Jacquie D'Alessandro - [Regency Historical 04] (4 page)

A clearly reluctant smile tugged at his lips. “I certainly cannot fault you on your honesty, Madame. Indeed, your candor is downright frightening.”

“You do not strike me as a man who is easily scared off, Lord Sutton.”

“No, Madame. I most certainly am not.”

His gaze bored into hers, and once again Alex found herself trapped in his compelling stare, unable to look away. Her mind went completely blank of anything to say, and he’d fallen silent as well. She was saved from trying to think of a new topic of conversation when the carriage slowed then stopped. He looked out the window.

“We’ve arrived,” he said. He opened the door, stepped down, then held out his hand to help her alight. His strong fingers wrapped around hers, and heat sizzled up her arm. When her boots touched the cobblestones, he released her, and her fingers involuntarily curled inward, as if trying to retain that unsettling heat.

“Thank you for the ride, Lord Sutton.”

“You’re welcome. Regarding my card reading…are you free tomorrow afternoon? Say around three o’clock at my Park Lane town house?”

Alex hesitated, torn between the urge to end this association, which felt fraught with undercurrents, and her desire not only to find out more about him, but also for the outrageous sum of money he’d agreed to pay her. She desperately needed that money….

“I’m afraid I’m already engaged at three. Does four o’clock suit you?” She said the words quickly, before she could change her mind.

“That’s fine. Shall I send my carriage?”

“Thank you, but I’ll see to my own transportation. And there’s no need to walk me to the door.”

He inclined his head. “As you wish.”

“Good evening, Lord Sutton.”

She purposely did not extend her hand, but to her surprise, he extended his. Not wishing to appear rude, she held out her hand. With his gaze steady on hers, he
lightly clasped her fingers and raised them. Her gaze flicked to his fascinating mouth, her entire body quickening in anticipation of his lips touching the backs of her fingers. Instead, he turned her hand and pressed his lips to the sensitive skin of her inner wrist. The warmth of his breath penetrated the delicate lace of her gloves and heat, shocking and fierce, bolted through her. How was it possible that such a brief touch could make her knees shake?

The contact of his lips against her skin lasted only a few seconds, yet nothing about it felt in the least bit proper. Clearly she needed to disabuse him of any notions he harbored regarding her availability for anything more than card reading.

Slipping her hand from his and with her fingers feeling as if he’d whispered fire over them, she raised her chin. “In case you are not aware, Lord Sutton, my title of
Madame
is not merely for effect or part of my fortune-telling mystique. There
is
a Monsieur Larchmont.”

He said nothing for several seconds, and she had to fight to hold his steady, penetrating gaze, which somehow seemed to bore straight through to her soul, laying bare every lie she’d ever told.

Finally, he made her a formal bow, then murmured, “He is a lucky man. Until tomorrow, Madame Larchmont.”

Not trusting her voice, she jerked her head in a nod, then hurried around the corner toward the side entrance of the modest brick building. The instant she turned the corner, she hurried forward and turned into an alleyway where she ducked into a shadowed alcove and pressed her back against the rough stone. Heart pounding, she strained her ears, listening for the sounds of his carriage departing. She didn’t move until the echo of the horses’ hooves against the cobblestones faded away. After they
did, she slipped from the alcove and headed swiftly toward the less fashionable part of town, closer to St. Giles, moving like smoke amongst the dirty, narrow alleyways she knew so well.

It was time to go home.

Colin opened the wrought-iron gate leading to his
town house. The moon had slipped behind a cloud, eliminating the silvery glow that had shimmered over Mayfair only moments ago. Tendrils of smoky fog danced around his boots, but the hazy vapor wasn’t nearly as thick here, across from Hyde Park, as it had been on the other side of the city where he’d left Madame Larchmont an hour earlier.

