Maggie MacKeever (10 page)

He exhaled, and it was as if the coldness left him. “What am I to do with you, Miss Wynne?”

Miss Wynne? Who was Miss Wynne? So overwhelmed was Julie by his lordship’s proximity (and the notion he might see her corset) that she forgot she had acquired a last name. She wriggled, inadvertently brushing her breasts against his arm. The sensation was surprisingly pleasant. “Um?”

The earl’s expression suggested he might be experiencing some sensations of his own. “You can no longer deny that we have met before.”

He underestimated Julie. “I
don’t
deny it. We met at Carlton House, my lord.”

“We met prior to that, my girl, and I have the knot on my head to prove it. Was it necessary to hit me so hard?”

Julie disliked being so deceitful. “I didn’t—”

“Let me refresh your memory.” He released her. “Ugly statue with the head of a hippopotamus, tail of a crocodile, legs and arms of a lion?”

A very ugly statue, and yet he hadn’t called a constable. Julie stole a quick glance at the hall door. “You followed me,” she said.

“I came here tonight for you. I knew Lady Georgiana would attend. I arrived in time to see you flitting up the staircase.” The earl turned the glove over in his hands. “I believe that I shall call you Julie. The fact that I know you to be an impostor — and yes, I
do
know it; you’re no more a parson’s daughter than I am the king — surely puts us on informal terms. And in turn you must call me Ned.”

She must call him a thatch-gallows, thought Julie. She didn’t mean to do so out loud.

So overset was she, however, that she did exactly that. “For you to cast aspersions on my character,” the earl retorted, “is like the pot calling the kettle black.”

“I’m not the one carrying around a pilfered glove.”

“Yes, but I’m not the one who pilfered it. Speaking of which—”

Julie was on the verge of suggesting to her companion what he
might do with his questions when she heard the door latch snick. Before she could as much as blink, ‘Call-me-Ned’ had caught her up as easily as if she weighed no more than a flea, carried her to the tall wardrobe, and closed them both inside. “Fortunately for you, sunshine,” he whispered, “chivalry is not dead.”

His breath stroked warm against her cheek, feathered through her curls. It felt better than she’d ever dreamed breath could. He smelled faintly of brandy, and Julie wondered where he had been before he came here.

Looking for her, she reminded herself. Which proved a person should be careful what she wished, for she had caught the interest of a swell.

His arm was tight around her, like a band of iron holding her imprisoned against his body. His hand was splayed flat across her ribs, his thumb only inches from her breast, her back warm and toasty where it pressed against his chest.

Lord Dorset was perfectly at ease with their situation. Perhaps he had hid in a wardrobe before
, cocooned by a crush of muslin and silk and inhaling stale perfume
. Her own heart was pounding fit to burst.

He must surely feel it. The scoundrel was probably used to
females responding to him this way. No question he was a favorite with the ladies. Certainly he showed no reservation in manhandling
her.
Julie didn’t mind. Being held like this was better than a waltz. Better even than sitting on his lap.

And wasn’t she betwattled, crouched here in the darkness thinking moonish things while disaster waited outside the wardrobe door?

Someone was in the bedroom. Julie heard the sounds of movement, the slide of a drawer. Impossible to tell if the intruder was female or male. As Julie waited to be discovered, her heart crawled up into her throat.

The outer door opened again, and closed. She strained her ears, heard nothing.

Julie stirred. Ned breathed, “Be still.”

She waited, grateful for a few moments’ respite before the piper must be paid.

He opened the wardrobe door; stepped into the room; made sure it was empty, and then held out his hand. Julie untangled herself from the abused apparel. Mme Morel’s abigail was going to have fits.

The earl extricated her from the wardrobe’s depths, but did not let her go. “You would have been caught,” he said.

And didn’t she know it? “I wasn’t doing anything wrong. My lord.” Julie tried to withdraw her hand from his.

“As I’ve already told you, we’re way past ‘my lord’.” Instead of
releasing her, as a gentleman would have done immediately he realized she wished it — or so Julie presumed; she had scant true knowledge of the breed, save Tony, who one could scarcely count — Lord Dorset (as she thought of him rebelliously) pulled her with him toward the door. He looked out into the hallway. “Come along.”

