Scandal (8 page)

She looked up, her eyes shimmering with a glassy sheen he instantly recognized as tears.

“I shall fix this, Anna Brooks, that I promise. I don’t know how, I don’t know when, but I
shall
fix it.”

It was the skepticism he saw in her eyes that shook Rein free of self-doubt. By god, he
would
fix it, even though at present he had no idea how.

“Give me twenty-four hours, Anna. I promise to resolve this.”

She held still for a moment, then she blinked, swallowed and looked down again, her hands beginning to scoop up the fabric.

“Twenty-four hours, gov. That’s all you got.”

Rein nodded, reminding himself of who he was. A lord, if she but knew. Surely he could find a way to resolve this.

And then he would discover who the bloody blazes had done such a thing, and wrap his hands around the person’s throat.

Part Two

“I come here seeking my destiny,” said the prince to the maiden.

Chapter Eight

Molly knew something was wrong when Anna didn’t show up the next morning. Granted, it was a miserable day outside—the kind of day that made a body sorry it had to work out-of-doors, it blew so wet and cold. Fat droplets of rain mixed with smaller ones to form a sort of mist that made it hard to tell where the clouds began and the ground ended. Everything was a slippery mess, Molly’s skirts drenched up to her knees, the bottoms of her feet slapping the insides of her half boots, they were so filled with water. Ballocks.

“C’mon, Anna,” she said as she tried to huddle beneath her cloak, her arms tucked beneath her armpits for warmth.

Never before had Anna made Molly wait. Her friend knew the dangers of loitering alone. Thankfully, this was their neighborhood, but still…

“Mornin’ to you, Henry,” she said, not wanting to pull out her hand to wave.

“Morning, Molly,” the street sweep said, his big broom dragging behind him.

“Bother this,” Molly muttered after he’d passed, the noise of the street and the other passing carts swallowing up her words. She had to dodge a stream of water that poured from a hole in the roof as she stowed her basket alongside the building. Lord willing, no one would steal from it.

By the time Molly made it up the last set of stairs, she was cursing her friend in rhythm to her steps. Had she diddled the fancy gent last evening to the point that she’d slept through the dawn? Didn’t she realize that a night of pleasure didn’t mean a body could skip selling wares on the morrow? Oh, she had a fine amount of knowledge to share with her friend.

“Anna Brooks,” she called as she knocked on the door. “You’d best have a good excuse for leaving me out in the cold.”

No answer.

“Anna?” she called again.

The door opened.

Molly stepped back. She couldn’t help it. It was as if the man who answered had bent down and said,
Boo,
so unexpected was his presence. Lord above. It was Anna’s Mr. Hemplewilt.

“Where is she?” Molly asked. “She hasn’t come down yet and it’s long past time to leave for market.” He had a spot smack in the middle of his head, a little red spot Molly knew was the place where Anna’s sail had clouted him.

“She’s still abed,” he said, his beautiful green eyes sweeping over her face—yes, they were as pretty as a pair of marble orbs Molly had seen in a glass shop window one day. But rather than narrow with interest as most men’s eyes did, he seemed rather disinterested as he said, “She had a bit of a late night last eve.”

“Did she, now?” Molly couldn’t help asking with a suggestive lift of her brow.

His brows swept up though he didn’t smile. “I fear you have the wrong idea, Miss Washburn.”

Well, then, there was something wrong with Anna.

“But I shall tell her you came by.”

Molly stared at him. He stared right back.

“My thanks,” she said at last.

He backed away, the door slowly closing. Molly wondered what the blazes might have happened.

So engrossed was she in her thoughts that she hardly paid heed as she rounded the bend of the first landing. “Lord above,” she cried out as she ran smack into a chest.

“Beg your pardon,” a masculine voice said, setting her back from him. “I heard you coming down. I should have called out.”

Words died with the speed of a gnat hitting a wall as she peered up at him. What a looker. And not just because of his broad shoulders. No. It was his eyes that captured her attention. Blue, as blue as the sky if tipped upside down and captured in a small bottle. As blue as the buttons on that fancy toff’s jacket she’d seen yesterday. As blue as the feathers of a blackbird when struck by the summer’s sun. They seemed to swallow her whole, those eyes, making her freeze as she gawked at him.

“No,” she said with lips that refused to work for a moment. “’Tis my fault.”

They stared at each other for a moment before the man looked up the stairs she’d just descended, his brows lifting before he looked back at her again. “I wonder, did you just come from the rooms upstairs?”

