Authors: Beth Pattillo
“This is a
. . .
”
She looked toward the gardener, who had opened the door of the wardrobe and cleared a space inside, and her spine tingled. “This is a
. . .
that is, it’s a
. . .
”
Nick grinned. “Yes, I know.”
Lucy felt the heat of anger flood her body from head to toe. Was it possible to kill a man while trapped with him inside a large piece of furniture? The scoundrel didn’t appear the least bit embarrassed. A key rattled in the door again, and Lucy found herself caught between the proverbial devil and the deep blue sea. Yet her decision was not a difficult one; better the devil that thought himself a hero than being discovered by Mr. Whippet.
She didn’t protest when Nick hustled her and Wellington into the wardrobe. Nick followed her inside and shut the door, drenching them in blackness as thoroughly as the rain had drenched their clothing. The well-made wardrobe allowed not a sliver of light to penetrate the dark interior. Nick shifted his weight toward her, and the wardrobe, which had looked so enormous from the outside, suddenly grew far too small for Lucy’s comfort. By necessity, they sat side by side, the outside of her leg brushing his, his shoulder rubbing against hers, the smell of damp rising from the rough wool of their wet clothing. A slow ache grew in her midsection. For a moment, Lucy let herself remember what it had felt like in Lady Belmont’s garden when he had trapped her against the wall, his body moving inexorably closer, closer
. . .
She heard the door to the bedchamber open, and Henny and Mr. Whippet entered the room. Lucy could hear their voices, slightly muffled, through the walls of the wardrobe.
“Take off your clothes.” Surprisingly, the voice was Henny’s, not Mr. Whippet’s. The instructions were followed by a sharp crack that made Lucy jump. Wellington roused and snuffled, repositioning his head against her shoulder. The gardener gave a muffled laugh, and a second wave of understanding washed over Lucy. Another loud crack sounded, the snap of a whip.
“Now, down on all fours.” From the rich pleasure in her voice, Henny was enjoying herself quite thoroughly. Mr. Whippet protested, but the whip cracked a third time. “Now, slave boy. Bark like a dog.”
Beside Lucy, the gardener shook with silent laughter, and Lucy felt the movement where their bodies pressed together. She suppressed the giggle that rose in her own throat. Nick shook harder, and Lucy gave his leg a pinch.
“Shh.” She kept her voice low, although Mr. Whippet’s antics might have drowned out a small cannon. “We’ll be found out.”
“Ow. Stop pinching me.” He captured her hand in his, and the urge to giggle died in her throat, quenched by the warmth of his fingers as
they caught her own. His touch felt familiar and yet strange, like a lover dreamed of but never met. Alarmed at her thoughts, Lucy tried to shift away from him. Her other hand cradled Wellington, and so she could only tug at Nick’s grip to try and free herself. He refused to release her, though, his strong fingers entwining with hers.
“Woof, woof,”
Mr. Whippet barked, and Lucy could tell he was enjoying the odd encounter. Wellington stirred in his sleep at the sound. When the Reverend Mr. Whippet actually howled, neither she nor the gardener could restrain themselves, and only by squeezing Nick’s hand with all her might could Lucy keep her laughter from escaping. Their shared mirth warmed her as
much as his touch.
“Drat that Henny.” Nick’s sotto voce words barely reached her ears. “I’ll see if there’s another way out. I’d not be surprised if there was.”
She refused to feel disappointed when he released her hand. With slow, deliberate movements, he turned and reached past her while the vicar’s howling continued. A moment later, Lucy felt the brush of air against her neck.
Nick didn’t say anything, just slid around her, and she knew she was meant to follow him. He took Wellington while she struggled against the restrictions of her heavy, wet skirts to clamber after him.
She emerged from the wardrobe into a larger space that was equally as dark.
“Here,” Nick said, the word echoing in the emptiness. She wondered if the blackness bothered him, for his voice cracked slightly. “Thank God I’ve found a door.”
She heard a handle turn, and a sliver of light appeared. Perhaps this man had his uses after all. Lucy blinked as she followed Nick into the next room.
Where the first chamber had been one of horrors, this one was the stuff of dreams. Light, gauzy fabrics were draped everywhere, as if by an angel’s hand, and the bed on the raised dais looked like the bower of a fairy queen. Each tabletop held a vase of fresh flowers, and in the corner, a pretty screen depicted cherubs frolicking in a garden. The room was fit for a princess, and its beauty took Lucy’s breath away.
Nick crossed to the other door of the chamber and quickly turned the key in the lock.
“That didn’t keep Henny out of the last room,” she said. He was far too appealing, and she needed to distance herself.
“Henny has special skills, a product of her childhood in Seven Dials,” he said with a wink, one conspirator to another, and she flushed. “I doubt many of the other young women at Madame St. Cloud’s are as proficient at picking locks. Besides, I imagine Henny thinks us still in the wardrobe listening to Mr. Whippet.”
Lucy was surprised that he knew the vicar. “You are acquainted with the man?” As soon as the words left her lips, she knew she’d made a mistake. The gardener’s handsome features showed no curiosity, but the sudden tension in his body betrayed his interest in her response.
“I know who he is. Perhaps you do as well?”
Lucy feigned nonchalance, afraid she’d tipped her hand, and turned to examine several gilt-framed paintings on the wall. “Mr. Whippet is vicar of the Charming parish. He is a frequent visitor in the duchess’s drawing room.”
The gardener stepped away from the door and approached her, his expression ominous, but Lucy held her ground. “Has he
. . .
bothered you?”
