Forever Your Earl (27 page)

Edinger arrived to announce that his horse was ready. In an instant, Daniel was outside, mounting up. The horse beneath him was eager to run. Almost as eager as him. It took just the touch of his heels to her flanks to get her into motion. But no matter how fast the horse sped through the streets of London, weaving between carriages, wagons, and other horses, it wasn't fast enough. Not when his heart pounded, and Eleanor awaited him.

E
xcept that she didn't.

Daniel arrived at
The Hawk's Eye,
threw a coin to a nearby crossing sweep to watch his horse, then strode into the newspaper's office. He walked down the length of the desks toward Eleanor's closed office. Though he'd been to the newspaper several times before, his appearance was enough to generate more stares from the writers. He ignored them. Instead, pausing in front of Eleanor's door, he took a deep breath. She was there, on the other side of that door. And he had so many damned things to say to her.

He curled his hands into fists. Then uncurled them.

Before he'd met her, he'd hardly known a moment's uncertainty. Now his life was wracked with it. But he didn't hide, either.

He knocked.

Silence.

He knocked again. More silence followed.

“Elea—­Miss Hawke,” he said through the door. “It's me. Lord Ashford,” he added for the benefit of the eavesdropping writers.

Still nothing. He frowned at the nearby writers, all watching him. Daniel's expression must have been fierce. No other way to explain the kind of wary amazement on the writers' faces. One young man—­Daniel recognized him from the first time he came here—­tried to speak, his mouth opening and closing, his throat working. But no sound emerged from the lad.

Daniel could wait no longer. Turning back to the door to Eleanor's office, he put his shaking hand on the doorknob. Then let himself in. Words jockeyed for position, struggling to come out all at once, as he entered.

Disappointment hit him like a punch. She wasn't at her desk. She wasn't anywhere in her office.

He returned to the writers' room. “Where is Miss Hawke?” he demanded of the young man. “With the printing presses?”

The boy finally found his voice, though it took several attempts. “She hasn't been here for an hour. My lord,” he added hastily.

“Where is she?”

The writer paled and swallowed. “Out on a story.”

“Which story?”

“Didn't say, my lord.” The lad's forehead wrinkled. “Think she said something about needing a disguise, though.”

He knew at once where she'd be. The place where she'd undergone all of her transformations, from “Ned” to “Ruby.” Most likely, she'd also gone there to complete her metamorphosis to masked siren.

Striding from the newspaper, he retrieved his horse from the crossing sweep—­giving the tiny boy another coin for his trouble—­and set off for the Imperial Theater.

H
e reached the theater in a fever of impatience. Eleanor blazed in his mind, a beacon he had to follow.

Daniel knocked at the stage door. The man guarding it eyed him with some suspicion. So Daniel gave the bloke some money—­always a way to get a door open.

After breaching the door, he raced up several flights of stairs and found himself in the wings of the theater. Anarchy immediately engulfed him. Dancers flounced back and forth—­a few giving him speculative, inviting looks—­and a baritone practiced beside a pianoforte. Workers in dusty clothing hammered at scenery, just as the actors onstage seemed equally engaged in destroying the scenery with their line readings, guided by a slightly portly fellow. Meanwhile, a dark-­skinned man with a Caribbean accent and folio of papers shouted at anyone who would listen to him.

This was most assuredly not the peace and rarefied atmosphere of White's.

Daniel scanned the throngs, looking for a glimpse of Eleanor's blonde head. Nothing. Another stab of disappointment knifed him. He hadn't gone to war, but he'd never learned what it was to surrender.

He was an aristocrat. He knew his way around the backstage of theaters. There were warrens of rooms, some overflowing with actresses and dancers in various states of undress. Rooms that housed costumes and props. Any number of places where Eleanor could be.

He turned, intending to find her.

And found himself face-­to-­face—­or rather her face to his chest, since she was not a woman of tall stature—­with Mrs. Delamere.

