No Regrets (12 page)

   "Oh, my word." Mrs. Green the cook, her mouth open, paused in the doorway with a tray of lemonade and biscuits.

   Distracted, Fred hit a sour note, and the music died away, leaving Jake, his eyes closed and head thrown back in oblivion, to finish the fornication of the poor fowl.

   "Well, really." Mrs. Green slammed the tray on the box set up to serve as a table and marched off, her nose held high.

   The boys collapsed in mirth—all except Fred, who kept a wary eye on Lucas as if he expected a beating.

   Although Lucas wasn't sure he would ever earn the tortured youth's acceptance, he remained determined to try.

   "Bravo," he said. "But we should keep an eye out for Mrs. Green next time." He winked.

   Chuckling, the boys crowded around the tray. They crammed their mouths with warm shortbread and guzzled the lemonade.

   Lucas recalled his own boyhood; he was always ravenous at mealtimes as his body outgrew his clothes in a week. And he had never gone without. "Now about this piano—"

   "You said I'd 'ave me own room?" Fred interrupted, the gleam in his eye militant.

   "You will, when the work on the house is complete."

   Fred curled a sullen lip. "I 'ad me own room at Ma Jessop's. You said it'd be better here." He sent a disparaging glance at the cots in the corner. "All I got is a bunch of snivelin' young'uns crying for their mamas." His glance swiveled to Jake.

   Jake sniffed.

   Forcing a patience into his voice he didn't feel, Lucas replied, "What you had at Jessop's was a rat-infested corner in a leaky attic."

   "Ma" Jessup, a man who wore a silk dressing gown most of the time and hence the sobriquet, ran the street gang to which the boy had belonged. Under Jessup's tender care, Fred had graduated from pickpocket to ken cracker after perfecting the technique for entering wealthy homes and making off with the silver.

   "It was me own room. Private. Better than here."

   As private as a backyard privy. "I'll find you something while we wait for the bedrooms to be finished. Give me a couple of days."

   The shabby coat shifted as Fred shrugged.

   Lucas made a mental note to ask Mr. Davis to keep an eye on the lad. He feared Fred might be too old to give up the lure of easy money. Anger choked him at the thought of the waste of a God-given talent—his own as well as Fred's. He stamped hard on his regrets. These boys were the important ones now.

   "Back to the piano," he said. "The most important part is not the outside, but the guts." He nodded at Fred. "Open the lid."

   His swagger in full evidence, Fred sauntered to the instrument and propped up the curved top. The boys and Lucas peered into the exposed workings and inhaled the scent of new pine.

   "Watch," Lucas said.

   The younger boys jostled around him. "Play a scale, please, Fred. Slowly, if you don't mind."

   The hammers struck the strings and they vibrated with sound.

   "This instrument could be covered in firewood or mahogany," Lucas said. "Dented or scratched, it would make no difference to the sounds it makes."

   The boys nodded wisely. Fred snorted.

   Bending beneath the lid, Lucas reached inside and slipped his calling card between a hammer and its string. "Give me a high C, Fred."

   The hammer thumped dismally against the paper. "This is the part you need to care about. The case enhances, makes better, the sound, but it's just a container. This is the heart of the music."

   Fred stuck his head in the gap. A lank lock of black hair fell forward. "It's kind of like people," he muttered. "It don't matter what they look like; it's what's inside them wot counts."

   This lad reeked of sadness, but every time Lucas tried to get to the bottom of what troubled him, the boy retreated into his devil-may-care shell. It felt so damn familiar it hurt.

   "Yes, Fred. Exactly like people."

   Lucas stepped back and took in their eager faces. "Now, here's the thing. I want you all to learn to play the piano. We've got the old piano for everyone to use for lessons and whenever they feel like it. And we have this one. If you practice your scales for an hour every day, you can have another fifteen minutes on the Broadwood to try your hand at some tunes."

   "'Ooray!" shouted Jake. "Me first."

