Suzanne Robinson (14 page)

“Afraid to touch me, after all this time.”

“You are absurd, Sir Lucas.”

Prim felt her cheeks grow hot as she placed her hand on his arm. How had he known? She’d suddenly remembered how his arms felt and had been reluctant to provoke the unsettled feelings that had sometimes beset her when they were locked together in their various struggles. She wouldn’t allow him to embarrass her. They strolled toward the house in silence. As they mounted the front stair, Sir Lucas glanced down at her.

“Sunlight suits you, Miss Dane”

The unexpected compliment flustered her, and all she could do was murmur a faint thank-you. They went to a front parlor fitted with sturdy furniture that was comfortable and had no pretensions to antiquity or elegance. Prim was conducted to an overstuffed chair. As she sat down Mrs. Hawthorne appeared, to ask Tusser’s assistance in the kitchen, a request that obviously surprised Mr. Hawthorne. However, he made no objection and followed his wife out of the room.

Sir Lucas strolled down the wall of high windows that looked out on the front garden, then turned to her. “Ma left us alone on purpose. She knows you’re angry and is giving me a chance to palliate you.”

“To what?” asked Prim, distracted by the word.

Luke clasped his hands behind his back. “Palliate. That means to reduce the violence or intensity of something. Got it from my dictionary book this morning.”

“I see.” Prim also saw that Sir Lucas was in a playful mood, and he had a most smug look. Swallowing her irritation, Prim continued. “Sir Lucas, I am worried about the family that took me in, the Kettles. What if one of those—those criminals discovers they’ve helped me?”

“Did anyone see you in their place?”

“I don’t think so, but …”

“1 can’t help if you won’t be plain with me.”

Prim toyed with her gloves. “Alice, the oldest girl, was with me.”

There was a long silence during which she paid minute attention to the grain in the leather of her gloves.

“Tell me where they live,” Luke said quietly. “They got to be moved, and quick.”

She looked up then to find hard black eyes drilling into her.

“There is a drunken father.”

He shrugged. “Drunk or not, he’ll be given a choice.”

“What kind of choice?”

“Do what I say standing up, or laying down.”

“Laying down,” she repeated in mystification. Then she gasped. “You’re going to—”

“Look, Miss Prim. There ain’t no use dealing with some blokes like they’re members of the flash set.”

Prim reflected upon Mr. Kettle’s grasping selfishness, nodded, and gave Luke the address. He gave her a quizzical look as if surprised that she had stayed in so desolate an area. She watched him rub his chin and noticed the way his hair kept falling over his forehead.
He brushed it back as he scowled at the garden outside, evidently contemplating some nefarious plan to rescue the Kettles. Prim set her gloves on the chair arm and stood.

“Where is my book, Sir Lucas?”

“What book?”

“My book of hours—oh, no. I shan’t play games with you.”

He turned then, his hair swinging forward to screen his face. “No games. What a pity.”

“What have you done with it?” Prim grew irritated again at the return of his smug expression and mocking tone. “It’s quite valuable, but I suppose you know that.” A sudden suspicion came to her and she narrowed her eyes. “You can’t sell it. It would be recognized.”

Luke’s smug look vanished. “Watch your tongue, Miss Primrose blighted Dane. I didn’t snaffle your book to sell it. I don’t need to do that no more.”

“From what your parents said, I was certain you stole from the rich to give to the poor,” Prim snapped.

It was Luke’s turn to flush. “Never you mind what I done in the past.”

“You stole from the rich and gave to yourself.” Prim glanced around the room. “I can see that for myself. But I have no intention of becoming one of your victims.”

All at once he was before her, looming and glowering like some wrath-possessed demon. “You’re already a victim, and with that razor tongue of yours, I’m not surprised.”

“I, sir, am known for my pleasant temperament and accommodating manners.”

Luke threw his head back and laughed. “By who?”

“Whom.”

“What?”

“One says ‘by whom,’ not ‘by who,’ ” Prim said through clenched teeth.

“There. That’s what I need. We can begin my lessons today.”

The man was infuriating. “Not until you return my book!”

“No book until you’ve given me my lessons.”

Prim set her riding crop down, folded her arms and glared at Sir Lucas. “Now you listen to me. Only the most cold and sordid person steals from a guest under his roof.”

“As you like, Miss Prim. No lessons, no book.”

Uttering a sound of frustration, Prim whirled, turning her back to her tormentor. Gradually her irritation gave way to reason. If she was going to America, she couldn’t take the book. It wasn’t really hers, and she would have to return it to her brother so that it could be stored at the estate. All at once, she felt Sir Lucas behind her. She couldn’t see him with her back turned, but for some strange reason, she was able to feel him. Her body tingled as he came nearer and leaned over her shoulder.

“Give up?” he asked with a smirk.

Prim cried out and skittered away from him.

“No!” Her voice broke, and Prim paused to clear her throat. “No. I have reconsidered. You may keep
the book. I’m certain you’ll care for it well, and you may return it to my brother soon.”

Luke began walking toward her, his gaze fixed on her face. “Why? I know that clever look. What foolery are you up to now?”

Prim backed away, then walked quickly around a chair to place it between them. Luke stopped.

“I will always be in danger here. And there is a stain upon my name in England. Therefore I have decided to go to America and begin a new life.”

“Bloody hell.”

“Your language, sir.”

“My blood—blast my language. You ain’t going anywhere.”

“I shall.”

“You can’t!”

