A Scandalous Lady (5 page)

“And how many times have you been caught?”

“I ain't
never
been caught.”

“Till now.”

She pressed her lips tightly together.

“Are purses all you take?”

She pinned him with a warning glare. “You're a nosy bloke, ain't ye.”

“Simply curious. There aren't many who dare steal from me.”

She supposed not. He didn't strike her as a man anyone easily swindled.

Well, long as they didn't get too personal, she decided that it wouldn't hurt to answer his questions. “I've filched a few watches. A bit of jewelry.” She shrugged, at once ashamed and proud of her ability. “Just depends on the person.” And how much they had to spare.

And how much Jack demanded.

“I'd be interested in a demonstration of your method.”

Fanny straightened in amazement. “You want me to
show
you?”

“We have a bit of a journey ahead of us. It might help pass the time. I expect you to return it, of course.”

She couldn't believe her ears. She'd shared her tricks, of course, but mostly to green kids new to Swift's band. Never to a grown man.

Never to her prince of dreams.

She licked her lips, strangely nervous about touching him. It hadn't bothered her before, but then, she hadn't given it any thought before, either. “I just . . . distract the mark . . . then slip me hand into 'is pocket—”

“Distract him, how?”

“Most times with a nudge. Or a bump.” Crikey, why'd he ever bring this up? “Sometimes I pretend I've lost something, like a pet or a bonnet. Or I pretend like I've met 'im before . . . like you.” She gazed into the swirling mist of his eyes. “First time I saw ye, I had this feelin' that I knew ye from someplace.”

“Where?” he whispered.

It didn't occur to her not to tell him. Lost in his eyes, she spoke the secret of her heart. “Someplace far, far away, where flowers grow wild in the fields and the smell of the sea is strong in me nose. The sun never stops shinin', and music never stops playin' . . .”

And then, she couldn't speak at all. Flutes and harps and violins. Sunshine clear to her toes. The glorious spice of birch and clover and . . .

Man.

Fanny yanked herself back against her seat, her breaths coming in short gasps. She hadn't meant to . . . she never should have . . . she was only supposed to . . .

Stunned, she glanced down, and his timepiece was tightly clasped in her hand. Oh, God. Fanny closed her eyes and damned herself a thousand times.

“You are quite adept.” He cleared his throat and reclaimed his watch. “I didn't feel a thing—this time.”

If only she could be so lucky. Her fingers tingled clear to her elbows. She curled her hand into a ball and pressed it against her stomach, disturbed by the sensation. “Ye really felt it before?”

“In a sense. Actually I felt more of a brush against my . . . hip.”

She glanced away, and mumbled, “I'll be sure t'remember that.”

He leaned back in his seat and tucked the watch back into the slit in his vest. “Perhaps you would like to send word to your mother of our arrangement.”

Fanny tensed, the remark hitting a tender chord. “I have no mum. She died when I was very young.”

A heartbeat passed, then he said, “I'm sorry.”

Paltry words, yet oddly, he sounded sincere, and she drew comfort from that.

“The lad who was with you, then. The one who escaped.”

Scatter. Fanny shut her eyes. She hadn't let herself think of him since he'd padded the hoof out of harm's way. He'd be back at the tunnels by now, with the baron's purse, no doubt getting what for from Jack over her whereabouts. He'd worry when she didn't fall in behind him, but that couldn't be helped. She didn't dare try another escape now; the baron would have the coppers on her tail faster than she could say Golden Jubilee and she'd not risk bringing trouble down on the rest of the band.

“We could send him a message if you wish.”

And let Jack get wind of her flight? That was the last thing she needed. Crikey, when he learned that she'd left him high and dry, there would be the devil to pay. No one left Gentleman Jack's band and got away with it. She had no idea where the baron was taking her, but it wouldn't take long for Jack to track her down. He'd send out a few of the boys asking about her at the police stations—that would buy her some time anyway. Time to put some distance between him and herself. Time to plan how she was going to get herself out of this mess . . .

“Ain't none of his business where I am,” she finally said. “ 'E knows his way home, and that's all that matters.” As soon as she figured out where she was going, and if it was safe, she'd get word to Scat. Somehow.

“Is there not anyone you wish to get word to?”

An unbidden image of a distinguished gentleman, bowing his head in grief, and a young girl in pale blond braids, took Fanny by surprise. A surge of longing rose up inside her, so swift and strong, that she had to shut her eyes against it. She hadn't thought of her father and sister in years. Why she'd think of them now didn't bear examining. “There's no one.”

There hadn't been in a long, long time.

Fanny pushed the memory away and once again stared absently out the window, hoping to put a stop to the endless tide of questions.