   Jostling and shoving, they pushed each other off the bench with bony elbows, observed by a disdainful Fred.

   "Stop," Lucas shouted above the din. "To make it fair for all, Fred will organize the schedule and make sure you abide by it." He glanced at the older boy, who seemed to stand a little taller. "Is that all right with you, Fred?"

   "I suppose . . . milud."

   "Good. You will start tomorrow. Behave yourselves, now. I have to talk to Mr. Davis."

   He headed for the door and then stopped and swung around. Four pairs of mischievous eyes and one sullen pair returned his gaze. "By the way, I think I have found you a music teacher. He's an old school friend from Eton. He arrives in London on Wednesday, and I will bring him down that evening. I think you will like him. I know I do."

   "Has to be better than Davis," Fred muttered. "He don't know an A from a bleedin' bull's foot."

   Whooping with laughter, the younger boys sparred and slapped each other on the back. Fred sneered.

   Lucas departed, shaking his head at the impossible task he'd set himself. It seemed to be the story of his life. He'd look like some pretty kind of a fool if this project of his cost him a fortune and failed.

   Damn it, he answered to no one.

   He pulled out his watch. Hell. He'd be late for Tisha Audley's bloody tea if he didn't get a move on.

Where on earth was Lucas? Caro glanced at the tall case clock beside the front door, again. Almost half past three. If he didn't arrive soon, she would have to leave without him.

   Perhaps he'd met with an accident on the road. Caro's breath caught as if her corset had shrunk and her lungs were being squashed.

   Beckwith hurried to open the door at the sound of a carriage outside.

   Not injured then. Just late. She should have known better than to worry.

   He crossed the threshold and tossed his hat to the butler. His hair tousled, his jaw dark with stubble, and his coat covered in road dust, he looked more like a gypsy than a viscount.

   Her stomach gave a happy little lurch of welcome. She couldn't think why, when he looked so disreputable.

   "Where have you been?" she asked "You promised to be here at quarter past three to take me to Lady Audley's." It sounded shrewish, but with her nerves stretched to breaking, she couldn't keep silent.

   A haughty expression transformed his face from cheerful to frigid in the blink of an eye. "My business took longer than expected."

   The pressure on her chest increased as an image of the dazzling Lady Caradin took shape. He certainly wouldn't have rushed from that woman's side to escort Caro to tea. She failed an attempt at a smile. "I didn't want to be late and create a bad impression."

   "Then we will leave immediately."

   "You can't go dressed like that." The words came out impulsively with the thought.

   One hand on the knob, he turned to face her and raised a brow. "Tisha won't care, I assure you."

   A hot buzz of anger released the band of iron compressing her chest. "I care! No gentleman would arrive in a lady's drawing room in all his dirt."

   His expression darkened. "Are you implying I'm not a gentleman?"

   Oh heavens. She'd insulted him. Hot and cold chills followed each other in quick succession. "Of course not. But it's improper to make a call dressed like a . . ."

   "Like a what?" His voice held danger.

   Dash it—he was in the wrong, not her. She met his challenging gaze. "Like a groom." Or rather a pirate from a Minerva novel.

   One shoulder against the doorframe, his lean body emanated the challenge of a cocked pistol ready to trip at a touch. An arrogant smile pulled at one corner of his mouth. "Do you want to leave now, before it's too late, or do you want me to change?"

   It was an impossible choice, and he knew it.

   "I want you to behave in a gentlemanly fashion." Startled by her own bravery, she eyed him askance.

   He pushed upright, brushing his coat back, hands on narrow hips. "It wasn't included in our bargain, I'm afraid. You got me exactly the way I am." He swept a glance from her head to her toes. His voice lowered. "Just the way I got you."

   The words delivered in deep, husky male tones sounded sensual, but their meaning was clear. Anger drained away, leaving her feeling shriveled and parched inside. For all her new clothes, she hadn't changed any more than he had. She wasn't even a proper wife. She bit her lip.

