My Fallen Angel (6 page)

They arrived at the outskirts of London as dusk fell, the sticky fog surrounding them as they rumbled over Westminster Bridge. A few streamers of light poked golden fingers through the brown-gray haze, periodically illuminating the interior of the coach.

Lady Cornelia’s town home was located on Arlington Street, near St. James Square, and as they drew nearer, Lucy felt her heart beat more rapidly. She’d been on edge for the duration of the trip, perhaps in response to Tom’s dire words earlier, but more probably because of the discouraging sight of Garrick on horseback when she’d stepped out of her aunt’s house that morning. She had no idea where he’d gotten the new horse, his other one having been buried that morning, but she’d been so depressed and hurt at his obvious attempt to avoid her company that she’d been tempted to tell him not to kill this one, too.

She hadn’t, of course. Instead she’d held her tongue, telling herself he didn’t hate her, he just didn’t feel
anything
for her.

She pulled her navy blue cloak more tightly around herself, as if it could ward off her somber mood, and focused on the reassuring sight of her aunt’s town home as it came into view. The brick house had always held special memories for her. Happy memories of times past when her parents had brought her to London for a visit. She missed her parents terribly, but she’d grown used to the ache of the loss.

“It looks as if Lambert has been keeping things in hand.”

Her aunt’s words jarred Lucy from her mental ramblings and forced her to focus on the scene through the carriage window. Light spilled from the town home’s front windows, a welcome sight indeed on such a chill and overcast day.

The coach rolled to a stop and Lucy sat up straighter, shooting a look out the window. Garrick reined in his horse. The man so handsome. So, so … heroic-looking. She sighed. He’d insisted on staying with them, the better to protect them, he’d said. Would that it had been his own insatiable desire for her that had made him offer such a thing. A wistful feeling descended over her, the same wistful feeling she got whenever she thought of him near her. Her hand rose to her cheek. She closed her eyes; if she imagined hard enough she could still feel the soft touch of his finger, the warm kiss of his breath. A smile lifted the corners of her mouth, a smile which faded when she opened her eyes and caught her aunt staring at her.

Lucy jerked her hand away and tried to hide her consternation.

A footman came forward to hold Garrick’s horse, but Garrick swung a booted leg over the horse’s neck and jumped down before the servant arrived.
Goodness,
Lucy thought,
he even dismounts like a swashbuckling hero.

Her reverie was broken when one of her aunt’s servants opened the carriage door, blocking her line of vision. Tom practically bounded from the coach, the coachman jumping back just in time to avoid being landed upon.

“Thomas,” Lady Cornelia barked.

Tom skidded to a halt, then turned back, a pained expression on his face as he jigged from foot to foot.“Gots ta empty me pisser, me loidy.” He crossed his legs to demonstrate his point.

Lucy put a gloved hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh. She glanced past Tom to Garrick, who had just walked up behind him. Garrick emitted a noise sounding suspiciously like a snort.

“Well, goodness, boy. Be on your way,” announced Cornelia, waving her hand imperiously.

Tom looked relieved, then turned and charged toward the door. Fortunately, Lambert opened it just as he reached for the handle, the butler doing a remarkable job of looking unfazed when the boy streaked by.

Lucy looked back to Garrick, struggling to contain her amusement.

He smiled, just a tiny bit of a thing that faded as quickly as the sun behind a cloud.

Lucy felt as if the coach had overturned.

Her heart fluttered. He looked away. Lucy wanted to cry, to scream out,
Don’t! Don’t turn away from me!
But she didn’t. She blinked, trying to understand the tumultuous emotions that made her belly flop like a landlocked fish, that made her wish for the hundredth time that she’d been born someone other than Lucy Hartford, the disgrace of Sanderton County. She glanced at her aunt, and gulped at the expression on her face.

Her aunt glared, “I will speak to you about this later.”

Lucy looked away. The coachman politely held the door. She seized the opportunity to escape.

The smell of climbing roses assaulted her nostrils as she neared the doorway. The flowers splashed their color against the brick facade of the house. There were hundreds of blooms making one last stand against the approaching fall. The smell mixed with the odor of beeswax and lemons filling the hall. What remained of the evening light shone off the hardwood floors and wood panels of the foyer. Lucy glanced left, comforted by what she saw. Her mother’s picture still hung on the hall, a younger version of Aunt Cornelia. Her father’s still hung in the morning room to her right. She glanced up the stairs directly in front of her, knowing that her room would be exactly the same as she’d left it: lemon-colored drapes, fluffy lace coverlet.

