“Beg pardon, Miss, but what did happen? You came back from the park with blood on your face and no one knows—I’d never speak ill of his lordship, but he is known to have a fierce temper! The way he and that cousin of his go on… they’ve come to blows more than once.”
Realization dawned on Lillian then. She hadn’t been asked to stay in her room because she needed rest but because Lord Seaburn didn’t wish to tip his hand to everyone in the house that they understood the nature of her injuries. The downside to that was that no one else knew the nature of them either and now suspected that he’d assaulted her in some way. Perhaps he even intended for them to think it. She had no notion of what he was up to other than that he’d promised to get to the bottom of what had occurred one way or another. And she was about to spoil what could possibly be intentional subterfuge on his part out of nothing more than petulance. But she wouldn’t let the servants or anyone else think him the villain of the piece.
“We had left the phaeton to take a walk and a tree branch fell. It was likely a dead limb or perhaps some sort of blight,” Lilly lied. “It only scratched me up a bit because Lord Seaburn was there and quickly shielded me from it.”
Mary appeared to be absolutely awestruck at the tall tale. “Oh, Miss! That sounds like it’s straight out of one of those novels Sarah reads us at night. Some of them are terrifying and… well, a bit wicked She read us one last week by that Mrs. Radcliff and I’ve never heard such things.”
Thinking of her own very boring book about the flora and fauna of Derbyshire, a wicked and lurid novel sounded like heaven. “I do love a good gothic novel! Do you think Sarah would mind very much if you brought me one of her books for a while? Only to borrow, of course!”
“If she hasn’t taken it back to the book lender, I’m sure she won’t mind.”
Realizing that the servants were likely pooling their money to borrow such books, Lilly felt guilty. Even as a companion, she’d been paid far, far better. “Bring me my reticule, Mary. It’s there on the chair.”
The maid fetched it and Lilly dug several coins out of it. “That should get you all several books from the lender. Shouldn’t it?”
Mary shook her head. “Oh, Miss, I couldn’t!”
“I insist, Mary. After all, you’ll have to pay for extra days while I read this delightful book, won’t you? And if anyone questions you about where the coins came from you simply tell them I gave them to you to provide reading material to the staff. In fact, I’ll speak to Lord Seaburn about stocking books in the library for all of you.”
“Only Sarah can read, but it’d be nice if she could get us more books.”
“And if you want to learn to read, I’ll teach you. I was a governess, after all!”
“I’ll go fetch the book, Miss,” Mary said, an excited grin spreading across her face.
“Mary, what did you come up here for?”
“Oh!” the maid said. “I got so flustered, Miss, I nearly forgot. There’s a lady downstairs with all these boxes. Dress boxes. She says his lordship sent her and you’re to pick whatever you want. Shall I send her up?”
“Yes, Mary… and you should come up with her. We’ll get the book later. If you’re going to be my lady’s maid, you should certainly be involved in the process of selecting gowns.”
The prospect of shopping for something that didn’t fit like a sack and make her look like she was at death’s door had effectively eliminated her boredom. And Lilly wasn’t so blind to her own faults that she couldn’t recognize her vanity in wishing to turn the head of her all-too-handsome betrothed. It was a terrible thing to her mind to wonder which one of them was the more attractive person in their match.
Chapter Eight
Approaching the elegant facade of the Georgian manor just off Jermyn Street, Val didn’t hesitate as he climbed the steps and knocked on the door. It was his second such stop of the day, asking favors from those to whom it was unwise to be beholden. But the kind of favor he needed now was not one Highcliff could help him with. The majordomo who answered looked more bruiser than butler, but then this was no typical Mayfair townhouse. “Is he in?”
“Is who in, my lord?” the servant demanded.
“You know bloody well who I mean, Stavers. It’s urgent that I see him.”
“Then you should find him at his club during business hours, my lord,” the man replied with just a hint of the streets bubbling up through his cultured tones.
“If I had any other choice, I would. But this is urgent… and it cannot wait.”