Julie dug her heels into the carpet. “Come along where?”

“Where do you think? I’m taking you back where you belong.”

He meant to betray her. Julie had regretted bashing the handsome young lordling with his statue. Now she wished she had hit him hard enough to break open his traitorous skull.

She glanced frantically around. The candlesticks were out of reach. “Wait. You don’t understand.”

“I understand that the longer we linger here, the greater the chance that we’ll both end up in the suds. I will lay it out for you: you’re a common thief, Miss Wynne, albeit a lovely one. A series of small thefts have plagued the
ton
since you arrived on the scene. An amethyst pendant. A chrysoberyl bracelet. A turquoise and pearl brooch. Now we may add to the tally a stained leather glove.”

A number of thoughts chased themselves through Julie’s brain as she listened to this speech. Astonishment that a fine gentleman should think her pretty. Regret that he had gone back to calling her Miss Wynne. Dismay that she’d forgotten about the stained glove.

She shivered. He frowned. “Are you cold?”

“A goose walked over my grave. About that glove—”

“We need to discuss this, but not now.” He drew her with him down the hall.

Julie tried, unsuccessfully, to wriggle out of his grasp. “You’re all about in your head if you think we may have a proper conversation over tea and biscuits in Newgate.”

“Who said anything about Newgate?”

“You said you were taking me back where I belong.”

“You think you belong in Newgate, hardened criminal that you are?” To her astonishment, he smiled. “I’m taking you back to the ballroom, Miss Wynne. Escorting you myself, so that you don’t get lost again.”

The chatter of voices, the strains of the orchestra grew louder. They rounded a corner and were swept up into a throng of ladies wearing splendid gowns and jewels, gentlemen in excellently tailored trousers and fine frock coats.

Ned raised his voice. “You are aware, I’m sure, that York has a rich Roman and Viking history, result of being capital of both the Roman province of Britannia Interior and the Viking kingdom of Yorvik. I am eager to hear your impressions of The Shambles, Miss Wynne, and Clifford’s Tower.”

What impressions Julie would have liked to share with the earl,
she dared not, as he well knew. She contented herself with a speaking glance.

“We must talk,” he said, more softly. “Meet me in Hyde Park tomorrow at dawn. The northeast corner. Where the Tyburn gallows stood.”

Tyburn. Gallows. Julie felt herself blanch. “Clunch,” he added. “If I was going to inform on you, I would have already done so. Don’t say you can’t steal away, because I know otherwise.”

He
wasn’t
going to betray her. “You don’t know the time of day, my lord.”

He smiled at her rebellious expression. “I know what you’ve forgotten:  I have the glove.”

Chapter Ten

Use the occasion, for it passes swiftly.
— Ovid

Hyde Park was nigh deserted at this early hour, save for those few
hardy gentlemen like Lord Dorset who enjoyed a brisk gallop at dawn. Ned met none of his acquaintance, nor had he expected to. Now he and Soldier waited, at the northeast corner, where the Tyburn Triple Tree had stood until it was removed for obstructing the highway.

Ned imagined the gallows might well have done that; it had been a huge triangular construction capable of hanging twenty-four prisoners at once, eight on each horizontal beam. Convicted felons were released from their chains and put on a cart, often seated on their coffins; taken to St Sepulchre’s church to receive nosegays of posies, driven
down Snow Hill and across Fleet Ditch, then back up to High Holborn. Accompanied by hangman, peace officers, constables and an ever-growing festive crowd, the procession would arrive at last at the gallows, there to watch the condemned prisoner suffer a slow agonizing death. As if it weren’t indignity enough to jerk and thrash about at the end of a rope, a proceeding that might go on a considerable time if someone wasn’t inclined to pull on the poor
bastard’s legs or beat on his chest to hasten death, his clothes were
then stripped off and given to the hangman, who also peddled body parts, hair and blood, and pieces of the fatal rope. Because
the procession to Tyburn had grown more and more unmanageable, executions were moved to Newgate prison in 1783.

Ned saw Julie, in the distance, walking toward him. Golden  curls peeped from beneath the hood of her dark cloak. He felt a queer clutch in his belly at the notion that such a vivid creature should hang. No doubt remained in his mind that she was behind the recent thefts.

