Scandal (4 page)

Chapter Four

Stay?

Was he daft? Had she misheard him? Was his brain more mashed than she thought? What did he mean,
stay?

But the look in his eyes told her. He meant stay. With them. Share their rooms. Eat with them. Lord,
sleep
with them.

Suddenly Anna felt like a mouse with a cat’s paw stuffed into its home, a giant black cat with green eyes.

“You can’t,” she said.

“I cannot?” he echoed back, one of his brows rising.

“No. He’s not right in the head—my grandfather, that is. Gracious,
you’re
not right in the head. You, none of you—men that is—are right in the head. What do you mean,
stay
with us? We don’t even know you.”

He leaned toward her. Gracious, she could all but feel a charge of energy as he drew near.

“You
could
know me,” he said in a low voice. And now in addition to a paw in the hole, there was an eye looking at her. Two handsome green eyes that made her feel pinned down by that paw. “If you wanted to,” he added.

“I don’t want to,” she wheezed.

He took a step toward her. Anna resisted the urge to retreat down a step. “No?” he asked. “Pity, for I don’t believe you have a choice.”

A gust of air darted again from the room, stirring the hairs on her head and bringing with it the smell of him. She caught the scent of his breath—a minty scent that made her think of the hard candies she used to eat as a child.

“I’ve a choice,” she said. “I run the household now that my grandfather’s too befogged to take care of himself. And you can’t stay,” she said again.

“Ah,” he said with a foxlike smile. “But I’m about to make you an offer you cannot refuse,” he said. “Let me stay for a night. If I’m too much trouble, I shall take my leave on the morrow. If, however, I prove to be an exemplary guest, you shall keep the half crown I gave your grandfather
and
let me stay for the duration of my time in St. Giles, for which I shall pay you generously,
after
I have won my wager.”

Stay for the duration? Was he mad?

Was she mad for feeling a stab of excitement at such a notion?

For she was honest enough to admit that she didn’t fear
him
; rather, she feared this… this
feeling
she got whenever he was near. He was like that shiny new coin she’d found in the gutter one day. She’d wanted to keep it. But at almost the exact moment she’d found the thing, Lizzie had walked by, her poor gaunt face lifting into a smile, though she’d had nothing to smile about since her husband had died, leaving her alone with four young bairns to raise. Before Anna’d known what she was doing, she’d handed the coin to her friend… and had occasion to remember that generosity every time her stomach growled for the next three days.

But if he stayed, his blunt would pay for food. And since she’d missed half of her usual market time this morning in order to test her sail she’d paid the price for it. His half crown would more than make up the difference.

She met his gaze, looked into the eyes of a man whose ilk she would likely never see again. Gentry. Perhaps even noble, for as she looked down, she caught a band of white around his pinkie finger, as if he’d worn a ring there until recently—a signet ring, perhaps?

She looked back up at him sharply. Aye, he had the look of quality—what with his angular cheekbones and the lofty look in his green eyes—and the airs, though he was a bloody sight more handsome than that nobleman she’d once caught a glimpse of as he’d exited his club.

Her gaze sharpened, too, as they stared at one another, and though something inside Anna screamed that she was mad, she found herself asking, “How much blunt?”

“Twenty pounds.”

Twenty pounds?

“Of course, you shall not receive the coin until after my wager is won, but you have my word that you shall, indeed, receive such a reward.”

Twenty pounds!

“One night,” he said in a low voice, like a serpent come to Eve to tempt her with an apple. “Half a crown for your troubles, and another
twenty pounds
if that one night should turn into a month.”

“One night,” she found herself repeating back, though she hardly believed she might agree to such a thing.

“One night.”

Half a crown for her troubles.

She needed that bloody half-crown. “One night only,” she agreed, thinking she could be rid of him on the morrow. Surely nothing would happen in that short amount of time.

“Excellent,” he said, and there came that feeling again. Gracious, she wished he wouldn’t look at her like that. She knew the ways between a man and a woman, had prided herself on keeping free of entanglements. The last thing she needed was a bairn. But this man… she knew intuitively that this man might pose a threat to her.

“You shall not regret it,” he added.

But Anna feared very much that she might.