The playwright didn't look at all awed or impressed by Daniel. In fact, she seemed on the verge of contempt. Her hands were planted on her hips, and she glared up at him.

“She's not here,” Mrs. Delamere said without preamble. He noticed that she didn't add “my lord” at the end of her sentence.

“Where has she gone?” he asked, equally blunt.

“If she hasn't told you,” she replied, “then I see no reason why I ought to.”

“I mean only to speak with her.”

“What you do or don't say isn't of concern to me.” She flicked a scornful glance up and down him. “I know how your kind works. Honeyed promises that all turn to ash.”

“You don't know anything about me,” he said tightly.

“I know the look you put on my friend's face,” she returned.

If he wasn't in a battle with this woman, he'd have more time to think on what this meant. That his feelings were shared.

But the playwright was mulish, glaring up at him. “As if you didn't know.”

He gritted his teeth. “I don't—­and I can't—­unless I see her.”

“Why should I betray her confidence?” Mrs. Delamere crossed her arms over her chest and tilted her chin up. She was a handsome woman indeed, with bold features and a considerable amount of black hair, but when she looked at him as though he was Satan himself in a beaver hat, her features turned hard, her dark eyes biting.

“Did she say not to tell me where she was?”

That biting glance slid away for a moment. “Not specifically.”

“You do no harm in revealing her whereabouts.”

“Except that I do,” she fired back. “As I said, I know your sort,
my lord
. ­People like us—­
women
like us—­are disposable to aristos. Using Eleanor for your entertainment, throwing her away like an empty sweet wrapper once you've tired of her—­I won't let it happen.”

His voice went very soft. “Who says I'll tire of her?”

For a moment, her brazen façade fell away. She peered at him curiously, the same insight in her eyes that marked Eleanor's gaze. Something in his voice, his face, and posture, must have shaken her.

Actors and stagehands surged around them like eddies in a river, yet neither he nor the playwright seemed to notice as they faced each other.

“Your class always does,” she finally answered. “Us plebes are nothing but toys to you.”

“Whoever wronged you in the past,” he said, “mark this—­
I am not him
. And I have no intention of hurting Eleanor. Not now. Not in the future.”

This, too, seemed to unnerve her. But she rallied once again, glowering at him across the few feet that separated them. “No intention. That doesn't mean you won't.”

“I'll do everything in my power to keep her safe,” he vowed. “And I have a considerable amount of power.”

Yet the playwright vacillated, her lips compressed into a tight line as she internally debated.

“You want to see me brought low?” he demanded. He swept his hat off his head, spread his hands in supplication. “I am. I ask you, respectfully, humbly, to tell me where she is. Because I find that without her . . .” He fought to find the words. “I'm only a shell. A glossy, brittle shell. I've got to tell her this. Whatever the consequences, she has to know. Margaret,” he added, letting her know that he could be familiar, too.

It was the most he'd ever said of his feelings for Eleanor. To anyone, including himself. And he shook, faintly, at the voicing of it. He'd endured boxing matches, fencing bouts, phaeton races, and duels. Nothing struck fear into him. But this did.

For a long, agonizing while, Mrs. Delamere said nothing. Only stared at him. Judging. Assessing. Taking his measure. As though he was a character in one of her plays, one she was still trying to figure out.

Finally, she said, “She went to the costumer and obtained some shabby clothing. Then she left. Said she was going to St. Giles.”

One of the worst slums in London. “And you let her go?” he demanded angrily. “Alone?”

“You know Eleanor. She wouldn't be dissuaded. But she took my pistol.”

Daniel rubbed at his forehead. Why the hell would Eleanor go to such a godforsaken place? The young writer at her offices had said she'd gone to research a story. But she'd always been more interested in high Society than the stories that could be found in a rough area like St. Giles. Even during the day, it was a neighborhood to be avoided if one could. Families lived there, yes, but it was notorious for its gin houses and low company.

Exactly the sort of place Jonathan might be found.