“Good evening, Lambert,” her aunt said as she sailed through the front door.

“Good evening, my lady,” the butler replied, a bland expression on his face. But when he turned to Lucy, he smiled.

“Good evening, Lambert,” Lucy said, smiling back. There was an answering gleam in the butler’s eyes, for the man was more like a family member than a servant.

Lucy turned to Garrick, trying to control her breathing as she stared at him.“Lambert, this is a friend of Lady Warburton, the Marquis of Cardiff.” She ignored the frown her aunt shot in her direction for introducing a guest to a servant.

“My lord,” the butler replied, and it was obvious he tried not to gawk. His eyes nearly boggled when he caught sight of Garrick’s earring.

Completely oblivious to the assessing look, Garrick merely stared right back. Lucy looked between the two. All Garrick needed was a rapier and a red scarf and he’d be the spitting image of a storybook pirate. She stopped a chuckle midthroat. Garrick chose that moment to glance at her. Unable to stop herself, she smiled at him again. She didn’t expect one in return, so she was stunned when the right side of his mouth tipped up.

She felt giddy. She felt like dancing. She felt like crying in delight.

“My lord,” her aunt said, breaking the spell.“I dare say your staying with us will not be considered
quite
so improper if you share a room with Thomas.” She turned to the butler.“Lambert, please show his lordship to the boy’s room.”

The butler nodded, and Garrick bowed toward the ladies before turning to follow the servant.

“We dine promptly at eight, my lord,” Cornelia called, her eyes narrowing as she added, “Please do not.be late.”

Garrick looked over his shoulder and nodded, but Lucy noted he didn’t look at her again, not even once.

•  •  •

“I will not have you developing a tendré for the man,” Lady Cornelia said as she paced back and forth in front of Lucy, the powder blue skirts of her evening gown rustling like the sails of a battleship.

“But, Aunt, I’ve only known him for a day. How could I be developing a tendré for him?”

Cornelia stopped to stare down at her. Lucy clasped the arms of the pink-and-white chair she sat in and tried to appear unfazed, but her aunt must have known better.

“Don’t try to bamboozle me, young lady. I saw the way you looked at him. What’s more, I saw the way he looked back at
you.”

“You’re mistaken, Auntie.”

“No, I am not.”

Lucy wiggled in her chair. If only her aunt were correct, but she knew she wasn’t. The man didn’t even want to ride in the same carriage with her.

“Lucy, I know how impressionable you are. It would be just like you to fall instantly in love with a man just because he came to your rescue.”

Lucy’s head snapped up.“Aunt Cornelia, I am not
that
bad.”

“Oh yes you are, my dear.”

“I am not. Why, why … look at what happened with Lord Washburn. I didn’t become enamored of
him.”

“Really, Lucy, Lord Washburn is over twice your age and married to boot. And a good thing, too, for I’d hate to think what a young man would have done if he’d found you hanging from that tree limb. When I think back to what youlooked like, your petticoats exposed, one slipper on the ground and the other dangling from your toes, I just cringe.”

Lucy felt her cheeks flame with color. She really hadn’t had much luck with trees lately. To this day she
still
couldn’t believe her sash had supported her weight for so long, not to mention that tree limb. It had been a pity Lord Washburn had been the one to discover her, but at the time she’d been so relieved that help had arrived, she hadn’t cared that he’d spent at least ten minutes doubled over in laughter before he’d gone to fetch her aunt.

“I assure you, Aunt Cornelia, I have
not
developed a fondness for his lordship.”

Her aunt stared at her for an interminable minute, just stared at her. It was as if she looked at her through a spyglass, trying to see into the crevices Lucy tried to keep hidden. She’d never been any good at hiding her feelings, and it appeared she hadn’t gotten any better, for her aunt said, “Yes you are, my girl. I can tell.”

Lucy didn’t move, didn’t flinch.

Her aunt cupped her chin with an age-spotted hand. Lucy wished it were Garrick’s hand.

“Lucy, my dear, sweet girl. You must face facts. A man such as Lord Cardiff is
far
beyond your reach. Don’t delude yourself into thinking you can catch him.”

The crushing words made Lucy want to look away. But she didn’t. She ignored the sting in her eyes and looked her aunt square in the face.

“I know I’m being cruel, but I couldn’t stand to see you hurt. Lord Cardiff will marry someday, I’m sure. And while you’re certainly his social equal in birth, you are not…” Her aunt struggled to find the words.

“His type,” Lucy finished for her.

“Exactly, my dear.”

Lucy nodded, refusing to let her aunt see how deeply the words wounded.