“I have,” she said bemusedly.

“Excellent. I have it down as belonging to my friend Mr. Montgomery, but I’m not so certain I have the right of it.”

He wore a hat. Odd, how she hadn’t noticed it before. Then she spied the red hair. She felt a stab of disappointment. Red hair. She’d always hated the color. Then she looked into the man’s eyes again and decided she could tolerate their children having red hair.

“No. ’Tis only one set of rooms upstairs. Me friend Anna Brooks lives there with her grandfather.”

The man looked disappointed. “Are you certain? There’s no other person living with them?”

“Well, they haves themselves a visitor, but his name’s Hemplewilt.”

The man’s obvious disappointment made Molly say, “But I’ll help you find your friend,” with a wide, flirtatious smile.

She thought for a moment that he might refuse, but then he looked her up and down, a slow smile crossing his face as he said, “My thanks…”

“Molly,” she said with another flutter. “Me name’s Molly.”

“Freddie Stills,” he said with a smile of his own. “Bow Street Runner.”

Rein paced the length of the little room exactly five times—ten steps each way, if one avoided the massive machine in the middle of the room—before he decided he’d best go up and check on Anna. He’d heard her up there rattling about last night, had wondered if he should go up and check on her, but he knew she would not welcome him and so he’d remained belowstairs, pacing, wondering… thinking.

Who knew he was here? And why would that person do such a thing to Anna? He had no cousins—well, he had one, but he would never do such a thing, and he wasn’t in line for the title.

And so the best he could come up with was that this was part of his uncle’s plan. That his uncle had paid for someone to try and frighten him. That might be why his solicitor had been so rude to him yesterday. And the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Just as it made sense that his uncle likely had someone watching him. How else was the solicitor to know if he adhered to the test?

But with the solution came no peace, for it didn’t solve Anna’s problem. Bloody hell, it drove him mad. The Bank of England held thousands of pounds in his name, none of which he could touch to replace Anna’s canvas.

“Curse it,” he mumbled to himself. He was going up.

“Anna,” he said after he pulled on the cord that dangled from the roof and controlled her ladder.

No answer.

“Anna,” he called again, more urgently this time. When she didn’t reply again, Rein clutched the sides of the ladder. Granted, she might be angered at this breach of privacy, but he refused to take the chance that something might have happened to her. Gray light cast a murky glow as he reached the top, one of the three windows in her attic partly open so that he could hear the noise from the street below. He turned his head.

And there she was, asleep against the far wall. A lone candle had melted into a mountain range of wax near her legs, the thing long since burned out.

Asleep, her hands still resting on the strips of sails she’d obviously been trying to piece back together again when she’d nodded off sometime in the middle of the night.

Something odd filled Rein then. Indeed, he stood there for a moment wondering what it was he felt. Then he cast it aside as he pulled himself into her room. Her canvases lay spread around her, the strips she’d been mending rumpled in her lap. Her hair fell loose over her shoulders, the brown dress she wore all but obscured by the long strands.

Asleep.

On silent feet, he moved forward.

She had smudges beneath her eyes.

And yet, still, her beauty took his breath away.

“Anna,” he said softly, testing the waters a bit. She didn’t move, not even to flinch at the sound of her name. He frowned.

“Anna,” he said more loudly, moving forward to kneel on one knee and touch her shoulder. “Anna, come,” he said. “You should take to your bed.”

But there was no reaction. And so Rein did something very surprising then—well, for him, at least. Generally speaking, if a woman chose to sleep in a broom closet, he wouldn’t care. Yet something wouldn’t allow him the same attitude toward Anna.

And so he leaned forward, gently inserting his arms behind and beneath her. Before he could think twice about it, he’d picked her up, her body so light and fragile in his arms he wondered where she found the strength to do all that she did. Her head fell into the crook of his arm.

Rein felt peace then; it was the only way to describe it. As he held Anna Brooks, a sensation rose within him that he’d only ever felt once before—when he was twelve and he’d been given a rabbit as a pet. The rabbit had been killed by bees not long after, but he still remembered the awe, the wonder and the pleasure in knowing that the creature he held in his arms was his.

Did he want Anna to be his?

Certainly he’d wanted to bed her. But now something felt different. Good God, he couldn’t believe he felt this way, but he wondered if he should keep his distance from her. Lord, his father must be rolling over in his grave, for his sire had taught him that women were for the taking. He stared down at her flawless face, his gaze catching on her softly parted lips, the urge to kiss her was not so much a desire as a sudden need. He wanted to kiss her because he… wanted to kiss her.