“Why not?”

He stared at her, a small muscle in his jaw twitching. Prim had never seen Nightshade at a loss, but he seemed confused—even desperate. Why? Could it be that he didn’t want her to leave for some other reason? Prim’s mouth formed a small O as she contemplated the idea that Luke Hawthorne might desire her presence for its own sake.

“Why shouldn’t I go?” she asked.

He was still glaring at her, speechless. Then he brightened.

“You can’t go until you teach me etiquette and manners. You promised.”

“Any gentlewoman can teach you.”

“Not anyone,” he replied with certainty. “You
saying that any lady could put the fear of God in Mrs. Snow like you did?”

“Of course. Well, perhaps not.”

Luke stuck his hands in his pockets and sauntered around the chaipr. “Tell you what, Miss Dane. Let’s make a bargain. You teach me manners, and if your situation is no better by the time my fiancée’s visit is over, I’ll send you to America myself.”

So, that was the cause of his alarm. Prim berated herself for suspecting that he’d conceived an attachment for her. What conceit. She—who seldom gained anyone’s notice at home, the object of Mr. Acheson’s charity—would hardly catch the eye of so handsome a charmer as Sir Lucas Hawthorne. What a foolish fancy. No, better to direct her thoughts to practicalities. She needed Sir Lucas’s help in getting to America.

“Very well. I shall help you until your fiancée’s visit is over. No longer. Then you will help me leave for America at once.”

“Agreed. And we’ll begin after Ma feeds us.” He cocked his head to the side and gave her a most insolent inspection from head to foot. “Can’t wait to see what you got to teach me, Miss Prim.”

Fleet hunkered down under an awning across the street from a respectable lodging house on the outskirts of Woolwich. Neither Jowett nor Stark had been able to discern the connection between the old lady who owned the place and the infamous Nightshade. Lodgers came and went. Tradesmen called at the service entrance around the side of the three-story brick building. It had a wrought-iron fence and gate, but the iron was rusting.

“Shabby genteel,” Fleet muttered.

Countless hours of sneaking about and spying had revealed the wash day, the manner of disposing of rubbish, the type of young men the maids walked out with, and the zealousness with which the cook shopped for her provisions each day. The cook emerged from the service door now giving instructions to her assistant as
she pulled her mande about her and settled a basket on her arm. A small boy trotted after her, evidently assigned to carry packages.

Fleet turned to stare into a shop window, and watched her reflection appear when she mounted the stairs that led up to the street. As the cook opened the gate and let herself out, the lady owner herself appeared with a stack of letters in hand. Giving them to the cook, she exchanged words with her, whispered words pronounced while each shot furtive looks around the area. The cook shoved the letters in her basket, called to the boy who had been hanging on the wrought-iron fence, and set off for the local market street.

Fleet watched the woman go and rubbed his stubbly chin. It appeared Cook had been sent off to dispatch the mail. Fleet had a cousin in service at the home of a prosperous tradesman, and from what he’d observed, cooks were jealous of their rights and keen to demand respect for their position. Cooks, even those employed in lodging houses, would take offense at being employed on such a paltry errand. What was in those letters?

Pulling his collar up around his ears and stuffing his hands in his pockets, Fleet set off after the cook and her assistant. He caught up with them on a busy street that suited his purpose. It was the work of a few moments to draw up behind her, then jostle the woman and stick his foot out so that she tripped. Cook gave a loud squawk and hurtled to the pavement, causing several pedestrians to stumble and fall as well. The basket flew off her arm. While a crowd gathered—some
to watch and some to help—Fleet searched among the scattered contents of the basket. He filched the packet of letters, rose and walked off at an unhurried pace.

Finding a refuge in a dry goods store, he riffled through the stack of letters. Five were by the lady of the house to people he’d never heard of. Two were by the servants, and one was by some lady named Mistress Eve Shadow. There was something queer about that one, for it seemed to be a letter and envelope placed within another envelope.

“Eve Shadow?” Fleet muttered as he tossed the remaining letters behind a stack of fabric. “Eve Shadow. Strange name, that.” He stood beside the bolts of material tapping the letter against the tips of his fingers.

His lips curled. Fleet tore open the letter. “And I used to think you was clever, my lad.”

He removed a sealed letter from the envelope. This one was in the same handwriting, with no return address. Its recipient was a solicitor’s chambers with a respectable but not exclusive West End address. Fleet opened the letter and found Miss Primrose Dane’s name right off.

The smile that spread over his lips would have been at home on a gargoyle. Giving the letter a cursory perusal, he stuffed both it and the envelope in his pocket, glanced out at the street to make sure the cook was gone, and set off for home. He began to whistle. He’d need Stark, who was a passable forger, and he’d need Jowett’s help in breaking into the solicitor’s. Progress at last.

Luke sat at a round mahogany table with clawlike legs in the Duke’s Drawing Room. It was one of those cavernous chambers more suited for functions of state than taking ones ease. Its ceiling was twenty feet above his head, decorated with a floral rosette in white and gold from which hung a crystal chandelier. Luke eyed it distrustfully.

The thing was heavy with thousands of crystals and situated directly over the table. If it dropped … Luke rose, snatched up the sheets of paper he’d been reading, and strode over to the fireplace. Throwing the papers on a red damask couch, he seated himself, stretched his legs toward the fire, and crossed them at the ankles. He rested his head on the cradle of his arms and leaned back to stare at the ceiling again.