Royal's Bride (23 page)

“Blimey…” the boy said, wide-eyed, “yer good. I didn’t feel a thing.”

“What the devil…?” Royal stared down at the leather pouch Lily held out to him.

“He’s a cutpurse, Your Grace.” She handed him the pouch, then turned back to the boy, who looked up at her with huge, frightened eyes. He couldn’t have been more than eleven or twelve, small for his age, and utterly skin and bones.

“Who taught you,” she asked, “Harry O?”

The boy started to run again and Royal caught his shoulders and brought him to a struggling halt. “Easy, lad.”

“Who?” Lily pressed.

The boy ceased his struggles and just stood there looking defeated. “Fast Eddie. But I been on me own fer a bit.”

“Men like Harry and Eddie teach boys the trade. They learn to steal then exchange their ill-gotten gains for a bit of food and a place to sleep.”

“Are ye gonna call the coppers?”

Royal felt a wave of sympathy for the ragtag boy. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Tommy. Me name’s Tommy Cox. I won’t do it again, milord—I give ye me word.”

“Where are your parents, Tommy?” Lily asked softly.

The lad just stood there, his head hanging down, brown hair falling forward, covering a pair of sugar-bowl ears.

Royal tugged on the back of the boy’s dirty tweed coat. “Answer the lady, lad. Where are your mother and father?”

He swallowed so hard his throat moved up and down. “I don’t remember me da. He died when I was small. Me mum got sick and died a few years back. Ye gonna call the coppers?”

Lily looked up at Royal, silently beseeching him to let the boy go.

“Not this time,” Royal said. “But if you keep up this kind of behavior, Tommy, sooner or later, you’ll wind up in prison.”

Lily caught the boy’s arm. “Listen to me, Tommy. My name is Lily Moran. I own a hat shop in Harken Lane called the Lily Pad. It’s just off Bond. If you need something to eat or a warm place to sleep, you come and see me, all right?”

Tommy looked up at her, his eyes even bigger, and filled with something that looked like hope. “Ye mean it?”

She smiled. “I mean it, I promise.”

“Whot about me dog? I don’t go nowhere Mugs ain’t welcome.”

Royal hadn’t noticed the ugly, brown-and-white mutt until it trotted over and sat down at the boy’s feet.

Lily pretended not to notice how bad the dog smelled or the splotches of dried mud and offal on its coat. “You can bring Mugs, too.”

For the first time, Tommy smiled. Lily saw it, and the tender expression on her face made something tighten in Royal’s chest. He caught the boy’s hand and dumped a handful of silver into his grimy palm. He didn’t dare risk a gold sovereign. A boy his size could be killed for something as valuable as that.

Tommy grinned up at him. “Thank ye, sir.” He turned to Lily. “I may come see ye, miss. I may hold ye to yer word.”

Lily smiled at him. “You do that, Tommy.”

The boy dashed away, his mangy dog at his heels, both of them vanishing round the corner.

“If he shows up, he’ll probably steal you blind,” Royal said, but he couldn’t pull his gaze from Lily’s face, and pride rose inside him at what she had done.

The tilt of her chin held a trace of defiance. “I lived in the streets once. My uncle was good to me, but we were poor. I was a cutpurse and a thief. I know what it’s like to go hungry.”

His chest squeezed. She was so brave and so sweet. He simply couldn’t help himself. Leaning toward her, he bent his head and settled his mouth over hers. Right there on the street next to the cab stand, he kissed her.

For an instant, Lily stiffened, then her mouth softened under his and she kissed him back, her slender body swaying toward him. Arousal shot through him and the blood seemed to burn through his veins. Desire hit him like a fist, numbing his brain and making him go rock hard. In an instant he was lost.

It was the press of Lily’s hands on his chest, pushing him away, that brought reality crashing in. Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing a little too fast.

“I—I can’t do this, Royal. I can’t…can’t be your mistress.”

He swallowed, wanting her so badly he ached. “I know.”