Understanding rocked him. Good God, Eleanor had gone looking for Jonathan. On her own.

 

Chapter 20

It is sadly noted that the keeping of a confidence appears to be a dwindling art, as many of us today would rather reap the temporary harvest of scandal—­which feeds so many but for so short a time—­than enjoy the enduring fruits of silence, which can nourish countless souls.

The Hawk's Eye
, May 18, 1816

E
ast London was not a part of the city Eleanor knew well.
The
Hawk's Eye
covered the scandalous aristocratic personages of Mayfair and Marylebone, not the working poor of Whitechapel and Bethnal Green. Other newspapers reported on the salacious details of East London's crime-­ridden streets. But Eleanor was never interested in reveling in the details of someone else's pain, so none of her writers—­including herself—­ever ventured farther east than the City.

The sun had just reached its zenith, and she moved away from it. The buildings became shabbier and shabbier, crowding close together, all but crumbling where they stood. Barefoot children and ­people in threadbare clothing drifted up and down the street. A sad, angry miasma clung to the winding lanes. It was a measure of Eleanor's disguise that no one bothered to beg her for spare coins. Yet she kept her hand resting lightly upon her pocket, where she'd tucked Maggie's pistol. Though it was broad daylight, a kind of semi-­twilight hung over St. Giles, and Eleanor would take no chances with her safety.

Where to begin? The gin shops seemed the best prospect. She turned toward Seven Dials, then pushed deeper into the neighborhood. Filth coated the street, and ­people and dogs picked through rubbish, looking for anything of use. Eleanor's grip on her pistol tightened.

She had once seen a print of Jonathan Lawson, so she had a general idea of his appearance. He'd resemble his sister, too. Fair and genteel. She also imagined that, no matter how far he'd fallen, his demeanor and accent would make him stand out from the ragged crowd. She'd mentioned at the paper that she was writing a story. That could be her cover as she searched for him. There were tales that wealthy ­people liked to take tours of run-­down neighborhoods to marvel at and mock the poverty. Much the way visitors once toured Bedlam. She could use this as her screen—­saying she was writing about this new phenomenon.

And if she did find Jonathan Lawson—­what then? Could she, an utter stranger, convince him to return to his family? The odds were slim, but she had to try. For the sake of him and his sister. And for Daniel.

Even though she walked through one of London's most infamous neighborhoods, the throb of her heart had nothing to do with the potential danger around her. It was
him
.

By now, he would have read the latest issue of the paper and seen what she'd done. A trembling excitement and doubt gripped her. She'd deliberately ignored a scandalous story. To protect him and his friends. It was as good as a public declaration of her feelings for him.

When she did see him again, what would she say? How might she explain herself, and how she felt? She wasn't certain that her feelings were reciprocated—­though the quill sharpener was a gift he would know she'd appreciate. In fact, she'd sharpened nearly a dozen unneeded quills just to feel as though he were with her.

A sign was painted onto the side of a building, showing a raven perched atop a plow, with a tankard gripped in its foot.
Gin, one penny
was written beneath the image. She couldn't see through the greasy windows, but she heard the harsh laughter emanating from inside, and had read enough accounts of gin houses to have a good idea of what awaited her.

She already had her questions in mind: Was it true that the toffs had been coming to St. Giles? What did they look like? Women, men? Young, old? From these details, she might be able to determine if Jonathan Lawson had been around.

She took a deep breath, and regretted it as foul air rushed into her lungs. One hand rested on her pistol, the other on her pad and pencil.

Was this the most foolish thing she'd ever done?

No. Falling in love with an earl ranked as her most unwise act.

Steadying herself, she prepared to enter.

The sound of horse hooves clattering on the cobblestones broke her concentration. Someone was racing through the streets at a breakneck speed. A reckless move, given the condition of the pavement and the number of ­people thronging the lanes. The crowd itself seemed surprised, murmuring with astonishment.