Gently, he lay her down on her bed, straightening and staring down at her. Almost he turned away, but at the last moment his gaze caught on the misfit of a bedcover she’d sewn together. He pulled it over her, only it didn’t seem warm enough in the chilly room, what with rain pecking at the windows. He spun on his heel and retrieved her battered and torn cloak, then gently placed it over her. She nestled beneath the thing like a babe. Only then did he allow himself to turn away. His gaze caught on the sails again. She’d only sewn a portion of one. One. She’d need to do five more in less than two weeks’ time, and that while working at the market. A frown came to his face then, for even he was smart enough to realize there was no possible way she could accomplish such a feat. Indeed, the material seemed to be in such tatters, he doubted she could repair enough of it to make one sail.

He glanced back at her, sleeping so peacefully beneath the white sail, her hair spilling out around her. And then Rein Montgomery, a duke of the realm, did something he’d never done before: He set to work.

Chapter Nine

Later that morning, Anna woke slowly. A feeling such as she’d not felt in ages descended upon her. It was a peaceful feeling, a sort of childish contentment that she’d only ever felt when she was young and happy and safe within the walls of her mother and father’s home.

She stretched a bit, eyes still closed, but as she swam in a tide pool of contentment, she couldn’t help but think something felt off.

She couldn’t recall getting into bed.

And she was still dressed.

The canvases.

She shot up, smacking her head on the low side of the roof that her bed lay under. “Ouch,” she muttered. Ballocks. Already the day was off to a rollicking good start.

The canvas.

And as the hopelessness of the situation once again overcame her, she felt the pain in her temple produce a sting in her eyes. It wasn’t tears, she told herself. No. She might have lost the canvas. She might have lost every farthing she’d saved up and spent on her investment, including farthings she didn’t have—a moneylender having been only too willing to take as collateral the barrow she used at market. But she wouldn’t give up. She had no choice. If she didn’t have six sails hoisted upon a ship by the time of the competition, she was done for.

Her eyes moved to the corner of the room where her canvas lay, only to jerk at what she saw instead.

Rein Hemplewilt slept across the room.

She pulled up the covers, shocked at the way the back of her neck tingled at just the sight of the bloody man in the same room with her. And after the trouble he’d caused her! She should be wearing garlic and carrying a stake. But there could be no denying her body suddenly thrummed as she took in the sight of him.

He lay propped up against the wall in the exact same place she had been last evening while she sewed her canvas, the material pulled over his legs, white lawn shirt half open. His dark hair was mussed and fell over his brow, his chin even darker than it was yesterday with its stubble of hair.

She slid out of bed then, her toes cringing at the cold, only as she sat up, she got her first glimpse of the sky outside. A rainy sky, yes, but one with light… a lot of light.

“Hell’s bells,” she cried. She’d overslept.

She shot Rein a glare, one that if he’d been awake would have popped the eyes out of his head just by the mental image she shot of him standing there with her hands clasped around his throat. Grabbing her apron, she tied it on quickly. No time to change her dress. She glanced out the window again. Lord, she’d missed the morning crowds.

“Blast it.” Why had she overslept? Now was not the time to bungle her one source of income.

“Wake up, you scaly cove.”

She hadn’t expected him to stir, but he snapped awake so fast, he cracked his head on the post behind him.

“Bloody hell,” he said, a hand going to the back of his head.

“Get up and get your things. I want you gone before I return this eve.”

“No,” he said.

She spun on him. “No?”

He shoved the material in his lap as if preparing to stand, only as he did, his white lawn shirt lifted, too. That appeared to flummox him for a moment, for he stared, his eyes blinking some more. Obviously, he’d sewn the canvas to his shirt. His eyes shot to hers, the look in them one of impatience. He ripped the canvas away, standing abruptly.

“No. You promised me twenty-four hours to rectify things, twenty-four hours that I intend to use.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” she said, looking for her cloak. It was atop the bed. How the blazes had it gotten there?

“Pity, for you shall then miss me taking to the stage.”

Take to the stage? She turned back to face him.

“Indeed, it came to me just as I nodded off. I saw an advertisement yesterday, one soliciting players. Thus I have decided to help you by embarking on a competition of my own.”

“You’re going to take to the stage at Piccadilly Theatre?”

“You’ve heard of it?”