Fortunately for Miss Wynne, Ned was no longer in service to the Crown. Yet he could hardly let her go on as she had been. How he was to prevent her, he hadn’t determined — arranging that they meet on this particular history-filled corner had been his first step in that direction — but prevent her he must, if not for her own good and the good of all the noble ladies whose jewel boxes she threatened, for his own peace of mind.

She hadn’t tried to run, and he gave her credit for it. Ned had set his batman to watching Julie after they met at Carlton House, a task that Bates was finding more onerous than he had anticipated he might.

Julie came to a stop in front of Ned, looking as if she wished him to perdition. He leaned down: “Give me your hand.” Warily, she obeyed. Her grip was surprisingly strong. She wasn’t wearing gloves.

Ned pulled her up on the saddle in front of him, settled her sideways across his lap. She squeaked and clutched his arm. At Ned’s signal, Soldier moved forward. Julie sat stiff as a post.

The hood of her cloak had fallen back. Her body was warm against his chest, his thigh; her soft curls brushed Ned’s chin. “Relax. You’re safe,” he said.

Julie remained rigidly silent as they rode diagonally across the park to the Serpentine, the lake created by the damming of the Westhaven River at the request of George II’s wife. To the south was the bridle
trail known as Rotten Row, so favored by the
ton.
Ned guided Soldier toward the wide path on the north side of the lake. There was no lack of wildlife in the vicinity: rabbits and squirrels, geese and swans, the occasional fox.

Ned swung Julie down from the saddle. She looked up at him. “I’ve never ridden on a horse before.”

“You surprise me,” Ned said gravely as he also dismounted. “What did you think?”

“I think your horse is very tall and I was afraid I might fall off. Does he have a name?”

“His name is Soldier. Turn over your hand, palm up.” Ned reached into his pocket for a lump of sugar. “Now hold it out to him.”

She obeyed. Soldier snuffled and delicately removed the sugar lump from her palm. Julie smiled. “His skin is so soft.”

Her skin would be softer. Ned decided he must discover just how soft it was. After
he discovered why she had stolen his statue, and the rest.

Julie stepped back. “I shouldn’t be here. Say what you mean to, because I don’t have long.”

Ned tucked her hand through his arm and held it fast, both for the pleasure of touching her, and in case she took it in her mind to leave. “Then I shall remind you that I know there is no Julie Wynne from York. What’s your real name, sunshine?”

“Why do you call me that?” She tried to tug away from him, but he held her fast.

“Because sunshine is yellow, like your hair.”

Julie scowled. “So is sulphur. How would you like it if someone called you grasshopper because your eyes are green?”

Ned laughed. She delighted him. “I paid you a compliment. In response you should flutter your eyelashes and simper and say ‘oh, la, my lord.’ No, I don’t wish you to do that!  Has no one ever paid you a compliment before?”

“Why should they?”

Leaving Soldier to follow behind and sample the vegetation, Ned drew her beside him along the path. “For any number of reasons. A compliment is an indication of esteem, respect, affection, admiration. A sincere compliment lifts the spirits not only of the person who receives it, but he who pays it as well. So when I tell you that your hair is the loveliest I’ve ever seen and your eyes the most extraordinary, I’m expressing my admiration for you, and at the same time making myself feel good.”

The recipient of Ned’s compliments wrinkled her nose. “What you’re doing is emptying the butter dish over my head.”

She was quick and clever, and not easily caught off-guard. Ned tried a different approach. “I’ve noticed you don’t wear jewelry.”

“That’s a puzzle to you? Not all of us
have
jewelry, my lord.”

“Is that why you stole some? I question your taste. Topaz would suit you better. Amber. Jade. You are full of life and color, not prim and pastel. I would—”

He didn’t finish the thought; she kicked him in the shin. Ned felt no pain, due to the thick leather of his boot, but the act took him by surprise.

He released her. Julie demanded, “Are you offering me a slip on the shoulder, then?”

She was all puffed up and fierce, like a flustered banty hen, and the sight of her ruffled feathers made Ned smile again. “Come down off your high ropes. I was doing no such thing.”