Eleanor turned away from the door to the gin house to watch the spectacle. And found herself unable to move, as though someone had driven rivets through her feet.

Daniel. Rising above the crowd. Galloping right toward her. Looking like a man journeying on a perilous but vital quest. He rode his horse expertly around the carts and ­people choking the street. His gaze darted from one side of the lane to the other, searching. And when his gaze lit on hers and held with a fierce intensity, she truly felt that no power on earth could make her move from this one spot.

He pulled his horse to a stop right in front of her. The animal pawed and chuffed. And the man breathed heavily, as though he'd traveled a long distance, and quickly, to find her. Which, she realized, he had. He must have gone to the Imperial, where Maggie had revealed her whereabouts. Not a short distance to cover. Yet he was here now.

She stared up at him. He looked down at her as though she were an emerald at the bottom of a riverbed.

For several moments, neither spoke. Spectators gathered, drawn by the sight of a wealthy man on an exquisite horse, though none dared approach him.

He reached down to her, offering his gloved hand.

“Get on,” he said, his voice deep.

“Jonathan—­”

He continued to hold his hand out to her. “I've searched for him here and found no sign. We can look again another day.”

She stared at his proffered hand, wide and long. A hand she'd felt explore and caress every part of her body. That had reached into the heart of her and held on tightly. It belonged to a man who had raced hellbound for her, a man who now burned her with the intensity of his gaze.

She'd wanted his touch these past days. Ached for it, thinking she'd never know it again. Finally, though, it could be hers once more. Yet for how long? And what would he want of her?

Slowly, she slid her hand into his. A gasp left her lips as he effortlessly pulled her up in front of him. She sat across the saddle, with him behind her, keeping her steady with his lean, solid body.

“Hold on,” he commanded.

She grabbed fistfuls of the horse's mane—­the animal didn't seem to mind—­and they surged forward. St. Giles disappeared behind them as they rode west, back toward Mayfair, and questions unanswered.

“T
hat was a bloody foolish thing to do,” Daniel thundered. They hadn't spoken at all during the ride to his home. But she'd been aware of the tension radiating from him. Silent and severe.

Once they'd arrived, he'd ushered her immediately into his study. No sooner had he shut and locked the door behind them than he whirled on her, his expression dark as shadow.

“I had a pistol,” she replied.

“And after you'd discharged your one shot,” he said, “you'd have no means of protecting yourself.”

“I have this,” she said, tapping the side of her head.

He snorted. “You can't think yourself out of it when five brutes attack you.”

“But they didn't,” she pointed out.

“They might have.”

They faced each other, only inches separating them. The door was just at his back—­they had barely made it into the room at all before he'd had to unleash himself. He was all fury, barely contained.

She frowned at him. “This anger's unnecessary.”

“You might've been killed, or worse—­and for what?” he demanded.

Quietly, she said, “For your friends. For you.”
There. I've said it.

That stunned him into silence. His jaw tightened, and his stare seared into her.

Her pulse climbed into her throat. She'd never spoken words like that to anyone. Always, always, she'd carefully sheltered her heart, knowing full well that this was a world of jagged edges that tore into unguarded flesh. So she'd contented herself with ambition for the newspaper, and occasional physical gratification, and told herself it was enough.

It had been enough. Until he'd walked into her office, full of self-­righ­teous­ness and outrageous schemes.

Daniel moved slowly, as though through water. He brought his hand up, and held it, hovering close. As though asking her permission to touch her.

Breath coming quickly, she gave a small nod.

Carefully, he cradled her head. His expression gentled, becoming softer, almost awed. Which shook her even more. He was a proud man. Yet, as an outsider looking in, trying to peer into his mind, she thought he seemed humbled by her, and her naked confession.

“You undo me,” he said, his voice a rough rasp.

She grasped his wrists. His pulse hammered beneath her touch. “We undo each other,” she said plainly. “This can't end well.”