“Of course I’ve heard of it.” Her hands moved to her hips. “But you’re mad to be thinkin’ of going there, gov.”

Though if he won, she realized, the blunt would be enough to pay for new canvas.

No, it was too dangerous. And while she didn’t particularly like Mr. Hemplewilt, she wouldn’t see him put his life in danger. He’d have enough on his hands when she forced him out onto the streets.

And don’t you be feelin’ guilty about that, either.

“There’s a reason why they pay people so much, gov. They have to entice people into performing. Most people end up bloodied for their efforts.”

“Indeed,” Rein said, still not dissuaded. “That is a risk I shall have to take.”

“No,” she found herself saying. “It’s too risky.”

“I do not care. I promised to help you, and so I shall. I am an honorable man, Anna, and for all my faults, I believe in keeping a promise.”

She stared at him, hardly daring to believe that he would do this for her. But the look in his eyes, the determination she saw on his face…

“What do you plan to perform?” she asked, the perspective shift she suddenly underwent making her feel almost fumble-tongued.

“Poetry.”

“Poetry?
They don’t ken to poetry at Piccadilly Theatre.”

“Ah, but you see, I don’t recite the flowery poetry.” He lowered himself a bit—that was the only way Anna could describe it. It wasn’t that he moved closer, it wasn’t that he stooped down, yet somehow she had a feeling that he’d leaned closer.

“You don’t?” she asked, feeling suddenly dry in the mouth.

“Indeed, no,” he said with a smile as wide as the London Bridge. “My poetry is—shall we say—bawdy?” His eyes narrowed. “I see that brain of yours working.”

It was. She was busy naming a hundred reasons why she shouldn’t let his willingness to help her affect her.

“I’m just praying you win the competition,” she said. “If not, I’ll have to find another way to pay for your funeral.”

And so that evening, after Anna returned from market, they set off, though throughout the day she tried to tell herself that she shouldn’t be grateful to Mr. Hemplewilt because he was willing to help her. He
owed
her his help.

And yet still…

He
could
have left, though she supposed he might be afraid to be out on his own. Still, he might have tried to win the performance for his own benefit. Instead he was going to do it for her.

“Do the crowds never go away?” Mr. Hemplewilt asked as they stood in the doorway of her tenement and looked out over her narrow street. The sun made a temporary appearance, at an angle so low that long shadows stretched into the middle of the street—some thin, some short, depending on the height of the buildings around them.

Anna followed his gaze, seeing her world though his eyes for the first time. It’d stopped raining, but the moisture had caused the roads to turn to muck, sedan chairs tugged along by scruffy-looking men in black hats and blue jackets who worked their way among a myriad of brown or black carriages that spilled their way down the lane like marbles from a bag. A hay cart rolled by with its load ready to spill off the back, and for a moment, just the briefest of seconds, the sweet smell of cut grass filled the moist air, only to be overcome again by the gutter. It was noisy, always noisy, this part of London as active as an anthill no matter what time of day or night.

“No,” she said, setting off. It would rain again soon, the sunlight just a brief bit of optimism shot down by a cloudy sky.

“Evenin’, gov.”

Anna stopped as a tart wedged herself in front of Mr. Hemplewilt.

“Care to sample me wares?” Anna heard her ask with a wiggle of her breasts. The back of the wench’s head looked like she’d slept on that mop of blond (or was it gray?) hair, the strands teased into a frizzy mess. She wasn’t exactly clean, either. And she smelled like… well, she just plain
smelled.
Or was that smell from the big brute of a man who’d just passed by?

Rein looked over at Anna as if to say,
Is she talking to me?
But he must have realized she was, for he straightened, saying, “Thank you, no. I am otherwise presently engaged.”

Which made Anna shake her head and roll her eyes.
Otherwise presently engaged,
she silently mimicked. As if this were a fancy drawing room and the woman a well-dressed swell.

“Certain, are you?” said the crone, her hand going to Mr. Hemplewilt’s codpiece; at least Anna thought it might be there, for he jumped, shifted, his hand swatting the crone’s fingers away.

“Please do not touch me.”

Which made Anna reach around him, jerk his arm toward her and say, “He’s with me.” To which Mr. Hemplewilt obligingly stepped around the tart, his hand going to his head as if about to tip a hat, only to drop back to his side when he realized he didn’t have one.

“That woman propositioned me,” he said when they were on their way again.

“Aye. Fancy that,” she said, walking away. The man couldn’t even foist off a decrepit old tart! How the blazes would he survive the evening?

