Authors: Beth Pattillo
Madame’s eyes narrowed, and Lucy realized she was not a woman to be taken lightly. “Have a care, Nicky, even if you are a favorite. Though it is small, this house is my kingdom, and I alone rule here.”
Lord Wellstone laughed. “Well said, Madame. I’m not leaving either, Nick. You need someone in this room with two clear thoughts to rub together.” He threw an apologetic look at the Frenchwoman. “Besides Madame, that is.”
“I will not stay where I am not appreciated.” The woman’s generous lips pouted quite effectively. Lucy wished she could employ such a trick without appearing foolish. “What? Do you think I rose from an empty bed to deal with the likes of you two
enfants
?”
Nick and Lord Wellstone ducked their heads, appearing more like contrite schoolboys than men who frequented such an establishment, which made Lucy smile in spite of her predicament. The viscount stepped aside as Madame swept from the room. He closed the door after her, and his devil-may-care facade vanished. Lucy wished she could sink through the mattress, for the time to pay the piper had come.
“By all that’s holy, Nick, what have you done now? I’ve been searching all night. It finally occurred to me that you might come here.”
Lucy watched in fascination as the two men met as equals. The gardener snorted. “Give over, Crispin. You put me up to this. It only wants your playing the innocent to become a complete farce.” He moved across the room and peered through the curtains. “Did you see the one in front?”
“The only person in London who hasn’t is the blind beggar in Covent Garden.” Lord Wellstone moved to stand beside Nick, and the two of them studied the street below. “That red cap lacks subtlety.”
“Exactly,” Nick replied with a grin, and Lucy realized that these men were not aristocrat and servant. They were friends, evidently of some long-standing nature. As Madame had intuited, something was not right. The two men were absorbed in their perusal of the street, and Lucy knew a better opportunity for escape might not come. She was accustomed to relying on no one but herself; and though she had no idea how her current difficulties would be resolved, the time had come for her to take her fate back into her own hands.
Out of the corner of her eye, she gauged the distance to the secret door. Silently, she pulled back the bed linens and slid to the opposite side of the mattress. The small steps leading to the dais held under her weight without any telltale creaking. She slipped behind the screen and lifted her old dress from the peg where she’d hung it to dry. With quiet stealth, she traded Madame St. Cloud’s satin for her own patched and mended woolen.
“We’ll slip out among the servants,” Nick said from the window.
“Um.” Lord Wellstone’s voice was thoughtful. Lucy moved from behind the screen and eased her way toward the door. “I don’t know, Nicky. What we really want is to lock them up right and tight, so they don’t spill news of yesterday’s events. It’s the only way to protect
. . .
”
“Lucy!” The gardener’s tone rang with imperial command.
She froze, her hand on the doorknob, and in that instant, the strength of her attraction to him and the need to depend upon him hit with all the force of a gale at sea. Leaving was dangerous, but remaining here, with
him
, was far more terrifying than the thugs waiting outside. Heart in her throat, she yanked open the door and sped into the darkness of the secret corridor as if her life depended on her escape.
Her advantage was not as great as she’d hoped. A moment later he was behind her, his boots clattering against the stone. Her fingers brushed along the wall, frantically seeking the door to the wardrobe. They brushed against the knob, and she tugged it open. Just as she lifted the hem of her skirt to clamber inside, a pair of strong hands grasped her waist.
WAS SHE deliberately torturing him? The blasted girl squirmed in his grasp, every part of her body in contact with his. If she did not hold still, he wouldn’t be held responsible for his body’s response. After all, he was only human. A mere mortal grasping a very enticing, exasperating woman who made his head spin, not that he would admit it to anyone but himself.
“Let me go,” she demanded, but he kept his grasp firm.
“I should be happy to throw you to the lions, you ungrateful little baggage, but not until I’m ready.”
“I can take care of myself,” she protested and drew back her leg to kick him in the shin. Nick stopped her by scooping her into his arms. The moment he did, he realized his mistake. The sleepy, warm scent of her washed over him, completely at odds with the spitfire that wriggled in his arms.
Nick strode briskly down the corridor, eager to rid himself of his tempting burden, and reentered the room where Crispin waited. He summoned all the indifference he could manage. “If you’re determined to sacrifice yourself on the altar of whatever cause you’re pursuing,” he admonished her, “then at least have some breakfast first. I’d hate to face those thugs on an empty stomach.”
He set her on her feet and stepped back. It was a gamble, he knew. Given her stubbornness, she was likely to turn and flee once more, but he wasn’t going to follow her again. If she ran from him this time, he was going to let her go. Truly.
And if Crispin could read his thoughts, he would be howling with laughter.
Thankfully, she didn’t run. With a mutinous look, she moved toward the cushion where Wellington stretched and yawned.
“As I was saying,” Crispin drawled from the settee, “I have a plan, if the two of you are willing to listen.”
Nick scowled, and the girl made no answer.
“Well?” Crispin propped up his feet on the table opposite.
“Let’s hear it,” Nick answered grudgingly, still distracted by the most infuriating scullery maid in London.
Ignoring him, the chit turned toward Crispin. “What sort of plan, my lord?”
“Rather simple, but rather daring, I should say.” Crispin preened under her attention, and Nick clenched his fists. Why should he care that the girl was focusing her attention on Crispin? “We walk out right under their noses,” Crispin said, as if it weren’t the most obvious scheme in the world.