He climbed the brick steps, wincing at the pain throbbing in his left leg. As his boot hit the final step, the oak door swung open, and he was greeted by a tall figure holding an ornate candelabra. He immediately wiped all expression from his face, although he wasn’t certain how much good it would do against the ever-observant Ellis.

“Good evening, my lord,” intoned Ellis in the same sonorous voice Colin had known since childhood. “A message was delivered for you shortly after you left this evening. It awaits you on the desk in the library, along with your usual repast. Will you be wanting a cup of chocolate?”

Ellis knew everything that occurred inside the town house, down to the smallest detail, including Colin’s boyhood predilection for sliding down the polished banisters and pilfering sweets from the kitchen. Colin had eventually outgrown his fondness for banister sliding, but his love of sweets hadn’t abated one bit—as Ellis well knew. Along with Colin’s habit of not retiring immediately upon arriving home.

He shook his head. “Thank you, but I’m afraid brandy is called for tonight.”

Ellis’s gaze filled with concern and flicked down to Colin’s leg. “Shall I warm a blanket for you?”

“No, thank you, Ellis. The brandy will suffice. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Good night, my lord.”

After bidding the butler good night, Colin waved off the candelabra and headed down the dark corridor leading to the library. God knows he knew his way around this house well enough, and he was grateful that the deep shadows prevented him from having to look at the elaborately framed portraits of his ancestors adorning the silk-covered walls. Even as a child he hadn’t liked looking at them, always feeling that their forbidding gazes followed him, as if they knew he was up to some mischief or another, all chanting admonitions of the importance of duty and his obligations to his title. As if the words
duty
and
obligation
weren’t drummed into him every waking moment.

After entering the library, he closed the door behind him and immediately strode across the maroon Axminster rug toward the decanters, ignoring the aching pull his long strides caused in his leg. He poured himself a generous splash of the potent liquor, frowning at the unsteadiness in his hands. He would have liked to blame that bit of tottering on exhaustion or hunger or anything other than what he knew it to be, but he’d learned long
ago that while lying to others went hand in hand with how he’d chosen to live his life, lying to himself was a fruitless waste of time.

He tossed back the brandy in a single gulp, closing his eyes to absorb and savor the heat easing down his throat. If he’d been able to summon up anything resembling amusement, he would have laughed at himself for being so bloody unsettled. Opening his eyes, he poured another drink, then moved with jerky steps to the fireplace. After easing himself onto the overstuffed brocade settee, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his spread knees. The cut-crystal snifter dangled from his fingers, and he stared into the dancing flames.

Immediately an image of her rose in his mind, accompanied by the gut-clenching shock he’d experienced when he’d seen her in Lady Malloran’s drawing room.

Madame Larchmont. Alexandra, as he’d learned from Lady Malloran. Finally, a name to go with the face that had haunted him for the past four years.

He’d recognized her instantly, with a visceral punch that had staggered him. Stolen his breath. He’d been surveying Lady Malloran’s guests without much interest when his gaze had happened upon the fortune-teller he’d heard several people discussing. Although she’d been hired for the evening’s entertainment, he hadn’t paid particular attention as card reading was of no interest to him.

Then she’d looked up. And his gaze had riveted on her face…those unforgettable features that had been branded in his memory from the first instant he’d seen them in Vauxhall that long-ago summer evening. He’d stared in disbelief, and for several seconds it had seemed as if his entire being had stilled—his heart, his breath, his blood. And as it had that first time, everything else, the crowd, the noise, the laughter, had faded away, leaving only the two of them. As he’d stared at her, the words
Thank God you’re alive
pounded through him.

She was no longer dressed in rags as she’d been in Vauxhall, no dirt marred her complexion, but there was no mistaking those dark eyes. That stubborn, square chin, which bore a shallow indent, as if the gods had pressed a finger there. The small, straight nose above those impossibly full, plush lips that were entirely too large for her heart-shaped face. She wasn’t beautiful in any conventional manner…her features were too mismatched, too nonsymmetrical. Still he’d found her unusual looks compelling. Captivating. In a way that had stunned him. Yet what had flummoxed him most, even more than the fact that she’d attempted to pick his pocket, was the way she’d looked at him.