From deep within the elaborately bedecked bowels of the house, a rich baritone voice with a decided cockney flavor sounded. “Let ’im in, Stavers. I’d rather talk to ’im and be done wiv’ it.”
The servant stepped aside, his lips pulled into a tight, thin line. It was the most butlerly the man had ever appeared. “Silk purses and sow’s ears, Stavers… you may prove us all wrong yet,” Val said to the man as he walked past him.
Val followed the sound of the voice to a room laden with books. It wasn’t novels or even boring nonfiction. It was ledgers. Rows and rows of them. What they contained was anyone’s guess, but there’d likely be enough dirt in any of them to bury half the ton.
“Don’t be getting any ideas,” the dark-haired and rough-looking man behind the desk said. His hair was disheveled. He was bare-chested, wearing a silk banyan open over trousers rumpled from the night before. A heavy growth of whiskers covered a granite jaw and he was already sipping brandy and smoking a cheroot. “Nothing in this room is for the likes o’ you. What you want, Seaburn?”
Val didn’t mince words, but spoke as bluntly as he knew the man in front of him would. “I need to know if someone has been hired to kill a woman.”
The man leaned back in his chair, displaying an impressive physique that could only be honed from hard, physical labor. Val knew that most of it took place on the docks and the warehouses that people of his class would turn their noses up at.
“I don’t do that sort o’ work,” the man said. “You know that.”
“It’s not an accusation,” Val replied. “It’s a request for assistance.”
The man smirked. “Favors ain’t free, m’lord. I do one for you, and you’ll owe one back. You sure you’re ready for that?”
And that was the crux of it. Being beholden in any way to the Hound of Whitehall wasn’t a good place to be, but under the circumstances, he had little choice. It was unlikely that even if Elsworth were the guilty party, that he’d dirtied his hands himself. “I’m prepared for that. The woman’s name is Miss Lillian Burkhart.”
“Soiled dove, lady o’ the night? No, it’s actresses you like, ain’t it? Where does this dirty little minx tread the boards at?” the man asked with an insolent grin.
“She is none of those things, but is a companion to my grandmother and now my betrothed,” Val replied. “Respectable enough that neither of us ought to be speaking of her at all. Alas, someone nearly put a pistol ball in her brain this morning and I need to determine who ordered such an attempt on her life.”
“Pretty thing, I’d guess,” the man said. “Be a shame to see ’er all scarred up.”
“Or dead. It would be very much a shame to see her dead,” Val replied. “And I very much fear that was their mission.”
The man laughed again. “You’ve gone soft. The biggest shark at my tables, the very one eating up all the lil’ fish. And ’ere you are… sunk by a ’oity toity companion.”
“She’s not hoity toity. In fact, you’d be impressed to know that she is a graduate of the Darrow School. You’re familiar with it, aren’t you? If I’m not mistaken, you’ve sent a few girls there yourself.” Val knew he wasn’t mistaken. It was that reason alone which had prompted him to come to the Hound in the first place. The Hound would feel beholden to Miss Darrow and would not allow one of her pupils, former or current, to come to harm. Crook or no, he was reported to always pay his debts.
“Not my bastards,” he said evenly.
“Try not to ’ave any of those. But, aye, a few little beggars ’ose fathers couldn’t be bothered to act like the ’onorable men they claim to be… they needed a bit o’ ’elp and I offered it.”
“And are they obligated to you as I will be?” Val asked.
“Don’t work like that for them… those too young to bargain wiv’ the devil are free from consequence,” the man answered. “I’ll find out if anyone ’as been paid to take out your pretty miss. And I’ll ’andle it. Putting a price on the ’ead o’ a pretty girl, specially one of Miss Darrow’s, goes against the rules.”
“What rules are those exactly?” Val asked.
“My rules,” the Hound answered. “Only ones what matter. Now, get out. I’ll send word when there’s word to be ’ad.”
“Thank you.”
The Hound laughed then. “You’ll not be thanking me when that favor is called in, my lord. You’ll be wondering if she were worth it!”