Anna’s misgivings only increased when she walked inside and spied the damage her grandfather’s invention had done.

Blimey.

Like a riverbank clotted with debris after flood waters had receded, her grandfather’s inventions dotted the carpet like uprooted shrubs. A few were either tipped back or covered with papers: the drawings her grandfather sketched in the middle of the night, the thick blots of ink—testament to his mad hurry to get the images down—strewn everywhere. Most of those sheets lay on the floor, or pressed against the sides of walls. Soot from the grate coated every surface, some of the smoke still hanging in the air, the light from the windows trying valiantly to punch its way through the dim gray fog.

Lord, it would take her days to clean up the mess.

She turned to tell Mr. Hemplewilt to tread carefully… and caught him staring at her backside. But instead of looking abashed at being caught doing such a thing, he gave her a slow, sexy smile that made Anna feel as if the white apron around her middle were suddenly jerked tight. Cad.

Her eyes narrowed as she turned away, spying her grandfather near a window. Dealing with Mr. Hemplewilt would have to wait.

“Where did he go?” her grandfather asked, his face and hair nearly as black as that chimney sweep who’d crouched over Mr. Hemplewilt earlier in the day, thanks to the ash from the grate. His white cravat had been powdered by the stuff, too, though his black jacket looked none the worse for wear.

“He was just here.”

“Who, Grandfather?” But, of course, Anna knew exactly who’d gone missing. What was more, her grandfather didn’t seem to notice he stood right behind her. Bother it all.

“That man,” he said, looking as befuddled as a bird knocked from the sky. “I was demonstrating the Colossal Air Current Creator, only once the cataclysm hit, he disappeared. Poof. Gone.” He stiffened, well, as much as he could with somewhat stooped shoulders. “Good lord, you don’t think he’s been blown out the door, do you?”

And his look of horror, quickly trailed by excited curiosity, had Anna saying, “He’s right here,” lest her grandfather begin a mad search of London’s streets for one airborne gentleman. He’d gone that batty in recent years, Lord love him.

“Where?” he asked.

Anna turned to Mr. Hemplewilt, who stepped forward in the secondhand clothes that didn’t quite conceal the gentleman beneath. “Here, sir,” he said as he straightened. “Your granddaughter wanted a private moment with me.”

Which made Elijah Brooks look between the two of them blankly. “You know Anna?” he asked.

“Yes, Grandfather, he does. Fact is, Mr. Hemplewilt here is going to take you down to the pumps to get you cleaned up.”

“I am?” she heard a deep baritone ask.

“You are,” she said, placing her hands on her hips, all but daring him with her eyes to contradict her. If he did, she would use it as an excuse to…

What?

God help her, she really could use the money he would bring them.

But that didn’t mean she’d have to like it. And that was when she got her first inkling of what it would be like to live with a man who made her feel like butterflies kissed her skin. Who made waves rise within her, and naughty thoughts enter her head. She would be living with him for a night—she would allow him no more—but she had a feeling that was all a man of his ilk would need to charm the skirt off of her.

Her heart began to flutter like those butterflies were rushing at her ribs in panic.

So when he said, “As you wish,” with an inclination of his head that looked almost regal, she used it as an excuse to turn away, remove her cloak as she did so and not look up as she began to pick up the debris from the floor. Under normal circumstances the state of the room would fill her with exhaustion. So much to do. Always. Work, work, work. But today she was so self-aware, so angry at this latest turn of events, that she hardly paid attention.

“Come, Mr. Brooks,” she heard Mr. Hemplewilt say.

“Come?” her grandfather said. “Do not tell me to come, sir. I am no dog.”

But with a soft, soothing voice—gentle, even—he convinced her grandfather to follow him from the room. And though she told herself not to look up, though she told herself to concentrate on her task, Anna still turned—still met Mr. Hemplewilt’s gaze as he led her grandfather out. Their eyes met, and for some silly reason she blushed. He smiled. She blushed even more—
her,
a woman who’d had her bubbies squeezed by passing ruffians, who’d put up with every type of sordid comment that came along with selling items at Covent Market, who prided herself on the fact that she could mince bawdy words with the best of them and never think twice. She looked away, and when she reached for the next item on the floor, she noticed her hands shook.