The hard line of the gardener’s jaw almost proved Lucy’s undoing. Oh, heavens, he cared that the repulsive vicar might have taken liberties with her. Drat all gardeners, especially the brown-eyed ones! She must put a stop to this silly attraction.
“The Reverend Mr. Whippet may cast me all manner of looks,” Lucy hedged, “but he will never lay one finger upon my person.”
“Indeed, he will not,” Nick agreed, and Lucy forced herself to ignore the pleasure his words caused to dance along her skin.
“You didn’t need to rescue me.” She should divert him from his preoccupation with Mr. Whippet, for such thoughts might lead him to her identity. “In fact, you’ve only made things worse.”
“Worse? Pray tell, princess, how much worse do you believe this situation can be? Our friends Tully and Hector are no pleasant picnic at Kew.”
“You’ve been to Kew?” Perhaps she could turn the subject.
He hesitated, the pause of a man deciding whether to lie, and a frisson of apprehension crawled up her spine.
“I’m a gardener. Of course I’ve been to Kew.” He said the words with authority, perhaps too much so.
“But
. . .
”
“I think it would be in our best interest to remain here for the night.” He crossed to the window where the heavy clouds had brought an early end to the long summer day. “We can leave in the morning, when the servants go about their business. It shouldn’t be difficult to blend in.” He looked toward her. “Unless, of course, you can think of a better hiding place.”
“I shouldn’t stay here.” Lucy shivered, not from her wet clothes but from the danger she knew remaining in this man’s presence would bring. Yet she had nowhere else to go in her rain-soaked dress. Her sense of self-preservation, though, was strong enough to realize that each moment spent in this man’s company tempted her to forget her hard-won independence. “My step
. . .
that is, my employer will be searching for me,” she hedged. Perhaps dodging Sidmouth’s thugs would be preferable after all to spending a night with a man she was tempted to depend upon.
He cast aside her concerns with a dismissive wave. “Your employer will have to wait until we rid ourselves of those ruffians. They won’t have much difficulty tracing our steps to this house. In the morning, we can slip past them without them being any the wiser.” He cautiously lifted the draperies a mere inch. “Ah, it is as I thought. We have uninvited guests.”
Wellington snuffled against Lucy’s neck, but it was the thought of Sidmouth’s spies outside that caused icy tendrils to snake through her. She bent down and placed the sleeping pug on one of the large cushions. Wellington twitched and then began snoring in earnest. “Can you see them?” She moved to join the gardener by the window, but he waved her away.
“Let’s not confirm their suspicions. Our new friend Tully is wedged between two houses across the street. I wonder if he’s considered that a red cap is not the most inconspicuous choice.” He paused for a moment. “I don’t see the other one. No doubt he’s in back, watching the stables.”
Lucy wiped her damp palms against her even damper skirt. Thank heavens she had given Mr. Selkirk the list of reformers’ names. “They found us rather quickly.”
“It seems they have incentive.” He strode to the middle of the room and, stepping onto the dais, pulled back the bedclothes. Lucy eyed him warily. The best course might be to pretend to go along with his plan. Once he was asleep, she could quit the house under the cover of darkness. Perhaps she could steal his clothes and contrive somehow to disguise herself. But then where would she go? She could not return home now that Sidmouth’s men knew where she lived, and she refused to endanger any of the other reformers by seeking shelter with them.
He waved toward the painted screen in the corner. “No doubt Madame keeps night-rails and such back there. Make yourself as comfortable as you like.”
“I will do no such thing.” Lucy bristled. Perhaps he had not contrived their current circumstances, but his suggestion revealed he was just a man, after all. She would leave, and immediately. In one quick motion, she scooped Wellington from the pillow where he was happily twitching in his sleep and started for the door. “Your rescue, sir, is at an end. Good evening.”
He reached the door before she did, blocking her way. “Are you daft? Mr. Whippet is still in the house, and those imbeciles outside are eager to work their best villainy.”
“I will not share that bed with you.” No point in beating around the bush, even if the declaration did make her blush a fiery red from head to toe.
For a moment, he did not respond. Whatever he was thinking, he did not allow his features to reveal his thoughts. They stood mere inches apart, both as unbending as two bars of iron.
“You needn’t worry,” he said, his dark eyes unreadable. “You may be the most exasperating female I’ve ever met, but you’re perfectly safe, despite our rather
. . .
unusual circumstances.”
Lucy hesitated. “On your honor?” It seemed a rather foolish promise to extract from a man who was not a gentleman, but he was right. She had nowhere else to go, and even greater danger lurked outside Madame St. Cloud’s house.
“On my honor. Now, let us prepare for bed. We’ll need to rise with the dawn if we want to slip out of here among the servants going about their morning rounds.” He reached for her shoulders and spun her about. With a little push, he propelled her toward the screen in the corner. “Do whatever you like about the night-rails, but shed those wet things. I don’t fancy playing nursemaid if you contract pneumonia.”
Lucy trembled at the image of this man cradling her in his arms and trying to tempt her with a cup of broth. She had always wondered about the secret world of men and women, a world she had not explored beyond a few kisses. The most dangerous quality about her gardener was that he made her want to explore the feelings between them in a way forbidden to young women of good birth.
Lucy refused to entertain temptation, though. Instead, she squared her shoulders and ducked behind the screen, thankful for its protection. She shed her wet dress, and her ablutions took only a few moments. Several thin night-rails of satin and lace hung on pegs behind the screen, and Lucy considered them, each more revealing than the one before. She heard the sound of Nick’s boots falling to the floor, and apprehension knotted her belly. Was she ten kinds of a fool to think that she was safer in this room than in trying to escape on her own?