“You look weary. Perhaps you should rest now,” he suggested.

She searched his eyes in the dimness. What was his game? It wasn't human for a fellow to be so kind. Not in her world, where only the cutthroats and stone-hearts thrived. But then, she wasn't in her world anymore. She was tumbling headlong into the unknown with a man of equal mystery. A man of position, of power, of prestige. Should she fling herself at his feet in gratitude or throw herself from the hack and take her chances? She didn't know, and the confusion troubled her as much as anything. She was used to making split-second decisions.

Though she didn't mean to obey his order to rest, she closed her eyes anyway just to keep him from carrying on further conversation. How she managed to fall asleep with the coach jouncing hard enough to shake her teeth loose she couldn't begin to explain. But she must have dozed off at some point, for the next thing she knew, the hack had gone still.

Fanny blinked, then lifted her head from the side of the coach. A horse snorted. A harness jingled. She glanced around the misty darkness, and realized that they'd left the clatter of the city far behind. Fields of glistening grasses stretched for miles in each direction, broken by jagged silhouettes that she suspected were woods. Crikey, how long had she been asleep?

She leaned over to peer out the opposite window. It had stopped raining, but the wet pane gave her a somewhat distorted view of a stunning three-story red brick house lit by bell-shaped lamps attached to the veranda posts. White shutters flanked the profusion of windows, and a white front door bore a large black wreath in its center, silent testimony that this was a house of mourning.

“Where are we?”

“Radcliff. My manor house outside of London.”

“You live here?”

“Only during the season. We'll spend the night here and leave for my country estate in the morning.”

His country estate. A frisson of unease set her heart to quickening. She barely remembered a time when she hadn't lived in London, and the thought of leaving the city she'd called home for most of her life scared the wits out of her. “Is it far away?”

“A half day's journey, more or less.” With a twist of the handle, the door to the hack flung open on oiled hinges and he stepped out only to duck back inside. “Oh, and I have only one rule, Your Majesty. There will be no stealing from me again—ever—or I promise you, prison will sound heavenly in comparison.”

Chapter 3

T
he cryptic warning lay thick in the air long after the baron walked away from the cab. Fanny's first impulse was to tell him what he could do with his “agreement”; had he been any other bloke, with less control over her future, she probably would have.

But as she watched his long-legged stride eat up the distance to the front veranda, she was seized with a sudden desperation to call him back. Tell him that she had changed her mind, that she wanted him to take her back to London this instant.

It was nearly too dark to see, the only light coming from a pair of black lamps attached to the columns flanking the steps, and soon he was little more than a shadow among shadows. There he waited, silently beckoning her, one hand on the door handle.

Fanny frowned. What was this, some sort of trick? Surely he didn't expect her to walk in like some grand lady of the manor. Never in her life had Fanny of Bethnal Green been allowed to enter a house of the ruling class, much less do so through the main entrance. How did one react? Should she insist on entering through the back door? Accept the invitation? Turn tail and run?

She had never been a coward, but in that moment she sure felt like one. She swallowed heavily. Her heart pounded erratically. Her hands went damp and started to shake.

This is foolish,
she told herself. The boys in the band would laugh themselves goosey if they could see her now, crouching in the carriage like some timid mouse.

She sucked in a deep breath for courage, licked her lips, then forced herself out the hack. She took one small step toward him. Her heart picked up pace, slamming so hard against her breastbone that she could hardly breathe. She felt as if she were being challenged to do something reckless. Daring. Absolutely forbidden. And he, the baron, was just waiting for her to take that first step into his territory so he could give her a good cuffing for her insolence.

Her gaze shot to his hands again; one lay curled loosely at his side, the other rested on the long brass grip that served as a knob. He looked harmless enough, and yet, she couldn't shake the feeling that if she walked through that door, her life would never again be her own. Heart pounding, palms sweating, she took a second step. Then a third. Her legs seemed to have developed a will of their own as they carried her toward him, almost as if he were reeling her in by an invisible string. She didn't understand this power he had over her, but neither could she find the will to fight it.

Finally, she mounted the steps and stood at his level. Crikey, he smelled good. Like the sea and the wind and distant memories that were both comforting and distressing. She raised her gaze to his and lifted her chin, defying her weakness, him.

His lips twitched as if her qualms amused him and he gave a slanted nod, whether of mockery or approval, she couldn't be sure, but strangely enough, it calmed her nerves a bit.

Then, with a click of the handle, the door opened beneath his hand. The baron offered her a slight bow. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

And Fanny gasped.

Long ago, when she was still gullible enough to believe that fairy tales came true, she would fancy herself walking through a palace on the arm of a dark and handsome prince. That the prince stood beside her, guised as a baron, was staggering enough. But even her wildest dreams never came close to the reality of Radcliff.