Her eyes welled, brimmed with tears. “There’s something I need to know, Royal. I know I have no right to ask, but…are you…are you and Jocelyn…”

He frowned. “Are we what…?”

“Did you make love to her, Royal?”

“Good God, no!”

Lily looked down at the slender feet peeping out from beneath the hem of her skirts. “I thought…at the
ball the other night…you both disappeared and I…” She looked up at him. “You’re an extremely virile man, Your Grace, and men have needs. Since we can’t…can’t be together, it seemed only logical that you would—”

“It didn’t happen, Lily. I am surprised you thought Jocelyn would be willing.”

She shrugged and glanced away. “The two of you are going to be married. It wouldn’t be the first time a man took his wife before the wedding.”

“Not this man,” he said, and realized how little he desired the woman destined to become his bride.

Lily just looked at him. “And yet you took me,” she said softly.

A cab appeared just then, the bay horse plodding up in front of the stand. There was no time to explain and he had no idea what he would say if he tried.

“I have to go.” Lily made her way toward the door of the carriage. Royal helped her inside and paid the driver the fare.

“Will you come to the race?” he found himself asking.

Lily leaned out of the cab and for the first time, she smiled. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Royal just stood there, captivated by that smile, wondering how he was ever going to give her up.

Then he remembered the vow he had made to a father who lay dying, and knew he would have to find a way.

Preston Loomis shifted in his chair in front of the fire. A dying March would soon blossom into April. Spring couldn’t get here soon enough for Preston. He hated the damnable cold, hated the fog and the rain.

Maybe he would take some of his recent earnings and
slip off to Italy or Spain, someplace warm. He smiled at the notion, knowing he would never actually go. He was a Londoner, no matter the rotten weather.

He looked up at the sound of a man’s gruff voice, saw Bart McGrew standing in the doorway.

“Come in and get warm,” he offered. “It’s bloody cold out there.”

Bart lumbered toward him, set himself in front of the hearth and turned his back to the fire to warm himself. “‘Twas warmer today than yesterday. Maybe winter’s finally on the way out.”

“I hope so.” Preston shifted on the brocade sofa, trying to find a comfortable position, which seemed harder to do every year. “So what have you learned about the old woman, Mrs. Crowley?”

“I asked round like you said. Found a few what knows her. She’s from York, they say, stayin’ with Lady Tavistock, the countess, ya know? I guess they’re friends.”

“I know who Tavistock is.” And it was rather ironic that the late Duke of Bransford’s aging aunt was going to provide a second tasty morsel to add to Preston’s already overflowing coffers—in the form of her friend, Mrs. Crowley.

“So you ran across nothing untoward about her, no hint of anything amiss?”

Bart shrugged his beefy shoulders. “She’s a dotty ol’ bat, half-addled in the brain. Lots of money, they say, and not much kin to help her spend it.”

“No children?”

“None I heard of. Old man Crowley left her a bloody fortune and she’s still got most of it. I guess he owned mills and such, and some kinda factory.”

Coal and cotton and who knew what else, according to Mrs. Crowley.

“Nice work, Bart.”

The big man nodded, pleased at the compliment. He turned and headed for the door.

“Oh, there is one more thing,” Preston said, stopping him before he reached it. “There is a boat race coming up. It’s some kind of sculling match between four men. I want to know who is racing and when.”

Bart grinned. “I already know when it is. Race is set for Sunday next, if the weather ain’t too poor. Starts at Battersea, goes round the bend toward Putney. After church. One o’clock off the mark. Be lots of folks there, bettin’ and such.”

Preston rarely questioned Bart’s information. The man had developed a network of servants round the city, all with an ear for gossip, and Bart paid them handsomely for information.

“You did well, my friend. Let me know the names of the men who will be racing as soon as you know.”

Bart just nodded. As he ambled out of the drawing room, Preston picked up the book he had started to read. His mother had taught him the basics of reading and ciphering, all she had ever learned. She had made him promise to learn more, said it would pay off in the future.