“Harry is a dear, fine man,” she said softly.“Dependable. Hard-working. Loyal.”

“Perfect traits in a husband,” Lucy mumbled.“Or a hunting dog.”

Cornelia frowned.

“But I understand, Aunt. And I thank you for the warning.”

Her aunt let go of her chin, then stepped back and stared down at her.

Don’t let her see,
Lucy thought.
Don’t let her see that it is already too late,
for it was. As impossible as it sounded, she had already developed a tendré for Garrick Asquith-Wolf.

“I’m glad you understand, my dear. Very glad indeed.”

Lucy looked away.

“Shall I see you at dinner?”

Lucy nodded, still not looking her aunt in the eyes. Aunt Cornelia stood in front of her, almost as if she sensed her deceit. Then she turned. Seconds later, the door clicked shut.

Lucy didn’t move. Her heart knocked in her chest like the fist of an angry prisoner. Slowly, she got up from her chair, walking almost blindly toward the window.

How had it happened? she wondered.
When
had it happened? Was it the first time he’d touched her? When he’d kissed her?

She sighed, supposing it didn’t matter. There was no use denying it. What she felt for Garrick was like chocolate compared to vanilla, like an orange compared to a lemon—so very different. She closed her eyes, rubbing her hands up her arms. An image of Garrick’s face rose in her mind. So handsome. So … troubled.

Was that what drew her to him? Maybe the tendré was nothing more than compassion for a troubled soul.

She turned away from the window. She’d had more than her fair share of troubles in her short life, and she could empathize. It must be that which cried out to her. She sensed a kindred spirit in Garrick, his heart calling to hers like the keen of a lonely gull.

She would help to solve his troubles, she decided, and in the process perhaps win his heart.

Several hours after the confrontation with her aunt, Lucy realized how difficult a task she’d set herself.

The cold Garrick was back.

He didn’t even glance her way as he entered the dining room, pulled a chair out, then took a seat; while she—an admiring breath leaked past her lips—couldn’t pull her gaze away. Gracious heavens. If she’d thought him handsome in pirate garb, he was twice that dressed all in formal black. The color made him appear more bronzed, his eyes more blue, his hair more golden. No wonder Mary Crew had fallen all over herself when relaying the tale of how she’d spied him on the street last year. At the time Lucy had dismissed the girl’s ramblings as slightly delusional, even going so far as to call her a twit. Indeed, Mary had only caught a brief glimpse of him, but if anything, Mary had severely
understated
Garrick’s charms.

“Ahem.”

Lucy started, then reluctantly tore her gaze away. Aunt Cornelia stared at her as if she’d been caught with her petticoats down. Lucy looked away.

The seating arrangement for dinner had been chosen by her aunt, thereby putting Garrick on the opposite end of the table, Tom to her right, her aunt to her left. Cornelia’d thrown a tall epergne bearing roses and white tulips between them for good measure. It wouldn’t be so bad except that even with all the table’s leaves removed, the table
still
resembled a cricket field. She looked down its long length and tried not to squint. A spyglass would be helpful.

It was a sentiment which was to repeat itself as she strained to listen to any fragment of conversation which happened to drift on lazy air currents her way. She leaned forward, tilting her head to catch Garrick’s response to her aunt’s latest question.

“What … like to know … lady?” was his faint reply.

“Well, for one thing I’d like to know how you propose to find out if Mr. Barrow is actually the countess’s solicitor. The sooner we return home, the safer I will feel.”

Lucy heard her aunt’s response clearly enough, which was why she thought she might have misheard Garrick when he replied, “… going to ask him.”

“I beg your pardon?” Cornelia asked, setting her fork down with a
clink.

“I’m…surprise the man into telling …”

“Capital idea,” Tom pronounced, nodding in approval.

Lucy clenched her fork in frustration. She turned to Tom.“What did he say?”

“He’s gonna visit the solicitasator tomorrow and pretend to be a runner.”

Lucy relaxed a bit.“It’s
solicitor,
Tom.” She looked down the length of the table, the beginnings of a plan occurring.“That is a wonderful idea, my lord,” she bellowed.

“Lucinda, please,” her aunt snapped, “don’t scream.” She turned back to Garrick.“Well, I wish you luck. When will you visit the man?”

“Morning,” came the faint reply.

Lucy turned to Tom.“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

Lucy nodded, excitement buzzing through her veins. She could do this. All she needed was an excuse.

“Lucinda,” her aunt snapped, and the look on her face would have done a magistrate proud.“You are not to go with his lordship, nor are you going to pester, connive, or bribe him to take you with him. Do I make myself clear?”