Humble abode? The place was a bloody palace! The foyer alone was as big as the common room of The Headless Woman inn! And no dirt floors, here, no sir! Instead white stone marble rimmed in black paved the entrance, so polished that she could see the reflection of her shabby shoes. Brass sconces with perfect tapers hung on walls paneled with dark wood on the bottom, papered from waist to ceiling in green velvet. Several lit candles cast a serene glow on the gilt-framed stag hunt and earth-toned landscapes that had been hung at precise intervals. Second nature had her mentally tallying up the value of her surroundings. “Crikey, guv, ye must be rich as Midas!” she whispered in awe.

“Don't let these trappings fool you; I am far from wealthy.”

Either he was the most humble gent she'd ever met or he was hopelessly blind. The wall sconces in the foyer alone would feed the band for months!

“Ah, so the prodigal son has finally returned.”

The melodic greeting reached Fanny in the same wavelet as a powerful scent of roses. Even as the pressure built, she knew she'd not be able to control the—

“Achoo!”

Flushing from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes, she slanted a glance up at the baron, and found him looking at her with arched brows. “Sorry,” she mumbled, feeling as if she'd just cursed in a cathedral.

He nodded, then slid his attention toward the woman descending the flying staircase connecting the two levels. She looked every inch how Fanny thought a lady ought to, all graceful gestures, flawless skin, and glossy black hair braided down her spine.

“Devon, this is a surprise,” the baron said. “I thought we were meeting at Brayton Hall in the morning.”

“Circumstances changed my plans,” she replied in a mezzo lilt.

“What circumstances?”

“Nothing to concern yourself over, darling.”

As she came closer to take his hands and accept the kiss he pressed to her cheek, Fanny's heart tumbled at the familiarity between the two. Was this the baron's lady? He'd not mentioned a wife. Then again, why should he?

Another tickle swelled at the back of her nose. Her eyes watered and her face grew hot as she tried to rein in the uncontrollable and wholly bothersome reaction to certain fragrances. But even sheer force of will could not contain the sneeze. Fanny twisted at the last moment and buried her nose in her coat.

“Dieu vous bénit,”
she heard the baron say.

When she turned back around to accept his blessing and offer another apology, she found the lady watching her through narrowed eyes. Fanny clutched the folds of her coat tighter around her, keenly aware of the threadbare condition of the shirt and trousers she wore beneath.

“Who is your friend, West?”

“Oh, yes. Devon, meet—” He leaned down, and his warm, brandy-laced breath caressed her ear. “You never did tell me your name.”

A moment passed before Fanny recovered from the disturbing sensation of his whisper against her skin. Of course she'd have to give him her name; she couldn't very well let him introduce her to his lady as Queen Victoria.

“Me name—” The Cockney accent of her environment slipped unwelcome into her speech. Maybe it was the impervious lift of the lady's brow, or the nearly imperceptible sneer of her mouth, or maybe it was the opulent surroundings that drove home an awareness of where she'd come from, and where she was now.

Whatever the source, it struck her suddenly that this was no place for the likes of Fanny Jarvis, notorious knuck. Maybe, just maybe, this was her chance to rise above the sewage fumes and vermin. No more huddling in the freezing rain, waiting for marks. No more skulking in the shadows to avoid the coppers.

No more Gentleman Jack Swift.

From the recesses of her soul, the blossom of a memory unfurled. Of a little girl with plaited saffron braids and boundless spirit. A girl she'd long lost hope of ever seeing again. And in a single, defining moment, the innocent child she'd once been beckoned to the jaded adult she'd become.
“My
name is Faith.” She tipped her chin decisively. “Faith Jervais.”

From this point forward, Light-Fingered Fanny, as the boys in the band had taken to calling her, no longer existed.

As if sensing the newborn strength in her decision, the baron smiled. A flash of dimple in his left cheek, a spray of creases at the corners of his eyes. A warm and unexpected glow spread through her breast at his approval.

“Devon . . .” he dragged his gaze away, “meet Faith Jervais. Faith, may I present my sister, Lady Devon de Meir Heath, Duchess of Brayton.”

His sister? Well, that explained their familiarity with each other. The swell of relief that the lady was not his wife slipped into her system so quickly that it caught Faith unprepared. Why their relationship would matter one way or the other, she couldn't begin to guess.

Nor did she want to speculate.

Looking closer at Lady Brayton, however, the resemblance did become more noticeable. Both were strikingly fine-looking folk, sharing the same dark hair, sloping features, and patrician postures. Faith wasn't sure where “duchess” ranked in the nobility chain but the way the woman carried herself, she suspected it was pretty high up there.

