Authors: Beth Pattillo
Yip! Yip!
Wellington appeared on the steps of Lady Belmont’s town home, his gelatinous torso trembling with excitement.
“Stay, Wellington,” Nick ordered as they passed by, but it was a hopeless cause. The little dog tumbled down the steps and hit the pavement at a dead run. Nick glanced over his shoulder to find Wellington barreling along behind them.
“Wait for Wellington,” the girl admonished him, but Nick ignored her and instead racked his brain in an attempt to formulate a plan. The cobblestones passed quickly underfoot, yet he had no idea where he was headed. He could hardly take the girl back to his rooms at the Cromwell, especially since she believed him to be a gardener, and the only other respectable residence he frequented was Lady Belmont’s, where the thugs had found her. Well, if he couldn’t take her to a reputable house, why not a disreputable one? It was not as if the scullery maid whose wrist fit so neatly in the circle of his fingers had any high-born sensibilities that might be offended, or a reputation that would be compromised.
At that moment, the clouds burst, and rain poured forth in a torrent, drenching Nick and his companion in a matter of moments. The soggy turn of events decided the matter, and he headed in the direction of an establishment he knew all too well.
LUCY WIPED THE rain from her face and, for once in her life, wished for a bonnet. There was only one way to deal with a man determined to rescue, and that was to let him believe himself the hero. He would tire of his antics soon enough, and until he did, she would try to think of a plan, for with two of Sidmouth’s thugs lying unconscious in her stepmother’s kitchen, disaster loomed even larger than before, and her chances of emerging from this bumble-broth unscathed were diminishing rapidly.
The gardener led her through a jumble of London streets, the fingers encircling her wrist strong but gentle. The very possessiveness of the gesture irked her. He doubled back and then ducked through an alleyway while Wellington grunted with the effort of keeping pace. She lost track of time when she began to tire. The rain drenched her hair and seeped down her spine until she was thoroughly wet.
Lucy glanced behind them and could see no sign of pursuit. “We can stop now,” she said to the gardener, her voice low so as not to attract attention.
“We’re not stopping until we’re safe.” He didn’t turn to look at her, just plowed ahead through the downpour and the growing foot traffic as they approached the old part of the city. Lucy fumed and eyed the passing carriages, praying that Wellington would not feel like chasing a barouche.
“The only thing endangering us now is this forced march through the middle of London,” she muttered. “It’s high-handed tactics like this that make women dream of suffrage.”
His shoulders tightened for a brief moment, but he didn’t break his stride. “Only a bit further now.”
“Where?” They were leaving the respectable part of the city, and ahead lay the East End and its squalid uncertainties. She knew the area well enough. The reform meetings were held in its smoky taprooms, and she had ferried messages back and forth between most of them.
The gardener stopped so suddenly that she collided with his back. Beneath his wet homespun smock, his muscles were like iron, and Lucy felt the shock of the contact all the way to her toes. Their momentum threw him against the waist-high ornamental gate that stood guard in front of a shabby row house, the worn brick facade clinging to its last vestiges of gentility.
Lucy caught the rain-dampened post and steadied herself. She would not be distracted by the longing that rose within her at the reminder of his strength. Wellington collapsed at her feet, and his eyes rolled back in his head as he wheezed.
“Here?” she asked. The house was rather unremarkable, with only a few windows lit in the face of the darkening sky.
“Yes, here.” The gardener swung open the gate and led her up the short walk.
The polished bronze knocker on the door appeared well worn, as if a great number of guests had made use of it. Lucy shot a glance at her rescuer as he lifted the heavy bronze and gave three quick raps, wondering at the man’s audacity. He was a servant, and so was she, as far as he knew. What were they doing on the front steps?
They waited several long moments for an answer, and then the door opened to reveal a beautiful young woman in a mobcap and apron.
“Nicky!” Her eyes lit with pleasure when she saw the tall gardener. She threw back the door. “Oh, Nicky, it’s been ages!” She launched herself across the threshold and into his arms. Wellington barked when the young woman pressed her lips against the gardener’s mouth, and Lucy felt the unwelcome urge to strike someone. Or at least snatch off her mobcap and pull her hair.