Lucy returned her stare, forcing a serious expression on her face.“I promise not to go with his lordship.”

And she didn’t.

She left
before
Garrick.

Which, as she would explain later, was not actually going
with
him.

She wiggled in her seat, firmly shoving aside the niggling sense of guilt flickering through her mind. Yes, indeed, desperate times called for desperate measures. She just knew she could help Garrick, and if she coulddo that, maybe, just maybe, it would help soften him up a bit.

“Do ya thinks he’ll be surprised ta see ya?”

Lucy glanced at the boy, her “excuse” for leaving the house, Tom having been more than willing to come along. She bit her lip to stop a laugh from escaping.“Oh, I think he’ll be
very
surprised.”

The two shared a private smile. Lucy leaned forward and peered outside of the carriage. The clouds that had hung overhead had burned off, presenting a glorious day. Warm beams of light flickered in and out of the carriage like the flashes of a smuggler’s lantern as they passed between the brick buildings. They would arrive soon, she thought, settling back in her seat and trying to quell her sudden nervousness.

Moments later they turned onto Catherine Street. A haze of dust rose up as their hired hack rumbled to a halt. Lucy pulled the hood of her black velvet cloak over her head in an attempt to keep the flecks of dirt out of her hair. When the coachman opened the door, she stepped down, then waited for Tom, checking the frogs on her cloak and insuring herself they were firmly fastened.

She walked with her head down, avoiding the eyes of passersby; the sound of the busy London street was a steady drone. She and Tom stopped in front of the next building down, a bakery, judging by the heavenly smell; even so, they both kept well into the shadows.

They didn’t have long to wait. Less than two minutes had gone by when a coach drawn by a familiar pair of matched bays rounded the corner. She watched as heraunt’s coachman pulled back on the reins, drawing the carriage to a flamboyant halt practically right in front of them. The hooves of the horses kicked dirt onto the walkway. One of the passersby had to take a step back when a lackey jumped off the coach directly in his path, opened the door, and all but bowed as Garrick stepped down.

But Garrick was oblivious to it all as he nodded to the servant and stepped down, mentally rehearsing what he had to say.

He straightened the cuff of his sleeve that hung just past his dark gray jacket, so engrossed in his thought he was positive he imagined the sweet voice that sounded in his ears, a voice that reminded him of soft flesh and moonlight.

“My lord?” the voice repeated.

He stiffened. God’s balls. It couldn’t be.

“Oh, Garrick.”

It was.

He turned. She stood near the windows of the solicitor’s office, red hair peeking in wispy tendrils from beneath a black cloak A smile bright enough to be seen by passing ships was pasted upon her pixielike face. Worse, she had a partner in crime. Tom stood gleefully by.

Garrick cursed silently. He clenched his fists. He tightened his jaw. He did everything he could to keep himself from encircling the elegant, ivory column of her neck with his hands. Bloody hell. She was the mostshameless hoyden he’d ever met. Still, he had to squelch a little stab of admiration for her tenacity.

“Get into the carriage, Lucy.”

She looked a bit startled by his words.“I… What?”

“I said get into the carriage.”

“But we want to help.”

“The only way you will ‘help’ is if you get into the coach.”

She looked momentarily hurt, but didn’t move.

He lost all patience with her then.“Lucy if you do not get into that coach within the next ten seconds I shall tell your aunt you broke your promise to her.”

“But I haven’t.”

“Are you going to tell me you and Tom just
happened
to be on this street?”

“No. We left
before
you. So, as you can see, I did not come with you, nor did I follow you. I just…preceded you.”

He stiffened. Clever. He’d give her that. But that didn’t stop him from turning toward the coach. When he halted at the carriage door and looked back to her, she smiled. He swept his hands toward the inside. The smile faded a bit, but she stayed put nonetheless.

“Get into the carriage,” he repeated. His gaze shot past her to Tom who stood behind her.“You, too.”

“Right away, mate,” the boy retorted.

Garrick watched in satisfaction as Tom jumped into the open doorway. He looked at Lucy.

She stared right back.“Garrick,” she said, determination coloring her emerald eyes, “please let me stay. I have an idea, you see.”

“Which is exactly what terrifies me.” Her shoulders stiffened.“Well, I never. There’s no need to be rude—”

“Get into the coach or I will put you in it myself.” Anger began to punctuate her stance. Her eyes began to flash like the queen’s jewels. Her jaw looked as stubborn as a mule’s. Good. Maybe if she was angry she’d stay away from him.

