Leslie Lafoy (7 page)

“It can be laundered,” she assured him. “And mended, if need be. I refuse to put concern for clothing ahead of a child’s welfare.”

Of course. It had been an incredibly stupid thing for him to mention. She had to think that he had all the depth of a rain puddle and all the compassion of a rock. Simone’s return saved him from having to think of something redemptive to say. She zipped right past him with the lap robe, and without thinking, he turned. And promptly lost all awareness of Simone. Of breathing, too. He was, however, acutely aware of his tightening groin.

“Thank you,” she said, gathering the blanket close to her chest as she leaned down—on one elbow this time—and peered under the smokehouse again. “Now the two of you wander off so I can speak with Fiona without the distraction.”

As if she had any idea of what a real distraction was, he silently grumbled as he stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets and headed toward the corner of the inn.

“Fiona ain’t the only one who’s crazy,” Simone offered from beside him. “Carrie’s oars ain’t exactly in the locks, either. Could be we ain’t gonna see either of them ever again.”

“Lady Caroline has full possession of her faculties.”

“Her what?”

“Her faculties,” he repeated. “Her mind. She also possesses a rather indomitable will.”

“Huh?”

“I believe that I have already instructed you on the proper manner in which to request clarification.”

“And I told you that I don’t beg for nuthin’,” she countered jauntily. “What does ‘indomitable’ mean?”

“That she is not easily dominated, controlled.”

“I figured you was one of the ones smart ’bout people. It’s in the eyes, you know. You don’t miss much.”

“No, I do not.”

“I don’t, either.”

“A fact I concluded not two seconds after you planted yourself in my carriage.”

“What do I call you? Da? Uncle?”

“My name is Drayton. It will suffice.”

“So, Drayton, how come you’re workin’ so hard at being such a prig?”

He stopped dead in his tracks, his stomach chilling. It took Simone a second longer to come to a halt and he waited until she turned to face him before he asked coolly, “Pardon?”

A grin slowly spread across her dirt-smudged face. “Yeah, I figured you ain’t the sort to beg any more than I am. So how come you’re workin’ so hard at being somethin’ you ain’t?”

It occurred to him that he could claim not to know what she was talking about. It also occurred to him that it would be a completely wasted effort and that there was an advantage in having her talk to him rather than to her older sister. “There are expectations and I must meet them.”

“Why?”

“Money. I need it.”

She nodded knowingly. “World us’ly boils down to pretty much that, don’t it? You really a duke?”

“Yes. To my great surprise,” he admitted. He drew a deep breath and looked back at the smokehouse. Thankfully, Caroline had disappeared into the shadows under the floorboards. “You and your sisters are not the only ones who will be taking lessons.”

“I figured as much.”

It was that obvious?
He silently groaned. Just what was Caroline going to think when she discovered the
truth? Was it even remotely possible for Simone to keep a secret? Or was it too late and Caroline had already recognized him as the fraud he was?

“Naw, I ain’t said anythin’ to her,” Simone said softly, apparently able to read his mind. “She’ll figure it out on her own, though. Once she takes a good look past them big shoulders and long legs of yours. ’Course, she could see that fire you got goin’ for her and bolt for the hills without holdin’ up to figure out what’s botherin’ her ’bout you besides what’s makin’ her all warm and gooey.”

Sweet Jesus. He’d only thought he’d had problems before. He hadn’t counted on Simone. “How old are you?” he asked, resuming their course.

“Fourteen. Or thereabouts,” she said with a shrug. “Don’t know that anyone’s ever really cared all that much ’bout keepin’ track.”

“You have a wisdom uncommon in those with so few years.”

“That’s ’cause I seen a lot in my so few years. You know how to sword-fight?”

Sword-fight? Uh-oh. “Pardon?”

“I’m thinkin’,” she drawled, “that I might be willin’ to keep my uncommon wisdom to myself if you’d be willin’ to teach me how to sword-fight.”

God had taken pity on him. “That’s blackmail,” he observed, thinking that appearing too eager to accept the terms wasn’t a particularly good idea.

“More like askin’ for a bribe to my way of thinkin’, but then, I don’t much care what we call it as long as I get what I want.”

“You are a ruthless child.”

She grinned up at him. “Means I should be pretty good with a sword, huh?”

“Yes, it should,” he admitted, suddenly wishing his father were still alive. The man had loved the old weapons, the old ways of warfare. How many times had he claimed that the young men of today had no appreciation for the
art
of killing and maiming their fellow men? Robert Mackenzie would have been delighted to meet Simone.

“And I like winnin’, too,” she said. “So does Carrie, in case you’re interested in knowin’ that. But she fights like a girl.”

“She fights like a woman,” he corrected, remembering. “There’s a considerable difference.”

She laughed softly. “You married, Drayton?” she asked as they came around the front corner of the building and started toward the main stairs.

“No,” he declared crisply, wondering what the hell she was getting ready to ask for now.

“Why not?”

It was complicated and not a subject he was willing to discuss with his ward. Not today, not ever. “That’s none of your business,” he announced.

They were at the base of the stairs when she finally said, “I’m thinkin’ you probably figured out a long time ago that there ain’t no reason to buy the cow when you can get the milk for free.”

Damn if she hadn’t nailed a good portion of it square on. Admitting it wasn’t the thing to do, though. This was most definitely not the kind of conversation one had with a lady. Of any age. He slid a warning look in her direction, saying, “You think quite a bit, don’t you?” as they went up the steps.

