A Scandalous Lady (6 page)

“Then marry, for God's sake!” She swept further into the library and propped her hands upon the desk. “Find yourself a wealthy, virtuous maiden, fulfill Grandfather's terms, and be done with it. I can personally recommend several ladies of impeccable breeding willing to exchange their doweries for your title and good name. Arrangements such as this are made all the time. It's business.”

Troyce turned away from her imploring examination and nursed his brandy. As much as he hated to admit it, his sister's reasoning was sound. But everything within him rebelled at conducting such business. He'd learned long ago that the only fate worse than marriage was marriage to the wrong woman. He only need look at his parents' union as example. His father had spent his life trying to please his mother, and look where that had gotten him. Troyce had no desire to repeat the mistakes of Charles de Meir.

Aye, he would have to marry someday. Produce an heir to carry on the barony. He accepted that. But God's teeth, he was barely thirty. Hardly a relic yet. If and when he took a bride, it would be a woman of his choosing, at a time of his choosing. And it certainly would not be one of those vapid, socially ambitious twits Devon and their grandfather would foist upon him given half a chance. Just the thought of being anchored for life to some
la noblesse saisir la fille
made him shudder.

No, the woman he took to wife would be impulsive and exciting. Independent and quick-witted. Courageous and uninhibited. If he chose to take off for Africa or Ireland or aye, even back to his beloved America, his lady would be eager and willing to go with him. And she would not care if he bore a title or nay, nor would she hold him at fault for pursuits considered unacceptable to society. His friend Miles often mocked him for holding such high standards. But Troyce cared little. She was out there somewhere. He simply hadn't met her yet.

“You haven't heard a word I've said,” his sister accused.

Troyce brought the glass to his mouth and paused. “All of England can hear you, Devon. I'm hardly an exception.”

“Then you agree that marriage is the best solution.”

For whom?
“Has
Grandpère
put you up to this?”

“Don't be ridiculous. I haven't spoken to the man in years.”

“Then why this haste to see me wed?” he challenged. “One would think you, of all people, would respect my decision not to marry.”

Devon turned three shades of pale, and Troyce could have kicked himself for the careless remark. Never before had he thrown his sister's folly in her face. Never before had he broached the subject of her youthful indiscretion with her husband's brother. Never before had he judged her for throwing her heart away for the sake of duty. Hadn't she suffered enough? “Devon, forgive me. I shouldn't have said that.”

But she'd already turned away. As he watched her wander aimlessly about the room, trailing her fingers along an intricately molded mantel, fidgeting with the globe of a fringed lamp, rearranging a carved set of chessmen on a gaudy Hepplewhite table near one of the crown-backed sofas, it struck him then that everything she did was just that way. Aimless. Without purpose. Movement just for the sake of movement.

Maybe he should be grateful that his sister was passionate about something, even if it was the demise of his bachelorhood. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her this alive, this animated. How often had he wished for a glimpse of the bold, vivacious swashbuckler he'd grown up with? The one who used to command the helm of their imaginary pirate ship and take no quarter? The one who used to slide down banisters and sword-fight with him in their father's study? The one who used to laugh—just for the joy of laughing?

But now, in typical Devon de Meir—correction: Devon Heath—fashion, she tipped her chin and stared at him through stony gray eyes. “The last thing I wish to do is see you repeat my mistakes, Troyce. If I saw any other way out of this situation, I would seize it in an instant. Unfortunately, I do not see any other choice. Father's debts are no closer to being paid off today than the day you arrived, and we are running out of time.”

Troyce clenched his jaw. He well knew the consequences of his inherited pecuniary obligation; the demise of his personal fortune, the dissolution of the de Meir holdings, the loss of the family's ancestral estate, and the fate of villagers who depended on the Baron of Westborough for their livelihoods. He certainly didn't appreciate being reminded of his failures, and by his own sister at that. “I told you that I would see the situation remedied and I shall do so. Once I secure an investor for
La Tentatrice
—”

“You have spent months trying to find someone feebleminded enough to pour money into that ship to no avail. Why can you not at least consider other alternatives? You would have a fortune at your disposal if only you will swallow that blasted pride of yours.”