He hadn’t expected to find himself face-to-face with a female, but there was no mistaking the dirty urchin he held for a boy. The play of emotions that shifted across her face as he’d clutched her arms were quick, fleeting, yet utterly unmistakable. First shock. Even though he’d caught her in the act of relieving him of his gold watch, he’d only been able to do so because of his own razor-sharp skills in that particular area. She was talented and clearly not accustomed to being caught.

Her shock had given way to unmistakable fear. The sort that made it clear she believed he’d hurt her. Both of those reactions were understandable. But then she’d blinked and stared at him for the space of several heartbeats, her eyes widening with what he could only describe as recognition. And whispered the words,
It’s you
.

Before he could question her, she’d jerked from his grasp and ran as if the devil pursued her. He’d given chase, but she vanished like vapor in the crowd. He’d kept up his search until mauve streaks of dawn had painted the sky, even venturing into the dark, dirty alleyways of St. Giles and the rookery, compelled by reasons he didn’t understand to find her. Talk to her.

What had her cryptic words meant? He knew he’d never seen
her
before—he prided himself on never forgetting a face, and hers was not a countenance he would forget. Something about her beckoned him, tugged at him in an unprecedented way he couldn’t comprehend. When he’d held her for those few unnerving seconds, he’d felt her desperation. Her despair. They, along with hunger and poverty, had rolled off her in waves. And then that fear. He could almost smell it pumping from her, and his heart had filled with pity.
She’d
been robbing
him
, yet somehow
he’d
inexplicably wanted to reassure
her
that he meant her no harm. And wanted to help her. Damn it, after he’d seen her profound desperation and fear, he’d wished he’d let her have the damn watch.

His fingers clenched on the cut-glass snifter, and he pulled his gaze from the crackling flames to look into the amber liquid. How many times over the past four years had he thought of her? More than he could count. Those eyes had haunted him, while his conscience berated him for denying her something that was an easily replaced trinket to him but could have meant the difference between survival or death to her. He well knew the various dire fates that awaited women in her position, who earned their livings as thieves, and his gut clenched every time he thought about her, which was far too frequently.

He thought about her most often when he lay awake at night, wondering if she were still alive. Or if she’d been caught and hanged. Or killed in the rough underbelly of London where thieves and pickpockets dwelled. Or been forced into the nightmare of prostitution. The thought of her hurt—or worse—ate at him, as did the confusing yet undeniable fact that she’d seemed to know him. And he’d done nothing to help her. He’d traveled to London three times since that night, and on each occasion had spent long hours strolling Vauxhall and the
seedier parts of town, alternately making himself an easy target, then hiding himself to covertly observe the crowds, hoping to see her, or be her victim once again. But his efforts had proven unsuccessful.

Even on this trip, he’d spent his first two nights in Town not at Almack’s or the opera or private soirees in search of his future bride, but combing the underbelly of the city and wandering through the poorly lit sections of Vauxhall and Covent Garden in an effort to locate her. He’d been spectacularly unsuccessful, and had arrived home both nights disturbed and saddened by the abject poverty and unrelieved suffering and violence he’d witnessed. The second night he’d barely avoided an altercation with a giant of a man who’d made it plain he wouldn’t hesitate to gut Colin in order to relieve him of his money. Fortunately, the giant’s gutting abilities were severely curtailed after Colin relieved him of his knife. By the time he’d arrived home, he’d realized his search was pointless and had finally given up, believing he’d never see her again.

He sure as hell hadn’t expected to see her in Lady Malloran’s drawing room.