“She is,” Val replied. “Whatever the cost.” With that, he turned on his heel and left the deceptively posh and respectable home of a man who was literally the self-crowned king of London’s underworld. He very much felt as if he’d just sold his soul to the devil. And perhaps he had.
*
The Hound sat up then, his indolent posture giving way to a bearing that was almost aristocratic. “You can come out now,” he said, all traces of cockney gone from his voice.
A woman emerged from behind the ornate chinoiserie screen in the corner. Her brilliant auburn hair was flowing freely down her back and she wore only the thinnest of chemises. As the light from the window touched her, the fabric was rendered completely transparent. To say that the sight was erotic would have been to do her a great injustice. Annabel was, without a doubt, one of the most beautiful women in the world, even if she was also one of the most maddening.
“Why do you do that?” she asked, her full lips pursed in a ridiculously appealing pout.
“What did I do?” he asked, forcing himself to look away from the light-gilded beauty displayed before him. There were accounts to balance and debts to be collected, after all. He didn’t get to where he was by shirking his duties, even with so tempting a distraction all but laid bare before him.
“Speak in that horrible cockney accent when you and I both know that your natural way of speaking is as perfectly enunciated and articulate as anyone in society. In fact, I’d daresay it’s better than most!” she teased with a slight smile that gave her a very feline appearance.
Cockney was his native tongue, but he’d fought long and hard to shed himself of it. He used it when it served his purposes and set it aside when it did not. Like everything else in his life, it was expendable. “Because it does not suit my needs for Lord Valentine Somers, Viscount Seaburn, to know that I am anything more than a grubby, cockney street rat who made good.”
She smiled as she perched on the edge of his desk. He could smell her perfume, a light and pretty scent that he’d gifted her. Then she leaned forward, so close that he had but to turn his head and claim one of the perfectly formed breasts displayed so prettily by the confection whisper-thin silk she wore.
“Why don’t you come back to bed, my love? It’s so early when we’ve had such late nights,” she whispered suggestively. “And it’s so terribly lonely there without you.”
“I cannot, Annabel,” he said regretfully.
“You know I have to leave soon,” she said, suddenly petulant and even childlike in her temper. Agitated, she got up and began to pace the room, working herself up into one of her tantrums. “I have to go back to my wretched husband and that monstrosity of a house in the countryside! But you don’t even care! You never cared. You’re just like all the others!”
“It’s not a house in the countryside, Annabel. It’s an elegant if somewhat gothic-inspired manor on the seashore. And I do care, but I have work to do,” he said, tallying numbers in his head even as he talked to her of something unrelated. Numbers didn’t lie. Numbers always gave him the truth. He didn’t love Annabel, but he desired her. In fact, he wanted her as he’d never wanted another woman. She was like a fire in his blood, one that gave him a fair bit of sympathy for the opium eaters and those bedeviled by the ruination of gin. But that wasn’t love and it never would be. Love wasn’t something that could grow and flourish in his very dark corner of the world, much less in the hardened black recesses of his miserable heart.
She grabbed the account book he’d been working on and flung it across the room. Her rage, erratic to the point that he sometimes wondered if she truly was mad, had flared again and would not be soothed. It was the way of things with her. Volatile, unpredictable, dangerous. But he was beginning to lose patience with it all. Even their passionate bed play and her loveliness could not counteract the difficulty inherent in being with her. He was a man who liked order, and she was a creature of chaos and temper.
“Do not do that again,” he warned.
“Why not?” she demanded, baring her teeth at him as if she might actually take a bite.
“Because I’m not your husband,” he snapped. “And I’ll toss your naked arse right into the street, scandal be damned!”
She shrieked at him, a wild sound that was half-crazed. Then she came at him, hands clenched into claws as her nails raked over his chest, leaving a burning trail of blood in her wake. Abruptly, he shoved her away from him and her screeches turned to sobs as she collapsed, sprawling to the carpet. She laid there and wept like a broken child, as if she were the victim rather than the attacker. Reaching into his desk drawer, he retrieved the red leather box that had been delivered the day before and he tossed it to her where she remained, crumpled by her own grief at his imagined slights. Perhaps the diamond and emerald parure would soothe her clearly overwrought sensibilities. “That was to be your parting gift. Take it and go. I’ll have Stavers send for the carriage.”
