“Cannot? Cannot? Will not, more like!” His eyes bulged with outrage. “Obstinate chit. I was about to send the notice of our betrothal to the Morning Post, but I can always change my mind, you know. Nothing has been made public yet.”
“Ch-change your mind?” Jane faltered, shocked by her own recklessness in challenging him. She hadn’t had the dream once since she’d accepted Lord Cambury’s proposal. She couldn’t lose it all now, not for the sake of a few hours of pleasant conversation with a man who might fascinate her to a frightening degree, but who could never offer her anything more. “No—please, you do not understand. I have never encouraged this man to meet me, never made any arrangement. For myself, I am happy to promise, but whether he will take any notice . . .”
Lord Cambury leaned forward. “Hah! The fellow bothering you? I’ll have the rogue dealt with if he is.”
“Dealt with? What do you mean?”
“Could give him a good thrashing, teach him a lesson.”
“You?” She couldn’t imagine it. Short and tubby Lord Cambury would never get the better of a powerfully built man like Zachary Black.
“Of course not me! I would not so demean myself. Send men to do it, of course.”
“I beg you will not,” she said, horrified.
“Beg?” He frowned. “What is this fellow to you that you would beg?”
“Nothing,” she lied. “But he once performed a, a signal service for me, and in common decency you cannot have him beaten.”
“What kind of signal service?”
“He rescued my dog from a gang of thugs who were torturing him and all set to kill him.”
He sniffed. “That ugly creature? Better to have let it die.”
Jane’s jaw dropped. “I thought you liked dogs.”
“I do—properly bred ’uns, not ugly, ill-bred mongrels. Was meaning to speak to you about it, matter of fact. Planned to get you a proper dog once we’re married. If we marry.” He gave her a long, brooding look which indicated he was by no means certain that they were going to be married.
The sick, hollow feeling grew in Jane’s stomach. She forced herself to concentrate on the matter in hand. “He—the gentleman in the park—also rescued me from the unwelcome attentions of those same street thugs.”
“Did he? Hmph.”
“Yes, they were very rough and nasty and I, I feared for my life. But he drove them off and saved me. Which is why I am polite to him when we happen to meet in the park.” She scanned his face, but had no idea what he was thinking. “So yes, I do beg you not to send men to beat him up. It would not be honorable, or just.” She added desperately, “And I know you to be an honorable gentleman.”
He gave her a long, brooding look. “I protect what’s mine, missie.”
Jane nodded. “Yes, of course, and . . . and I appreciate it.” She was shaking.
He rose and picked up his gloves, ready to take his leave.
She rose. “Lord Cambury?”
“Yes?”
“The betrothal . . .”
He gave her a long look, then gave a gruff nod. “I’ll send the notice today.”
Relief swamped Jane, so much so that she had to sit down again.
He pulled on his gloves. “Expect beautiful women to be difficult. Part of their charm, I’m told. But you’re skating on thin ice, missie, very thin ice. I have a title and a reputation and I will do whatever it takes to protect them—understand?”
She nodded.
“Will you attend the Duchess of Rothermere’s ball for the launch of the season?”
She stared at him in surprise at the abrupt change of topic. “Yes, of course, but—”
“See you there, then. Reserve me two dances, yes? Supper dance and a waltz.” His gaze sharpened and he tapped her arm with two fingers. “Tsk, tsk. No frowning, now. Don’t want wrinkles.”
He departed, leaving Jane sitting limply, shaken but relieved. She’d almost thrown away her chance of a future—a home, and a handsome settlement for herself and her children. All because of her fancy—her stupid, irresponsible fancy!—for a handsome gypsy.
* * *
“What the devil is the matter with you?” Gil demanded later that evening. “You’ve been glowering into your glass all evening.”
“Nothing.” Zach merely wanted to strangle something or someone. Preferably a puce-faced old bitch with two yapping puff balls. That blasted harpy had upset Jane for no good reason.
No good reason that he could see.
I cannot meet you again. Too much is at stake.
What the devil did that mean? What was at stake?
“Not bad news from the lawyer, is it?” Gil persisted.
“No. Tell me, Gil, what’s wrong with a fellow taking a walk in a public park with a girl?”
Gil frowned. “What girl? You mean the Chance girl?”
“Doesn’t matter who. Is it scandalous in London these days for a girl to walk with a man—not touching—two feet apart—in a public park, with a maid and footman in tow?”
“No, of course it’s not.”