There was no doubt in his mind that she’d recognized him, which filled him with a grim satisfaction as he sure as hell hadn’t forgotten her. Still, she was clearly adept at hiding her emotions—a trait he easily recognized, as he himself had perfected it long ago. He’d seen the flicker of stunned recognition in her eyes, eyes which, thanks to the light cast by the dozens of lit candles, he realized were the same shade as rich, melted chocolate. The glimmer of recognition passed so quickly it was nearly indiscernible. But his years in service to the Crown had made him keenly observant, especially in regard to reading people. She’d recovered well, he’d give her that, but then, just as she had in Vauxhall, she’d disappeared into the crowd. He’d searched for her, yet, as she had four years
ago, she escaped him. Determined not to lose her, he’d gone outside, knowing she would have to exit the house eventually. And she had—through that window.

He’d seen her hanging from the sill and his heart had leapt into his throat while his worst suspicions were confirmed. Clearly she was up to something and clearly that something wasn’t anything good. Before he could so much as move, she’d jumped to the ground. Not wanting to reveal his hand, he’d pretended she’d stumbled.

And so their game had begun.

Leaning back, he took a deep swallow of brandy. He had to admire the way she’d regained her aplomb and gone along with the game. Clearly she felt safe in the belief that he hadn’t recognized her, and he intended to keep it that way. At least until he determined what she was up to.

He stared into the flames, wishing their flickering red-and-gold depths could provide the answers he sought. Her appearance at tonight’s soiree both intrigued and alarmed him. Even though he’d only been in London four days, he’d already heard about the wildly popular Madame Larchmont. How in demand her fortune-telling services were at parties and for private readings. But how many of Society’s finest, into whose homes she was invited, knew that four years ago Madame Larchmont had been picking pockets in Vauxhall’s dimly lit pathways?

“Not many, I’d wager,” he murmured.

So, the question was, had she turned over a new leaf or was her fortune-telling just a ruse to bilk the wealthy partygoers of money? Or worse, pick their pockets? He didn’t believe for a minute that she could actually tell fortunes. Didn’t believe anyone could predict the future, with or without the aid of a deck of cards.

Still, fortune-telling was an entertainment, and entertainers were paid for their services, and he’d certainly
not begrudge her or anyone the opportunity or means to make an honest living. Yet in his experience, people engaged in honest activities didn’t normally exit homes through windows—and courtesy of his work for the Crown, he’d certainly escaped enough homes through windows to know. At any rate, he was determined to find out if mere entertainment was the only activity in which Madame Larchmont was engaged. Because he knew damn well she had secrets. Like where she lived.

He’d suspected she had not given him her correct direction, a suspicion that had proven true. He’d exited his carriage the instant she’d disappeared around the corner of the brick building where she’d claimed to live and followed her. While she clearly knew her way around the twisting narrow streets, so did he. She’d moved swiftly, and the effort of keeping up had strained his leg, but he’d managed to stay with her. He’d watched her enter a building in a section of town populated by merchants and small stores. Not fashionable by any means, certainly not as fashionable as where she’d claimed to live, but respectable just the same. Still, a woman who would lie about where she lived was certainly capable of lying about other things.

And he intended to find out what those other things might be.

Given the fact that she was so popular, she no doubt was scheduled to attend more parties over the upcoming days…parties where he would also be a guest in his search for a wife. Surely their paths would cross regularly.

And, of course, she would be giving him a private reading tomorrow. Here. At his home. Where he’d be able to observe her closely, and in the light of day, for the first time.

Heat that had nothing to do with his proximity to the fireplace or the brandy he’d drank rippled through
him at the thought, and his brows yanked down in a frown at the reaction. The same reaction he’d experienced walking with her in Malloran’s garden, with her hand resting in the crook of his arm, her shoulder brushing his. Then again while sitting across from her in the confines of his carriage. It was an almost painful, heated awareness that made him notice details about her he wished he hadn’t. Such as the generous feminine curves highlighted by her bronze gown. The way the skeins of moonlight glinted on her dark, shiny hair. The smattering of freckles that marched across her nose. The way her plump lips regained their fullness after she pressed them together.