“You naughty boy, where have you been?” The beauty stepped back and gave his arm a playful swat. “Shame upon you, Nicky.”
“Hello, Henny.” The gardener smiled without the least embarrassment at the maid’s forwardness. “I’m afraid I’ve been occupied elsewhere of late.”
Lucy rolled her eyes and snorted, but the maid only laughed. “I’m sure you’ve been a busy boy.” Her eyes traveled suggestively over his smock and breeches, and Lucy blushed on his behalf, or maybe her own. The maid’s mouth formed a petulant little pout. “Dressed in that costume, you are irresistible.”
“As are you,” he said, indicating her attire, and he smiled in return, a lazy, indolent smile. A smile that Lucy had not yet seen, and made her knees go decidedly weak, even though it was not intended for her. Lucy decided perhaps she would hit him instead.
“Ahem.” She cleared her throat. It was time to remind the two moonlings that another party was present, not to mention an impressionable dog. “This reunion is quite touching, I’m sure, but wasn’t the idea to escape notice?” Lucy was proud that her voice held all of the asperity and none of the jealousy she felt.
The maid turned, as if noticing her for the first time. “Oh, hello. Are you the new girl?”
The exasperating gardener gave a shout of laughter. “No, Henny. Never the new girl. Listen, we must get out of sight.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Surely Madame St. Cloud could allow us the use of her drawing room for a bit?”
“But Nicky, have you forgotten? It’s Tuesday. The drawing room is always used on Tuesdays.” Her suggestive laughter grated on Lucy’s nerves. What could be scandalous about a Frenchwoman using her drawing room on a Tuesday?
“Then someplace else,” the gardener said. “It doesn’t matter where.”
The maid turned her attention to Lucy, her eyes traveling up and down, taking note of Lucy’s wet, faded dress and disheveled appearance. Henny’s eyes lit with a low flame of spite, but Lucy refused to cower.
“Well, there is one room that’s not in use.” The maid smiled at Nicky, looking like a cat promised a dish of cream, and a knot of unease tied itself in Lucy’s chest.
“Now, Henny,” the gardener protested.
“It’s that or nothing, I’m afraid.”
The gardener slanted Lucy a sidelong look, and Lucy met his gaze with defiance. Whatever the problem, clearly the pair believed Lucy was not up to the challenge. “Are we to stand here until night falls?” They would never see her flinch, just as she had never allowed her stepmother to force her into showing fear. “Or shall we lurk about as if we were foxes waiting to take tea with the hunt?”
Henny smiled with satisfaction, and the gardener sighed. “Very well, then. Lead on, Henny.” He turned to Lucy. “Just remember that you agreed to this.”
The maid stepped back, the gardener took Lucy’s arm, Wellington heaved his bulk up the last step, and much to Lucy’s apprehension, the four of them entered the house.
Although the faint sound of voices could be heard from behind closed doors, Lucy breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the foyer was deserted. Perhaps this unremarkable home was as
good a place as any to hide until she could sort through her difficulties and arrive at a plan. She was not depending on his help but merely being practical.
The maid led them up the main staircase, and Wellington moaned dramatically as he heaved himself upward, until Lucy bent down and scooped his wet little body into her arms. They followed the maid down a corridor, and when they reached the end, Henny stopped at a mahogany door. She turned the knob, and the gardener gestured for Lucy to enter the room first. She caught the glance he shot the maid, and the hairs on the back of Lucy’s neck snapped to attention. After a slight hesitation, though, she complied and stepped through the doorway.
Lucy took one look inside the chamber and gasped. The room was a terrifying menagerie of leather, steel, and wood. Henny gave a throaty laugh at Lucy’s shock, and for a moment, Lucy’s feet failed her. Then the pressure of the gardener’s hand on her arm jolted her into action. She moved forward, fascinated. Morbidly so.
“It’s a torture chamber,” she breathed, too stunned to be afraid.