“Yep.” She grinned from ear to ear. “And right now I’m thinkin’ that I’ve done ’bout all the talkin’ that’s safe for today.”

“You have a most remarkable sense of self-preservation,” he observed as the door was opened for them.

“Yes, I do.”

“In,” he commanded, gesturing for her to precede him and wondering how long he had before she decided to do some thinking around Caroline. Probably not long, he realized as the butler stepped forward to greet them. Which meant he had to do some thinking and deciding of his own and quickly.

  Four  

IT HAD TAKEN SURPRISINGLY LITTLE EFFORT TO GET
Fiona to creep into the blanket. And when that sliver of comfort had proved non-lethal after just a few minutes, the little girl had been willing to crawl out from under the smokehouse. What she hadn’t been willing to do was to ease her death grip on Caroline’s hand for so much as a heartbeat. For a slight wisp of a thing, she was amazingly strong.

She was also exceptionally dirty. But unlike Simone, it wasn’t the unpleasant odors of the city. Fiona smelled like dirt. And smoke. Both of them did now, actually. Caroline glanced down at her skirt as they made their way toward the front of the inn, and half smiled at the ground-in ash, thinking that it was a very small price to pay for having earned Fiona’s trust.

She was a beautiful child. Or would be once she was scrubbed clean and the mats had been cut out of her hair. Those eyes of hers . . . It wasn’t so much the striking green color of them that took the breath away, it was the look of sadness in their depths when she dared to meet a gaze. A single second had been all it had taken to twist Caroline’s heart around her youngest sister’s tiny little finger.

Whatever Fiona needed, she would get and heaven help Lord Ryland if he had any miserly inclinations. The child did limp. Rather more noticeably when she walked than when she ran. It was the right side that seemed to be the problem. A stolen glance at the little bare feet told Caroline that they were both finely boned and perfectly normal in appearance. Which left the possibility of the leg being shorter as the most likely cause of her rolling gait.

Perhaps a physician could fix the problem so her sister could walk normally. She’d insist that Lord Ryland find the best to treat the girl. And if all the medicine that money could buy couldn’t help, then they’d simply see that Fiona had carefully crafted shoes that compensated for the difference so that she never once felt as though she were less than absolutely perfect. If anyone ever made fun of her . . .

Caroline smiled, remembering the hell that had broken loose when the boy had knocked Fiona down in the yard. All of London would someday fear the Wrath of Simone and anyone who was foolish enough to make Fiona the brunt of a joke or the object of a cruel remark would be missing crucial body parts.

What a strange lot of offspring they were, she realized as they rounded the front corner of the building. Her with her dark blond hair and rather grayish eyes. Simone with her fair skin and dark eyes and raven curls. Fiona the embodiment of a woodland sprite. And their temperaments! Were there ever three sisters so different?

Having never seen their father, she had no idea if either Simone or Fiona favored him. She had been the image of her mother—both in appearance and, for the most part, demeanor. If Simone and Fiona also favored theirs . . .
Well, it certainly suggested that their father’s taste in women had been eclectic.

That the three of them came from such strikingly different worlds said that he had been a man who hadn’t hesitated to cross all class barriers when urges came upon him. And the fact that his daughters had been unacknowledged until now said—very plainly—that he’d deliberately used those class differences to insulate himself from financial, moral, and ethical accountability.

Yes, altogether, they were bastards by birth, but their father had been one by privilege and choice. It was his loss, though, she reminded herself, gently squeezing the little hand in hers.

Fiona stopped and then took a full step back, jerking Caroline to an awkward, unexpected halt. She looked at her sister and then followed the alarmed gaze to the front steps of the inn. Or more accurately, to the base of them where Lord Ryland stood every bit as still as Fiona.

His gaze met Caroline’s and he arched a brow. Not in sarcasm or disdain, she happily realized, but in silent question, in a tacit surrender to her judgment on how best to deal with Fiona. There was hope for him after all.

“He won’t hurt you,” Caroline promised quietly, smiling down at her sister. “He’s a good man.”

She nodded in a very tentative way, but she did step back to Caroline’s side and let herself be drawn forward. As they approached, Lord Ryland eased toward the flower pots so that they passed with Caroline between him and Fiona. She wouldn’t have guessed that he’d be so considerate of the child’s fears.

“Which room is ours?” she asked softly as they passed him and started up the steps.

“Upstairs. The girls are in number five. You are in six.”

She nodded in acknowledgment and kept going. The door opened at their approach and she managed to get Fiona across the threshold before the child’s wonder overcame her ability to keep her feet moving. As she stared around the grand and gilded foyer, her mouth hanging open and her green eyes as big as saucers, Lord Ryland slipped in behind them.

He paused at Caroline’s left side and whispered, “I will have some bread and cheeses sent up to tide you over. Our meal will be served in the private dining room whenever you and your sisters are ready to dine. I will await you there.”

“Thank you, your grace,” she whispered back.

He leaned closer, his jacket lapels brushing her sleeve, his breath warmly caressing her ear as he said, “Drayton.”

It wasn’t an unpleasant shudder. Not even remotely. She closed her eyes, savoring it, knowing as she did that she shouldn’t. He was her legal guardian, she his ward. They were distant cousins. The thorns of reality didn’t make the sensation any less pleasurable, though. Just more unseemly.