He didn’t look back, but walked out of his study and retreated to his chamber. Temper was a wasted emotion, but she’d managed to stoke his. Pressing his fingertips to the deep gouge on his chest, he drew it away covered with his blood. Men had died for less, but he’d never struck a woman before in his life. Even pushing her away, he hadn’t intended for her to fall, only to protect himself from further injury. He regretted that their parting would be so bitter.
Annabel was a beautiful broken doll, he thought, pretty enough sitting on the shelf at a distance. But when you got close enough, you could see the cracks in the porcelain. He’d enjoyed the unpredictability in the beginning. Living in a world where every person he encountered kowtowed to him, it had been a refreshing change. Now, that unpredictability was also the thing about her that tried his patience the most.
“And ’er ’usband is welcome to ’er,” he whispered, as he reached for a shirt and pulled it on, heedless of the blood. He needed a brawl, something to get out his anger and get his mind right again. Right and free of the vicious witch whose weeping still echoed through the halls. There was only one place to find such a thing in the middle of the day—Whitechapel. The very place that had spawned him.
Chapter Nine
Tea time with the dowager duchess was not something that Lilly was especially looking forward to. It wasn’t that she felt that her grace would be unfriendly or hostile toward her. In fact, she had the strangest idea that the woman was actually pleased with the rather unorthodox turn of events. Regardless, she was traversing uncharted territory. How precisely did one transition from hired help to future viscountess?
Easing her way down the stairs, she placed her foot carefully on each step lest she turn her ankle again. She was less dependent upon the walking stick but kept it with her as a precaution. Mary had insisted on another foul-smelling poultice and Lilly had submitted to it. Much as she hated to admit it, the concoction worked. Both the pain and swelling had eased tremendously. The last thing she needed was to take a tumble down the stairs or she’d be back in bed with another horribly offensive remedy slathered on her.
Lilly shuddered at the thought of it.
As she reached the bottom of the stairs, Elsworth Somers appeared. He’d emerged from some hidden location, almost as if he’d been lying in wait for her. His expression was one she recognized. She’d seen it on countless people in her life. The sons of the family who had raised her until she’d been old enough to go away to school, the bullying headmaster and instructors at Millstead Abbey School—bullies always wore it. Cold, calculating, mean, threatening. Because they were alone at that moment, he did not need to hide it.
“Miss Burkhart,” he said, his tone snide and full of spite. “I see you’re up and about after your morning mishap. Either you are remarkably clumsy, my dear, or you have terrible luck. Which do you think it is?”
He’d stepped closer, placing himself directly in front of her and widening his stance so that she was essentially trapped there at the bottom of the stairs. She couldn’t go around him without touching him in a manner that would be more than just inappropriate. It wasn’t by accident, either. He knew precisely what he was about. He wanted her to feel trapped. And he wanted to feel that he had some power over her.
Refusing to be cowed by him, Lilly lifted her chin and met his gaze directly. “I really couldn’t hazard a guess, Mr. Somers. Now, if you’ll excuse me, her grace is waiting for me.”
“The old bird will wait a little longer,” he replied, his lips twisting into a cruel mockery of a smile. “I’d like an answer, Miss Burkhart. Nay, I demand one. You are very nearly family, after all, and we must look after one another! What, precisely, happened in the park this morning?”
Did he know? Was he simply trying to get her to admit that someone had shot at her? Or was he worried that she might have seen the shooter and been able to identify them? Was he the guilty party? “I had the misfortune to be standing under a tree when a rotten branch fell. It made a terrible racket, really, but it was only a minor mishap and nothing more,” she lied. “I was very lucky that Viscount Seaburn was with me. He is forever playing hero to my damsel in distress, it seems. I really must go, Mr. Somers. Please let me pass.”
Barefoot in Hyde Park (The Hellion Club Book 2) Page 8