His mother, as usual, was right. The tutor he had hired with the first money he made had not only schooled him, but educated him in the ways of a gentleman. Preston mingled with the upper crust as if he were born there and no one questioned whether he belonged or not.

And he had a knack for persuasion. They called a
man a confidence artist because he could win a person’s confidence long enough to steal his money.

Preston chuckled. Once he won old lady Crowley’s trust, she wouldn’t know what hit her.

T
hey got lucky. Sunday was the prettiest day they’d had so far this year, perfect for a boat race. Royal stood in a circle with Sherry, Jonathan Savage and Quentin Garrett, the other Oarsmen who had come to race. The winter had been long and cold and all of them were looking forward to being on the water again, to limbering up muscles that hadn’t been worked since the fall.

Four single-seat sculls waited on the muddy bank of the river flowing through Battersea Park on the outskirts of London. A group of friends and acquaintances stood at the edge of the water, mingling with people who had simply heard about the competition and were eager for an excuse to get out in the sunshine.

Royal spotted Lily standing next to Jocelyn. She wasn’t there as Tsaya. She was simply Lily, looking feminine and pretty, and so sweet something twisted inside him. She and Lady Annabelle stood in a circle talking to Lady Nightingale, Lady Sabrina, Aunt Agatha and the old woman, Mrs. Crowley.

Royal smiled fondly at his aunt. After she had heard the story, Aunt Agatha had, amazingly, been eager to join in their plan. She had been suspicious of Preston Loomis from the start, she had said, had tried to warn William, her nephew, the duke, but by then he had been sucked under Loomis’s spell. She hadn’t known the confidence man had been responsible for depleting much of the Bransford fortune. She was furious and eager for justice once she found out.

Aunt Agatha laughed at something Molly Daniels said, an odd pair if ever there was one. But the women seemed to be getting along very nicely and the sparkle in Aunt Agatha’s eyes said she was enjoying the entire adventure.

“It’s time we got the race under way.” This from Quent Garrett, who had stripped off his coat and now stood near the boats, barefoot, in breeches and a full-sleeved shirt. Savage and Sherry did the same, and Royal joined them, stripping off his socks, boots and jacket, and handing them to Sherry’s valet, who collected all of the garments and carried them into the tent that had been set up as a place to change at the end of the race.

St. Michaels wasn’t racing today. Along with several volunteers, he would be officiating at the finish line. Nightingale would remain at the starting point, keeping an eye on Loomis, assuming he appeared. There was no way to know for certain, but Lily was convinced he would be there.

Royal looked over at the slender woman gowned in peach silk. Wisps of silver-blond hair had escaped from beneath her wide-brimmed straw bonnet and floated seductively around her heart-shaped face. She was smiling at something Lady Annabelle said, her cheeks
flushed an enchanting shade of rose. A pang of longing went through him and a jolt of desire so strong his whole body tightened.

Inwardly he cursed.

“Come, lads.” Sherry slapped him on the back as he started toward the river. “Time to race.”

Like the others, Royal was eager for the match. He wanted to win today, wanted to win for Lily, but instead he would lose to Savage. It galled him, though he might have lost anyway. The men were evenly matched. If the outcome weren’t set, any of them might be the winner.

As it stood, Savage would win and the rest of them would race hard for second place. They would give it their all and do their best to win. That was the fun of the sport.

Sherry grinned. “I shall see you all at the finish,” he challenged as he reached his boat.

“All you will see is my stern,” Quent countered, the red in his dark hair glinting in the sun.

“You will both see mine,” Royal promised, grinning as they made their way toward the water.

As they checked their equipment a final time, making certain the smooth spruce oars were properly placed and the brass oarlocks would hold securely, Royal couldn’t resist a glance over his shoulder. Jocelyn waved, but it was Lily who drew his attention, Lily and the smile he knew was meant for him alone.

Wishing it didn’t please him so much, Royal shoved his long, sleek scull into the water, jumped in, settled himself in the sliding seat and took hold of the oars.