“If you force me, I will scream my head off” “Fine.” He strode forward, braced himself for the jolt that always accompanied contact with her skin, then clapped a hand over her mouth and half lifted, half shoved her into the coach. If touching her was Purgatory, convincing himself to let her go was hell.

Her scream of frustration died a swift death when he slammed the carriage door in her face.

Silly chit,
he thought, turning toward the solicitor’s door. If he weren’t so irritated with her he would have applauded her cunning. He paused before the solicitor’s front door. His whole body tingled from his contact with her, his manhood suddenly as hard a fishing rod. His frown deepened. Hell, he’d lost his own wits.

The door jingled when he entered; after the brightness of the street, momentary blindness dimmed his sight. Garrick stood for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust and inhaling the smell of day-old bread and the musty odor of long-fallow books. Slowly, his eyes adjusted. Three windows lined the front of the shop, the blinds drawn to allow for wide bars of light to stripe the floor. A man sat behind a desk, his balding head beaded with sweat, his corpulent girth crammed into a too-small chair. He looked Garrick’s fit body up and down, his eyes narrowing.

“What do you want?” he grumbled.

Garrick pinned him with his most commanding stare, a look that had sent grown men scurrying to do his bidding, a look that was guaranteed to intimidate.“I’m here to see Mr. Barrows.”

The man’s watery blue eyes narrowed.“Oh? Do you have an appointment?”

“No.”

“Then go away.”

Garrick’s stiffened. Leave? Who was this little pea-ant to tell him to leave? Obviously, Mr. Barrows.“Sir,” he snapped, “what I have to ask will only take a moment.”

“I don’t have a moment.”

“Make one,” he growled.

“Not if you were the King of England.”

Garrick was just about to reach his hands across the desk and place them around the little rodent’s neck when the door jangled.

He turned.

Lucy stood there, a Lucy who had removed her cloak to reveal a dress so tight he was sure she wore nothing beneath it. The fabric was red—red as sin, red as her painted lips, red as her cheeks as she stared right back at him. She straightened, pulling that pride of hers around her as if it were her missing cloak. Her breasts thrust out, big breasts, Garrick noted, lovely breasts. Their creamy skin bulged over the low neckline. He wanted to touch them, to see if they felt as soft as they looked.

And like a hound, he caught a whiff of her. His manhood tingled. Roses.

Bloody hell.

“May I help you?” Mr. Barrows asked.

Garrick glanced at the little rat, his fury increasing when he noticed the leer on the man’s face.

“Why, yes, you can,” Lucy said in a small voice that picked up strength at the growing look of admiration in Mr. Barrows’s eyes.“I’m looking for Mr. William Barrows.”

Mr. Barrows smiled.“I am he.”

Two things irritated Garrick. One, Mr. Barrows had apparently forgotten his presence. Two, Lucy had apparently forgotten his presence, too. Not only that, but when she finally
did
recall it, it was to shoot him a look of satisfaction mixed with…hope?

“Oh, how lovely,” she cooed.

Mr. Barrows nodded proudly, his eyes never straying from her cleavage as he slowly rose from his seat.“Can I help you?” he asked, coming around the front of his desk, his belly preceding his arrival.

“You certainly may,” Lucy crooned.

Garrick wanted to shake her senseless, except he was afraid of dislodging the pea she had for a brain, or her nearly exposed breasts. When he eyed the low décolletage of her dress, his fury increased. She moved and the sweet swell of her breasts jiggled tantalizingly; the scent of roses filled the air to tease his senses. Unfortunately, he remembered all too well the feel of her flesh. He glanced at the solicitor again. The little weasel smacked his lips.

It was too much.

“What
the hell do you think you’re
doing?”
Garrick roared. How dare that little worm stare at Lucy in such a way? How dare
she
let him? He reached into his jacket, crossed the room to her side, and without even thinking about his actions, stuffed his handkerchief down the front of her dress.

Lucy gasped.

Mr. Barrows choked.

“How dare
you,
sir!” she spat, pulling the cloth out, her face reddening—if that were possible—even more.

Garrick tried to grab the fabric back so he could shove it home once again. She wouldn’t let him have it. He pulled harder. She hung on to it as if it were the tiller of a ship.

Mr. Barrows looked between the two.“Do you two know each other?”

“No,” they both exclaimed in unison, their battle having evolved into a full-fledged tug-of-war until, suddenly, Garrick let go. Lucy’s eyes narrowed as he began to unbutton his jacket. She rested her hands on her hips and gave him a “try and put it on me” glare.