“You look concerned,” he said as they passed beneath a lamplighter lighting a wick.

“I am worried for your safety,” she said, daring a glance up at him. He looked so handsome. So devilishly handsome this evening. Granted, he wore the same battered jacket he’d traded his own coat for, the same brown breeches and used half boots, but his clothing could not disguise the noble form beneath. Not now. Not ever.

“Are you?” he asked, staring down at her.

“You might get wounded.”

“Would that matter?”

She stopped. “Of course it would.”

Someone jostled them, the crowded streets bothering Anna for the first time in a long while.

“Would it, Anna?”

And there was her name again, that soft, fluid name that sounded so elegant and pretty coming from his lips.

“It would,” she said, looking into his green eyes.

“You mean that, don’t you?” he asked softly.

“Course I do.”

And was it her imagination, or did his expression turn cynical? “Because in my experience, Anna, people will say and do a great deal to get what they want. You need my help this night, and yet I’ve a feeling you’d rather I not perform.”

“I
would
rather you not perform,” she said, meaning it. Oh, goodness, she felt the oddest emotions course through her as she stared up at him. Curiosity. Excitement. Fear.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Thank you?” she asked, trying and failing to understand what it was he was thanking her for.

“Thank you for caring about my welfare, Anna. It has been quite some time.”

“Quite some time since what?”

He looked away, but not before she saw a joyless look of acceptance quickly concealed behind his eyes. “Anyone cared for me, Anna. Just me, not… anything else.”

She almost asked him what he meant, but just then he guided her forward, the crowd suddenly worse as they hit a main thoroughfare.

Cared for me. Just me.

Was it true? Did he have no one to care for him? And why did such a thought fill Anna with a sorrow?

She shook her head, trying to sort out the emotions she felt as he held her arm, guided her through the streets on their way to Piccadilly Theatre. To perform. For her.

The theater looked smaller on the outside than it did on the inside, Rein thought. Two stories made of gray stone, it had old boards for walls on the interior, a stage with candles across the front at one end.

“Mr. Hemplewilt, please,” Anna said as the two of them entered. “Do not do this.”

And even though she’d sunk back into the hood of her cloak—something she did frequently, Rein reasoned, as a way to avoid attention—he could still see the concern in her amber eyes as she glanced up at him. The light glowing from the candles in front was poor, but not that poor.

“Anna, I have no choice.”

“My canvas is not worth your life.”

Rein felt that odd sense of wonder again, the wonder that came from knowing she cared for him despite not knowing who he truly was.

“I shan’t lose my life,” he reassured her, asking a passerby for the person in charge of the performances. But she didn’t look convinced as he arranged things in the crowded theater, big bodies huddled next to small, thin next to well fed. Indeed, with each act that came off the stage, the crowd grew more and more riled, and Anna looked increasingly ill.

“You’ll be on after this bloke,” said the little man who managed the stage. “The last to perform, too,” he added, “which is likely a good thing. They’re getting a bit riled.”

And, indeed, someone from the front row yelled, “Ge’ him off the stage.” One of the fat candles that lined the stage fell when a rotted orange hit it, extinguishing the wick on impact.

Still, Rein wasn’t worried.

“Someone shut ’im up,” another man yelled just as the poor gent belted a high note—one that was cut off abruptly as a very well-aimed something hit him in the gut.

“Done for,” the stage manager said, his fleshy hands clasping the front of his belly as something that sounded like a belch erupted from his throat. Laughter, Rein realized as he watched the man’s corpulent little body shake like the whipped cream atop a shaken pie.

Sure as certain, the singer said, “Please. No more. I’m leavin’, I am.”

To which someone yelled, “’Bout time,” before letting another fruit fly.

“They don’t like singers,” the stage manager said without moving his gaze away. “Hope for your sake you ain’t singing.”

Rein shook his head, utterly confident he had nothing to fear. Indeed, he had faced and endured far worse than an unruly audience.

“He’s not singing,” Anna said. “But that doesn’t mean he won’t get the same treatment. Or worse.”

“They tried to kill me,” the singer said as he came off stage.

“Mr. Hemplewilt,” Anna pleaded again.

Rein looked down at her, reassuring her with a confident smile. “Have no fear, Anna. I shall emerge the victor. Watch.”

She seemed reluctant to let him go as he boldly stepped onto the raised wooden platform that served as a stage, one covered with enough tomatoes and onions to fill Anna’s barrow.