Lily watched Royal and the Oarsmen as they expertly lined themselves up for an even start in the water. The
crowd muttered then fell silent, waiting for Lord Nightingale to pull the trigger on the starting gun. Preston Loomis, the gathering’s latest addition, stood next to the earl, a relief to all of them. Nightingale had worked hard to strike up a friendship with the confidence man and it seemed he had succeeded.

Lily stood close enough to overhear some of the men’s conversation. They were talking about the race, then a wager was made. Nightingale bet on the duke, Loomis bet on Savage.

Lily hid a smile. Savage would win, of course. And when he mentioned the business deal Tsaya had told Loomis about, Loomis would make the investment, which, like the wager, would also pay off. If all went well, Tsaya could expect a message from Loomis requesting a meeting in the very near future.

She watched the four boats in the water, her gaze honing in on Royal as if he were a magnet and she a splinter of steel. The men were racing as a means to an end, but also for the fun of it. All of them were grinning as they sat in their long, skinny little boats. It seemed a miracle they could keep their balance and not topple into the water.

“Gentlemen, are you ready?” Nightingale stood in his place atop a boulder at the edge of the river.

“Ready!” came the four men’s reply in unison.

The earl fired the starting gun, the sound echoing down the channel. The crowd sent up a cheer and the boats were off. Oars stroked through the water; paddles flashed as the men put their backs into the rhythm. Each rower fought for the lead, digging deeply and with perfect precision.

Lily’s heart leaped with excitement. Oars dipped and
sliced, carrying the boats along the slightly more-than-two-mile course toward the small town of Putney, the sleek sculls moving with lightning speed as they skimmed over the glittering surface of the water.

Like the others, Royal bent to the task, his long legs working the slide that moved the rolling seat, biceps bulging, straining against the seams of his fine lawn shirt. The fabric, wet with perspiration and nearly transparent, stuck to the bands of muscle across his broad back and clung to his narrow waist.

Her pulse quickened. She remembered the feel of those muscles tightening beneath her fingers as he moved above her, thrust deeply inside her. A sweep of heat settled low in her belly. A flush crept over her breasts and moved up her throat. Lily took a steadying breath and forced the memory away.

Conversation swirled around her. “The duke is magnificent,” said the Marchioness of Eastgate. “All those lovely muscles and that beautiful golden hair.”

“That black-haired devil is also quite something,” said Lady Severn. She was a striking brunette married to a man forty years her senior, and there was a lot of gossip about the countess and younger men. “Yes, isn’t he? Savage, I believe is his name.”

“I know all about him.” The marchioness arched a dark red eyebrow. “The man’s behavior borders on scandalous. I wouldn’t want my Serafina anywhere near him.”

“Well, I should say not,” a third woman said.

Lily couldn’t help wondering what sort of things Jonathan Savage had done to earn his black reputation. Being the son of an earl was all that allowed him to continue in society.

“Lord March is quite a catch,” Lady Severn continued, the cluster of heavy dark curls on her shoulder moving as she turned to watch him. “The viscount is handsome and extremely wealthy. I hear he has entered the marriage mart.”

Always on the hunt for a husband for Serafina, Lady Eastgate pursed her lips. “I wonder if he likes redheads.”

All of them laughed and the cluster of women moved off toward the river as the boats traveled upstream.

Jocelyn reached over and clutched Lily’s arm. “This is so exciting. Do you think the duke will win?”

Lily managed a smile. “I am sure he will.” Like everyone else, her gaze remained riveted on the sleek boats slicing through the water, the precision-like dip and sway of the oars. “Lord March says the entire race takes only about twenty minutes. Then they turn round and row with the current back down to the park.”

They were racing as part of the plan, but nothing said spectators and racers alike couldn’t enjoy themselves. Earlier, tables had been set up and covered with linen cloths. A group of servants Lord Nightingale had provided busied themselves setting out an amazing array of food.

Lemonade, kegs of ale and jugs of wine sat next to trays overflowing with cold lamb and roasted beef, small meat pies, fresh-baked breads, Stilton and Cheshire cheeses. A sinful selection of candied fruits and custards, black-currant pudding and lemon tarts all vied for space on the table.