   "Nor," he continued, his face set in hard lines, "did I agree to squire you about like a leashed dog. Had I known you would turn into a prosy bore, I would have left you in Norwich with your sisters. In fact, I've a good mind to send you back."

   Her eyes narrowed. "You can't. My coming to London is part of our agreement." She pasted a smile on her lips and waved an airy hand. "You should have told me you didn't want to go. I am quite content to go alone, and I prefer not to be late."

   Something like regret flickered across his face. He heaved a sigh. "I'll change and meet you there."

   She kept her tone light. "Please don't trouble yourself."

   "Dash it, Caro. I really meant to be back earlier." Genuine concern rang in his voice.

   Sure that he would see right through to her heart-pounding fear at the thought of entering the fashionable Lady Audley's home alone, she kept her smile fixed in place. "It is a simple afternoon call. And it wouldn't do for people to think you are under the cat's paw."

   An appreciative grin dawned on his face. "Doing it rather too brown, I think, my dear. Besides, I plan to meet Bascombe there afterward. He promised me a drive in his new phaeton. I'll join you and spend a few minutes in Tisha's drawing room before we leave."

   She flipped him a teasing glance. "A true sacrifice indeed, my lord."

   The tension snapped on his sudden crack of laughter. He made a dash for the stairs. Two steps up, he stopped and turned as if to speak.

   Caro waited, her pulse speeding up as his dark gaze locked with hers. He frowned. "I honestly didn't intend to leave you in the lurch, you know. I am glad I haven't put you out." He didn't look the slightest bit glad. In fact, he looked thoroughly irritated, as if she'd done something wrong. Then he turned and continued on his way.

   Didn't he want her to be independent? She swallowed a shaky laugh and a dry lump in her throat. This whole thing was just too confusing.

   "The carriage is at the door, my lady," Beckwith announced and opened the door.

   She drew in a deep breath and braced to take her first step into fashionable society.

   A rumpled neckcloth joined five others on the patterned rug. Lucas cursed.

   Danson's beagle eyes met Lucas's gaze in the mirror. "What's bitten you in the breeches?"

   The lantern-jawed valet had worked as a footman in the Stockbridge household when Lucas wore leading strings. Lucas glared back. "Nothing."

   "It's a lot of to-do for nothing," Danson muttered.

   Picking up another strip of foot-wide muslin from the pile on the walnut dressing table, Lucas folded it in half lengthways.

   After leaving Caro downstairs, he'd set the household on its ears with demands for a bath and a change of clothes, all to no avail. The water took ages to heat, his hair dried too slowly, and now even the damned neckcloths conspired against him.

   With the starched white cloth draped around his neck, Lucas carefully creased the fabric, proceeding with the tedious task of tying a mathematical. He narrowed his eyes. Caro darn well better appreciate the effort.

   He fumbled at the knot and pulled it tight. He stared at the lopsided affair in the mirror. "Devil take it. What a dog's breakfast."

   Danson came around to look from the front. He shook his head. "Do you want me to try?"

   "Not if I want to get to the Audleys' on time." He brushed Danson's gnarled hand aside. "There's more chance of me pissing in the Prinny's hat than you being able to tie a decent cravat."

   A grim chuckle met his snarling words.

   He hadn't hired Danson because he was a good valet; he'd done it to annoy his father and to get rid of the mincing Frenchman the old man had tried to foist on him. And Danson didn't fuss over nonsensical issues like the precise fit of a jacket or the shape of a calf—not that there was anything wrong with his calves, as far as he knew.

   Ripping off the disaster at his throat, Lucas dropped it with the others. "I'm out of practice, that's all. Give me some room, why don't you?"

   Danson wandered off to do whatever valets do, and Lucas clenched his teeth and began again.

   To hell with Caro for making him feel like a recalcitrant child. He refused to answer to her or anyone else. But the disappointment in her melting honey eyes and the guilt at letting her down still stabbed his conscience.