Pride? She thought it
pride
that kept him from bowing to their grandfather's whims?

Damn. If only it were that simple.

“That fortune you speak so highly of comes with strings. I will not be controlled—not by him, not by you, not by anyone.”

It was the one thing he'd always taken pride in, being an authority unto himself. Of being in control of his own actions and reactions. Everything he did, he did by design. He lived the way he wanted in the manner he wanted. No one told him what to do unless he allowed it. He maintained a good sense of humor because it kept him sane and he smiled often because it pleased him to smile. He took risks because he liked not always knowing the outcome; sometimes he was disappointed, and sometimes he was pleasantly surprised.

But in the last three months, the ability to control his own life had begun slipping away bit by excruciating bit, chipping at his masculine vanity, crippling his sense of self-worth . . .

No longer did Troyce feel as if he captained his own destiny. In three short months, obligations and duty had forced him to leave a country he'd called home, sacrifice the modest fortune he'd spent years amassing, accept a title he'd loathed since childhood, and return to the place that had always made him feel like a prisoner.

The only bright spot since returning to England had come in the form of a sharp-tongued blighter who'd managed to surprise and delight him when he'd least expected it, and now, even that small pleasure was being whittled away.

A rap on the door created a welcome diversion from his troubling thoughts. Troyce raised his head toward the door just as Millie walked in.

“I beg your forgiveness, milord.” The housekeeper dropped a slight curtsy toward Devon. “Milady.”

“Is there a problem, Millie?” Troyce asked.

She hesitated a moment, then said, “Maybe you should judge for yourself, milord.”

He turned to Devon, relieved at the timely interruption. “Dear sister, as invigorating as I find these conversations with you, it seems my presence is required elsewhere.”

She looked as if she would argue further, but seemed to reconsider. “Very well,” she sighed. “But do not think this discussion finished.”

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

As he followed Millie out of the drawing room, he wondered at the housekeeper's apparent distress. In all the years she'd worked for the de Meir family, he'd never once seen her anything less than calm and composed. That she would summon him for any issue spoke of a matter of great importance.

The minute he entered the kitchen, he understood.

Faith sat huddled in the corner of the pantry, shoveling mouthfuls of leftover stew into her mouth with a spoon, clutching a chunk of bread in her fist. Her hair was still a snarled mass, and she wore the same grubby clothes she'd been wearing since she'd accosted him in London. A quick survey of the kettles steaming on the stove explained her unchanged condition, but why was she eating off the floor?

He threw a questioning glance behind him at Millie, who lingered at the doorway, wringing her hands. She shrugged in silent, helpless response and shook her head. Troyce discreetly flicked his hand, permitting the housekeeper to leave them. After she'd backed out of the kitchen, he took a cautious step toward his young charge. “Faith?”

She glanced up. The moment he looked into her startled eyes, he was hit with a discovery that stole the breath from his lungs—this was no street-wild waif. This was a very angry, very bitter, very wounded young woman.

And he was in for the undertaking of his life.

“What are you doing?”

A flush crept across her cheeks. “She gave it to me. I didn't steal it.”

“It pleases me to hear that, though I had not presumed otherwise.” He kept his voice calm, patient, gentle, as if trying to tame a wild animal. “But you need not sit upon the floor. Eat at the table.” She'd catch her death; a draft tended to blow in beneath the doors, and with her hair still damp from the earlier rains, she would be doubly susceptible to illness.

“The table?”

“Yes, like—”
any normal, civilized human being
“like the other servants.” He held out his hand to help her to her feet.

She shrank back against the wall. Her arm curled tighter around the bowl, and her expression went guarded. Never a man prone to soft emotions, the unaccustomed tenderness flooding his chest took him by surprise. “No one will take your food, Faith,” he assured her with quiet gruffness. Good God, what kind of life had she lived, where she didn't sit at a table, and feared the theft of a meal?