The only remotely recognizable items were a large bed that dominated the center of the room and a huge wardrobe standing in the corner. Her stomach clenched with fear, and she frantically cast about for another exit. She glanced at the man beside her, who regarded her with amused brown eyes.
Instinctively, Lucy pulled her arm free from his grip with a sharp tug and turned toward the door. One step, then two—she was almost through the open doorway when his fingers closed around her wrist once more.
“Wait,” he said.
In her panic, Lucy lost her balance, but the gardener steadied her and then took the squirming Wellington from her arms.
“It’s not what you think.”
Henny snorted. “It’s exactly what she thinks, Nicky.”
The gardener shot the maid a silencing look. Lucy wondered if he were distracted enough for her to break free again, but she couldn’t leave without Wellington, whom the gardener was clutching like a sack of flour. “I mean the situation. The situation is not what it appears to be.”
“Wellington and I want to go home.” Lucy kept her voice firm so that it did not betray the fear that knotted her gut. She should never have trusted him. Servants who used the front door. A room that resembled a medieval chamber of horrors. Perhaps they were white slavers. Perhaps
. . .
The heavy tread of a man’s footsteps sounded on the stairs. “Someone’s coming,” Henny hissed. She darted to the doorway and peered out before turning back toward them. “Lock the door behind you. I don’t want to get thrown out on my
. . .
”
“Enough.” The gardener silenced her with a sharp motion. “Tell Madame I’ve taken the room, and that I don’t wish to be disturbed.”
“You, taken this room?” Henny’s grin revealed uneven teeth, the only blemish in her otherwise attractive face. “Madame will never believe it, Nicky.” Henny gave him a saucy wink and left, closing the door behind her. Lucy bristled at the flirtation and despised herself for it. She could only pray that this nightmare would end soon, because her life had gone horribly wrong from the moment this infuriating man had put his head in the way of Lady Belmont’s garden door. She’d thought this might be a temporary sanctuary, but once more, she’d landed in the soup.
The gardener shoved Wellington into her arms and moved to turn the key in the lock. At the moment, Sidmouth’s thugs didn’t appear so threatening, not compared with the aggravation this man elicited. Perhaps she could imprison him in one of these contraptions and
. . .
He turned around. “Don’t call me Nicky.” His dark eyes flashed with warning. “I despise that name.”
“What shall I call you, then?” She cradled Wellington closer, more than willing to offer a few choice suggestions of her own.
“Call me Nick. Or Nicholas, if you must.” He cast a look of scorn at Wellington. “Ungrateful beast.” Nick circled the hard leather settee in front of the cold marble fireplace. Lucy watched as he sank down on the unforgiving cushion and tried to find a comfortable spot. Remembering his battered head, which must surely ache, she felt a twinge of sympathy for him, but then this rescue was his idea, not hers. He was the one who had landed them in the midst of this chamber of horrors.
“Where are we?” Lucy would have liked to sit down as well, but the only other chair in the room was a monstrous wooden contraption. She didn’t even want to think about what it might be used for. “This is the strangest house I’ve ever seen.”
“Shh.” Nick sat up and motioned for silence. Then Lucy heard it, too—the sound of booted feet in the corridor outside the room. Over the footfalls came the sound of Henny’s distinctive giggle, and her voice, clear as a bell. “In here, sir. Your pleasure awaits.”
“Damn her eyes! Quick!” Nick jumped to his feet, grabbed Lucy’s wrist, and towed her across the room toward the enormous wardrobe. “In here.”
Lucy balked. She was not about to climb into the dark confines of a wardrobe with a man who sparked such dangerous feelings within her. “But you locked the door,” she protested.
The doorknob rattled. A deeper voice sounded in the hallway. “Step lively, wench. I’ve not got all day. The duchess had to attend to a contretemps in her kitchen, but she will expect me back to dine.”
Lucy gasped. Mr. Whippet! Wellington recognized the impatient masculine voice outside as well and growled again. Understanding dawned, clear as a summer morning. The macabre bedchamber, the drawing room that was being used by a
. . .
Lucy gulped. By a
group
of people. The maid, who was no maid at all. And the lecherous Mr. Whippet.