“Which would be a smashing plan,” Nick drawled, since he’d already thought of it, “except that once we’re out of sight, they’ll run straight to their superiors.”
Lucy eyed him warily. “Their superiors? Do you believe them some sort of spies?”
Nick laughed. “Princess, we both know who they are. Delectable as you may be,” he said, and then wished he hadn’t, but it was too late to unsay the words. “Delectable as you may be, they haven’t hung about on account of your golden curls.”
“Quite right,” Crispin added with a winning smile, “although it only proves what great heathens they are.”
Lucy blushed, and Nick cursed under his breath. He caught Crispin’s eye and lowered his brows, warning him. “The plan?” Nick prompted.
“Oh, it’s quite simple, really. We make it look as
if we’re sneaking away, but in reality, it’s a trap. We’ll lure them somewhere and then lock them up. Once we’ve got them, it should be a small matter to put them on a ship bound for Australia or the Americas. With the pair of them off the scent, no one is the wiser, and we can all return to our lives.”
“That is brilliant, my lord.” Lucy smiled warmly at Crispin, and Nick wanted to throttle him, except that she was right. It was a good plan.
“And the particulars?” he asked grudgingly.
“Quite easily managed, actually, if the two of you are willing to cooperate.”
Nick looked at Lucy, who was regarding him as if he were the lowest species of insect. “The sooner we leave this place, the better,” he said. He kept his eyes still, his face impassive. With any luck, in a few hours she’d be safely ensconced in the Duchess of Nottingham’s kitchen, and he could go on with his life.
The thought should have cheered him. Instead, he found it completely depressing.
“Well, then, that’s it,” Crispin said. “Now we simply need a corset.”
Lucy blushed. “My lord!”
Crispin laughed. “Don’t worry, love, it’s not for you. It’s for Nick.”
NICK SWORE that he would revenge himself against Crispin, even if it took his last breath. He adjusted the train of the gown’s skirt with one hand and tried not to breathe, since the restrictive undergarments he wore didn’t allow for such non-essential movement as expansion of his lungs. The moment this charade was finished, he was going to Gentleman Jackson’s boxing salon and pummel some poor soul into the ground. Perhaps he could convince Crispin to come along.
His friend was adjusting the jaunty cap on Lucy’s head. “Don’t look about,” Crispin instructed her. “Just keep your head down like a proper groom.” He tweaked the shoulders of the short jacket that did nothing to conceal the way her shapely hips filled out the snug trousers. Nick had protested those trousers, but Crispin had waved him off with a laugh. Outside, a hackney waited at the curb. The thug with the red cap still lurked about the building opposite Madame St. Cloud’s establishment, and the ruffian was about to be treated to a rare show.
Lucy handed Wellington to Henny and sniffed back a tear. “Someone will take you home soon, poppet.” Wellington looked unperturbed as
he burrowed his head against Henny’s bosom.
“We’ll spoil him dreadfully,” Henny said by way of consolation.
Lucy eyed her warily. “Not too many sweetmeats,” she said. “And absolutely no cake.”
Henny pouted, and Nick decided it was time. The sooner he got out of this ridiculous outfit, the better.
“Let’s go.” He offered his arm to Lucy and then, realizing how ridiculous he looked dressed in the borrowed morning gown and pelisse, his hand fell to his side. Lucy giggled, and his temper began a slow burn. He knew he played the fool often enough, but rarely did he so accurately dress the part.
Henny opened the door for them, and Wellington yipped a farewell. Nick stepped over the threshold and descended the steps, his head held high and the plumes in his bonnet waving.
Lucy skipped down the steps beside him in a fair imitation of a young groom. She opened the door to the cab and held out her hand to assist him inside. For a brief second he balked, wondering how on earth he was supposed to launch himself into the hackney.
“Pull up the hem,” Lucy whispered. He reached down and hiked up the skirt beyond the bounds of modesty and launched himself into the carriage. Lucy scrambled in after him. In a falsetto voice, Nick trilled orders to the driver. A moment later, the cab moved off down the road.
“Do you think Tully took the bait?” Lucy peered out of the window, but Nick pulled her back.
“If he didn’t, he’s a bigger idiot than I took him for. We are the most unconvincing pair ever to trade skirts for pants, or vice versa.”
A sharp whistle rent the air, and Nick relaxed, at least as much as a man could relax while wearing a petticoat. “There’s his signal to the behemoth around back.” He opened the reticule Madame had given him and drew out a small mirror. “Hold this out the window, just so.” He demonstrated the angle and then handed her the glass.
Nick watched as
Lucy placed the mirror. “A little to the left. Yes, that’s it.” He had a clear view of the cobbled street behind them and of the man in the red cap loping along after the carriage. In a moment, he was joined by the taller of the two thugs. “Excellent. You can draw it in now.”
She did and paused for a moment to study her own reflection in the small glass. “I rather like this outfit,” she said, smiling at herself in the mirror as she adjusted her cap to a more rakish angle.
Nick’s temperature rose. “That outfit is as
temporary as it is indecent. You’re in enough trouble without slinking through London in trousers.”
She turned her smile on him, and Nick’s stomach clenched. “With such an efficient rescuer,” she taunted, “I needn’t worry.” She was teasing him, and he liked it as much as he despised it. “Especially one who is so . . . à la mode.” Her eyes sparkled as they traveled over him, and she sat up straighter, as if preparing for battle.