When Rein returned a half hour later, he felt as driven to the edge of madness as Mr. Brooks apparently was.

Lord help him, the man was as crackers as old King George.

“Why are you following me?” the daft fool asked, turning back to him.

Rein thought about explaining to him—yet again—that Anna had sent him along to help, but a half hour of having his hands batted away, his ears blasted and his legitimacy questioned at every turn had given him a headache, and so he said nothing as the man turned back to their front door, opened it and stepped inside.

He went right to a draped-off corner of the room, shoved aside the edges of the curtain, turned and jerked it closed.

“Don’t just stand there, close the door.”

Anna Brooks stood by the hearth, cooking, the smell of stew filling the air. Rein’s stomach grumbled.

As if hearing the rumble—and perhaps she did—she narrowed her eyes. “Don’t expect meals to go along with your lodging. I’ve enough to do around here as it is.”

He would bet she did, he thought, studying her. And yet even with exhaustion pouring from her eyes, she still looked lovely. Her hair hung loose and down her back, the mermaid strands of flaxen hair curling around her head. And those eyes. Would he ever get used to her eyes? Those amber gems sparkled at him, flashing in anger and exasperation.

“Well, are you coming in?”

He stepped inside, saying, “Thank you, I believe I shall.”

“Close the door,” she ordered.

He stopped. Oh, yes, of course. “I’m—” He caught himself just in time.
Used to others closing doors for me.
“Grateful to you for letting me stay,” he finished, turning back to her.

“Yes, well, I still might change my mind,” she said, waving that spoon of hers like she was tempted to bash him over the head. He lifted a hand to the spot on his forehead, wincing. Not again.

She pursed her lips before going back to cooking. Rein looked around. Debris still littered the floor—not as much of it as before, she must have picked up a bit, but enough that it still looked like the aftereffects of a storm.

“Your grandfather should work for the government. The war department would pay good money to unleash his invention on the French.”

“You might have a point,” he thought he heard her mutter. When she glanced back at him, she looked rather waiflike all of a sudden. So solemn and despondent. She had the sadness of a thousand lost souls in her eyes and the wisdom of one twice her age if he didn’t miss his guess. “I suppose we ought not to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

He assumed
he
was said gift horse.

“But you’ll have to sleep on the floor,” she said after a sudden frown was shaken off her face. Well, it didn’t disappear entirely. Like an ink spot, it clung to her cheeks and the brackets around her mouth.

And then what she’d said sank in.

“
Sleep on the floor?
” he repeated, aghast. Why, it looked like the bottom of an ash bin. Come to think of it, the whole place looked like an ash bin.

“You have a better idea?”

Well, yes, come to think of it, he did, but he didn’t think she’d appreciate his idea of sleeping with her.

“Sleep in the chair if you don’t wish to be on the floor.”

A chair? He likely hadn’t slept in a chair since his wet nurse had held her in his arms. What could she be thinking? He was a duke. He almost opened his mouth to tell her so, but stopped himself just in time. Lord, that deplorable will.
Ballocks, ballocks, ballocks.

“The chair, if I must.”

“You must,” she said, turning back to her stew. Rein’s gaze fell to her rear, those sleeping arrangements he’d thought of a moment ago charging back to his mind like a herd of cavalrymen, swords drawn and flags waving, except the sword in this instance was between his legs.

“Here,” she said, then walked over to a chest snuggled against one of the few walls left uncluttered by shelves and opened it. When she turned, she seemed to give him a wide berth, going around that odd table with the ladder attached to its side before turning toward the uncomfortable armchair he’d been seated in earlier. “Let me show you how it works.”

It took a few blinks to get his eyes unstuck. “Work the chair?”

“’Tis tricky.”

Lord, was she communicating with the spirit of his deceased father? He wasn’t that slow. “I believe even I can operate a chair.”

With the practiced motion of one who’d done a lot of cleaning, she flicked what looked to be a rag—an old shirt, in this instance—over the chair. A cloud of dust rose around her. Coughing a bit, she bent down and fiddled with something on the side of the chair. Rein wished for a moment that the dress she wore was low-cut—alas, it was not. Her lovely hair shifted over one shoulder rather fetchingly.