An earl and a commoner. They could never be more to each other than lovers. For a time. And then responsibility would finally claim him, and he'd have to take an aristo wife. Or at least one with a substantial fortune. Eleanor was neither noble nor rich, and she never would be.

He couldn't be hers forever, no matter their intentions. Only a few years ago, there had been a young baron—­Fleming had been his name—­who'd fallen in love with an opera dancer. The two had flouted Society by marrying. And while the baron might have been grudgingly admitted into a few homes, his wife had not been. Lord Fleming's family had refused to see her, as had most everyone else. The first year or two, both had bravely faced their status as pariahs. But eventually, their fall from social grace had torn them apart. The wife now lived at a country estate, and her husband stayed in Town—­with a new mistress.

Lord Fleming and his opera dancer had had love at first, but it hadn't protected them. It would almost certainly be the same for Eleanor and Daniel if they attempted anything more than an affair.

An affair it would have to be, then. Better that than nothing.

A corner of her mouth tilted up, bittersweet. “But what a time we'll have of it while it lasts.” For however long they might have.

They were silent together. She realized the impossibility yet inevitability of their situation. This was what they could share.

With a soft growl, he lowered his lips to hers. She met his kiss with her own hunger, opening to him, taking and giving. It had been days since last they'd kissed, and it felt like coming up for air after too long underwater. She gasped into his mouth, taking her first real breath since they'd parted. He pulled her close. She wrapped her arms around him, reveling in the strength of his body and the palpable need vibrating in him. A firestorm roared through her, demanding more.

Yet she couldn't give into it. Not yet.

She pulled back, just enough to whisper, “I want to help find him.”

“It's not your burden,” he said lowly.

“And it's been yours for too long. Let me assist you.” She gave a small smile. “I may write about scandal, but I worked my way up the ladder by reporting every sort of story. I know a thing or two about investigations.”

He exhaled roughly as his hands wrapped around her waist. “It's dangerous.”

Her smile was wry. “I hadn't noticed, being in St. Giles with the gin houses and the cutthroats.”

A small amount of tension eased from him. “A step up from the usual company you keep. Writers, theatricals.”

“Rakish earls.” She held him tightly. Goddamn this man, who worked his way into her heart more and more with each passing moment. Had she known what would happen between them, she might have marched him out of her office immediately that first day and never agreed to their arrangement.

But that would have deprived her of this, of him. And she'd rather suffer later than deprive herself of him now.

She said, “We'll do this
together,
you and I.”

For a moment, he said nothing. Then: “For a journalist, you display remarkable ethics.”

She laughed quietly. “Consider it an effect of your excellent example.”

“I am in all things the epitome of righ­teous behavior.”

“Especially when it comes to the seduction of virtuous writers,” she noted.

He raised a brow. “It's not seduction when both parties are willing.”

“So speaks the man with a notorious reputation.”

“If anyone was beguiled,” he added, “we beguiled each other.”

She gave him an impudent smile, pressing herself against him snugly. “Oh, did I tempt you?”

“Wench, you know you did.” His flash of a smile nearly undid her, so white and dissolute.

“We've degenerated into name-­calling now.” She shook her head. “The last refuge of those deprived of wit.”

“Now who's calling names?” He grinned.

An ache of future sorrow throbbed through her. She could not imagine what her life would be like without him. Didn't want to. Though it was inevitable.

“We'll find Jonathan,” she said with as much conviction as she could muster.

Yet he looked dubious. “I'm beginning to wonder if he's still alive. Catherine and I have been searching. Nothing. Hints here and there, but he's elusive as a ghost.”

She broke from their embrace to pace—­though she didn't want to let go of him, it was easier for her to think when in motion.

“Have you no other leads?” she asked. “No potential clues as to where he might be?”

He strode to the fireplace, then stared into the fire. “Every one we've tried has proven false.”

Easier in a way to think of locating his friend than to consider the imminent heartbreak that awaited her. “What of his old habits? His prior haunts?”