A myriad of emotions flittered across her face. Mistrust. Apprehension. Suspended belief. Until, at long last, the fight return to her eyes. Lips pursing, she lifted herself off the stone floor in one fluid motion. Then, she tipped her chin and swept past him with a grace that would have done the Queen Mother proud.

And abruptly tossed her bowl onto the butcher-block table in the center of the room. Brown gravy spattered the surface. “Keep your bloody food, Baron. I don't want any favors.”

A second later, she'd vanished out of the kitchen.

Troyce remained hunched down near the corner, too astonished by her behavior to speak, too baffled over what he might have done or said to scold her.

Then, a reluctant smile toyed at his lips. God, the girl was proud. She cowered, but she didn't cave. She stole, but she didn't beg.

Oddly enough, there was something to be admired in that.

 

It was two o'clock in the morning before Faith was finally released from Millie's brutal ministrations and led down to a room in the servants' wing on the third floor. Her skin had been nearly scrubbed raw, her head smelled as if she'd doused it in the pit of a coal mine, and her stomach ached for want of the stew she'd left behind. The bed she lay on was a far cry from her pallet in the tunnels. Six inches of soft ticking cushioned her body from the drafty floor and a pillow with a genuine slipcover felt like a cloud under her head. Across from her, Millie snored loud enough to jostle the dead while her granddaughter—Lucy, Faith believed was her name—tossed restlessly in her cot. It felt strange sleeping in a room with two women when most of her life she'd shared living quarters with a dozen boys.

She clutched her ragged doll close to her, and stared at the fancy molding joining wall to ceiling. Never had she slept in such a fine room, never felt such soft, clean fabric against her skin.

And yet, she was so homesick she could hardly bear it.

She missed the unruly noise of the band as they gambled on a roll of the dice, argued over chores, or yelled in triumph when one scored big. She missed her antechamber with its rattling pipes, concrete floor, and ratty pallet. But most of all, she missed Scatter. A tear slipped down the side of her nose, and she brushed it away. Why there'd be such an empty longing in her heart for the little leech she couldn't figure. He'd been nothing but a thorn in her side since the day he'd turned up in Jack's band.

Aye, it was utterly mad that she'd pine for the life she'd left behind. How could she miss Bethnal Green for even a moment? God's teeth, what did she have to mourn? She'd dreamed all her life of escaping poverty; she had that chance now thanks to the baron.

Except, for all its shabbiness and chaos, the tunnels had been home to her for nearly ten years. At least there, she was accepted. She knew what the rules were and what to expect.

Here, she knew only a vast isolation. A bone-deep aloneness. Here, she was completely out of her element.

What had she gotten herself into? Living with a woman who hated her on sight and a man bent on making her his bondsmaid?

His image filled her mind and the leaden feeling inside her intensified. Oh, God. She couldn't believe he'd caught her eating off the floor like a dog. She'd never been so humiliated in her life. Even the servants knew better behavior than she did. Bowing and scraping and calling the hoity-toities by their proper titles. He'd never understand that in the real world, manners didn't exist, and something so simple as eating at the table got a bloke tumbled.

She ought to resent him for expecting her to be something she wasn't. For dragging her here against her will. Forcing her into agreeing to live in his fine, fancy house and clean up his muck and obey him without question. She ought to tell him what he could do with his bloody claims of
honest employment
.

But despite it all—his judge-and-jury arrogance, his sister's holier-than-thou haughtiness—a part of her was so bloody grateful to him that she could hardly bear it. If not for the baron, she'd no doubt still be waiting on a soggy street corner like a two-bit strumpet, waiting for crumbs. Or, and it made her cringe to think it, rotting away in a dank, dark prison cell.
What makes you think I'm noble?
He could easily have hauled her off to Newgate, but he hadn't. Instead, he'd brought her into his home. Given her a true-blue job—even if it was indentured servitude—a clean bed, clean clothes, a clean start.