The baron set his hat on a narrow cherrywood table, hung his coat upon a tree, leaving him clad in impeccably tailored coat and dove gray trousers. “Miss Jervais will be joining my staff.”

The glow instantly vanished when his sister gasped. “Troyce, you cannot be serious!” She shuddered delicately. “She smells abominable, and I do believe I see her hair crawling.”

The blood drained from Faith's face, then rose again, swift and blazing at the implication. “Why you . . .”

A tight grip on her arm held her from charging forward. “Faith . . .” he warned.

“I do not have bugs!” she cried.

“Calm yourself.” His tone suggested she'd best obey him, and he addressed Lady Brayton with the same authority, “Have a care, Devon. I realize that she looks a bit worse for wear at the moment, but Millie will see that she is made presentable. Millie!”

A short, heavyset woman in a white mobcap and a somber gray robe appeared in the entryway, holding a candlestick. She was seventy if she was a day, and had obviously been roused from her bed.

“Yes, milord?” came the housekeeper's monotone query.

“Miss Jervais requires a meal, a bath, and suitable clothing,
s'il vous plaît.
”

“I do not have bugs,” she repeated to him, hating the tears of humiliation stinging her eyes. “I don't smell, neither!”

He spun her toward the maid by the shoulders and gave her a gentle push. “Go with Millie. She will see to your comforts.”

The housekeeper curtsied, then guided Faith by the arm toward a doorway. Faith cast one last glare at the baron's insufferably rude sister before allowing herself to be led away.

Once out of earshot, Devon rounded on him. “Troyce, have you gone mad? What do you mean, bringing that filthy creature into this house?”

Troyce slid his attention from the doorway into which Millie and Faith had disappeared. Only a blind man would have missed seeing the deep wounding in her eyes at the welcome she'd received from the Duchess of Brayton. Only the respect he'd always held for his sister compelled him to explain at all. “I'm short on household help, and she has agreed to work for me. It's as simple as that.”

He headed for the library to quench a sudden craving for a nightcap. He should have known that he would have a shadow.

“What did you do, drag her out of the Thames?”

She had no idea how close her guess, Troyce thought, reaching the sideboard. “She encountered a bit of trouble outside a tavern on the docks, and I offered my assistance.” He uncapped a fluted decanter. “And that's the end of it, Devon.”

Heeding the warning in his tone, her own pitch dropped to a more courteous level. “Tell me that you at least made an appearance at the Countess of Haversley's ball before embarking on your little”—she flipped her hand—“errand of mercy.”

A healthy dose of the last of his father's Napoleon brandy spilled into a crystal goblet. “I had a more pressing engagement.”

“Yes, I can see that. Gallivanting from pub to pub, consorting with riffraff, dragging that filthy . . . guttersnipe into your home like a common Samaritan . . .”

Troyce turned to look at his sister with thinly concealed impatience. At thirty-one, a year older than he, she was still a strikingly beautiful woman. Glossy black hair neatly braided, flawless ivory complexion, and trademark blue-gray eyes of a de Meir. . . .

Unfortunately, the vibrancy had gone out of her years before. So, apparently, had her compassion. “Would you have preferred I left her to fare on the streets?”

“Better there than here! Heed my words, brother, she will rob us blind.”

The remark had Troyce throwing his head back with laughter. “Oh, but Devon, dearest, have you not heard? There is nothing left to rob.”

“Which brings us back to my point. The season is nearly over, West. By this time next week all of the eligible ladies will have been betrothed.”

“I can only hope.”

She all but stamped her foot. “How do you expect to make a successful match when you continuously avoid opportunities to find a suitable wife?”

Troyce barely restrained a sigh. “I've told you before, I have no interest in taking a wife—suitable or otherwise.”

She stiffened her spine and sniffed in displeasure that plainly said that she didn't appreciate his mocking a topic near and dear to her heart. Namely, seeing him tied to an heiress.

“You are being unreasonable—not to mention derelict in your duties. It is well past time you settled down and set about securing a legitimate heir.”

“As opposed to an illegitimate one?”

“Do not even jest about that!”

Troyce fought the urge to rake his hand through his hair and laughed instead. “For God's sake, Devon, I have been in London barely a fortnight, and already you are trying to arrange my schedule as well as my life.”

“And you have been back from America over three months and have made no attempt to ingratiate yourself into society.”

“I have no desire to ingratiate myself with anyone.”

“What of your responsibility—”

Any sense of humor he found in their sibling banter disappeared. “My only responsibility, thanks to our dear feckless father, is to see to it that the people who now entrust me with their livelihoods do not lose everything they have spent their lives working for.”