And the day was altogether glorious. Lily flicked a glance at Jo, was intrigued to see her scanning the crowd as if she searched for someone.

“Who are you looking for?” Lily asked.

Jocelyn glanced away. “Why, no one in particular. I just wanted to see who was here.”

But her pink cheeks and evasive manner said it wasn’t the truth. Jo had been acting strangely ever since the Wyhurst soiree. That night, Lily had believed it was because of her cousin’s involvement with Royal. But he had denied an affair.

She looked at Jocelyn, whose violet eyes again skimmed the crowd. “Is it Barclay?”

Jo’s gaze whipped toward her. “No, of course not!”

“Are you still seeing him?”

Jocelyn shook her head. “Not lately. I am not entirely certain I wish to continue the affair.”

“Why not? I thought you said he was an amazing lover.”

She shrugged as if the matter held not the least importance. “The man is too cocksure of himself by half. I am not certain I wish to involve myself further.” But clearly, she was looking for him there in the park.

It made no sense and yet, where her cousin was concerned, things ofttimes did not.

Lily looked back at the river. The men were just disappearing round the bend out of sight. Their return would be more leisurely, perhaps half an hour from now. While they waited, Lily and Jo wandered among the crowd, all of whom were rooting for their favorite and eager to learn who had won. Afterward, they would enjoy the sumptuous luncheon provided by the racers.

Lily tried to hide her anticipation at seeing Royal, perhaps even talking to him.

But it was not easy.

Savage had won, of course. The men arrived to a hail of cheers. Nightingale made the formal announcement and Savage received hearty congratulations from friends and acquaintances, which he accepted with a mischievous twinkle in his nearly black eyes. A few minutes later, the men disappeared inside the tent to change out of their sweat-damp garments into fresh clothing.

Lily wandered about for a while, paused to speak to Lady Annabelle and Lady Sabrina. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Preston Loomis in conversation with doddering old Mrs. Crowley and almost smiled.

Loomis was taking the bait, a trifle at a time, just as they planned. As the minutes lengthened, she looked past him in search of Royal and spotted him standing next to Jocelyn and her mother.

Lily’s heart sank. She should have known the duke’s attention would be directed toward his future wife. Hadn’t she been the one to suggest that very thing? She’d been a fool to imagine he might seek her out and, even if he did, what good would it do?

He wasn’t hers and never would be. She had to stop dreaming about him, mooning over him like a lovesick fool. Adjusting her straw bonnet against the April sun, she wandered off toward a line of trees away from the river. She didn’t notice she wasn’t alone until a man stepped out from behind a tree and started walking toward her.

She had seen him earlier, conversing with Lady Annabelle and Lady Nightingale, but she didn’t know his name.

He smiled as he approached. “You’re Miss Moran,
are you not?” He was young, just a few years older than she, sandy-haired and attractive.

“I’m Lily Moran, yes. Have we met?”

“I am sorry to say I haven’t had the pleasure. I know it is not the proper thing, but I saw you earlier and I simply couldn’t leave without introducing myself. Phillip Landen, Viscount Hartwell, at your service. I hope you will forgive my ill manners and grant me a few moments of conversation.”

He seemed so genuine. And who was she to quibble about a breach in manners, she who had once picked pockets for a living.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, my lord.”

“And you, Miss Moran.”

They talked for a while, about the weather, about the boat race, the sort of conversation a man would have with a woman he had only just met.

They traveled a shady path through the trees, taking a circuitous route back toward the festivities. Before they got there, the viscount paused and turned toward her. “I realize I am being quite forward, but I am the sort of man who knows what he wants, and I want very much to see you again. I understand you live with your cousins, Mr. and Mrs. Caulfield. Is there a chance I might call on you at your residence?”

“You are right, my lord—you are quite forward. And also quite well informed.”

“I have never been particularly shy.”

A faint smile blossomed. “I can see that.”