Page 15 of Thief of Hearts
C HAPTER F OURTEEN
L UCY STABBED A STOPPER INTO A CRYSTAL decanter of lemon verbena, wishing she could bottle up her feelings with such ease. Since her bodyguard had escorted her home from the inn, leaving her at the front door with nothing but a terse bow, she’d had no luck subduing her rioting emotions enough to let her sleep. For the first time in her memory, she wished she had a mother to confide in. Someone older and wiser who could help her sift through her maelstrom of conflicting feelings.
She wiped a thin coating of rice powder from the marble surface of the dressing table, then began compulsively plucking individual hairs from her silver hairbrush. At least she could bring some badly needed order to the chaos of her bedroom. When the brush was clean, she moved to the bed to snatch a lone stocking from the canopy.
Her fingers snagged the fragile silk as if it were a lifeline. Perhaps her father was right, she thought desperately. Perhaps she’d inherited her mother’s tendency toward hysteria after all. Why else would her mood be veering so wildly between despair and exultation?
She closed her eyes, shivering at the memory of Gerard’s jaw, roughened by the tantalizing shadow of a day’s growth of beard, grazing her cheek. The stocking slipped from her limp fingers to the floor. The unyielding bedpost pressed against her spine, making her acutely aware of the rumpled decadence of the bed behind her.
Her eyes flew open. She wasn’t her mother. She was made of much sterner stuff. She couldn’t afford to succumb to dangerous, sensual impulses. They had cost her mother the Admiral’s love and eventually her life.
Lucy rushed to the wardrobe and began cramming scattered undergarments back into the safe confines of their drawers. The rebellious tangle of silk and lace resisted her bullying. She slammed an overflowing drawer three times before admitting defeat and crossing to the window to sink into the window seat.
A light still burned in the gatehouse, just as she had known it would.
Bits of sleet tapped fitfully against the windowpane. Lucy felt like some helpless creature imprisoned in an hourglass. It was as if Gerard’s kiss had turned her world upside down and shaken it with careless abandon, leaving the pieces to settle in unfamiliar patterns around her in glittering shards, as dangerous as they were beautiful.
You’re in love with him, aren’t you?
The accusing words were so real that the ice glazing the window melted and reformed into the glowering face of her father. She pressed her eyes shut to make it go away.
In the past she’d always had innocence as her defense against the Admiral’s spoken and unspoken accusations. She’d bitten back her anger at his unfairness, swallowed her hoarse cries of denial, and hugged the knowledge of her virtue close to her heart.
Now she had no defense at all. She was guilty as charged. Condemned for loving the wrong man.
She rested her brow against the cold glass. Captain Doom might have stolen her soul, but she was in grave danger of bestowing it freely upon Gerard Claremont.
Dawn found Lucy huddled on the far side of the ancient oak, watching her nervous puffs of breath drift off like so much flotsam in the frigid air.
She had already determined that subterfuge was a poor weapon against Mr. Claremont, given his tendency to see right through it. He was far more likely to be swayed by a rational, adult discussion of their awkward situation. Surely even a sophisticated man such as Gerard would find her logic irresistible.
From the other side of the tree came the brittle crunch of footsteps approaching across the sleet-glazed grass. Lucy pressed her back to the gnarled trunk and squeezed her eyes shut in miserable anticipation. A curl of cheroot smoke wafted by. She sucked it into her lungs as if it were magical incense burned to give her courage.
Fighting to separate the threads of her intellect from the tangle of her raging emotions as the Admiral had taught her, she swept her woolen mantle in a graceful bell and stepped out from behind the tree.
Gerard halted as if his feet had shot down roots. His eyes reflected only mild surprise and an alarming wariness, as if he had sensed this confrontation was inevitable, but still hoped to avoid it.
Lucy’s words were stymied by the presence of her heart in her throat. Her bodyguard’s open coat was rumpled, his shirt halfway unbuttoned. A smoking cheroot hung from the corner of his mouth. His hair was tousled as if he had rolled out of bed without combing it, its rich hue gilded cinnamon by the winter sunshine burning through the morning mist.
But it was his face, that boyish face shadowed by the weary cynicism of manhood, that devastated her hard-won composure.
He jammed his hands in his trouser pockets and rocked back on his heels, giving her a quizzical look from beneath his striking brows.
Now was the time, she mentally nudged herself. Time to calmly present the well-rehearsed dissection of their feelings and realistic prospects for the future that she had spent a sleepless night formulating.
She opened her mouth. “I love you” tumbled out.
Gerard felt as if he’d been struck both deaf and dumb. He couldn’t trust himself to maintain his mask of indifference beneath Lucy’s imploring gaze. He couldn’t trust himself to speak without revealing how badly he wanted her. He couldn’t even grant her freedom from her father’s tyranny. All he had to offer her was another sort of bondage, sensual and brief, that she would regret long after he was gone.
The cheroot hung limp on his bottom lip for what seemed like an eternity before tumbling end over end to the grass. It fizzled in the frost like Lucy’s dreams as he turned without a word and marched back toward the gatehouse.
“Was it something I said?” she whispered.
Lucy laid her cheek against the rough bark of the oak, seeking solace from its ancient and uncompromised dignity. A warm fog of tears blinded her to the brittle glint of sunlight reflected from a third-story window of the house.
The Admiral snatched the spyglass from his eye as Smythe entered his private sitting room, balancing a breakfast tray and various newspapers with the skill of a professional juggler.
“Dammit, man,” the Admiral snapped. “How many times have I told you never to enter a room without knocking?”
“Sorry, sir. My hands were occupied.”
“They’ll be occupied with seeking a new position if you come barging in here again in that deplorable manner.”
Smythe deposited his burdens on an oak pedestal table while the Admiral resumed his unabashed spying. Under the pretense of arranging the papers for his employer’s perusal, Smythe sidled past an adjacent window to find Lucy drifting like a wraith across the lawn toward the house, dejection weighting her every step. He frowned.
“Damn chit’ll be the ruin of me just like her blasted mother was,” the Admiral grumbled, snapping the telescopic neck of the spyglass shut. “Should have never hired that Claremont fellow. Thought he was made of sterner stuff. Man enough to resist all that feminine cunning.”
“I’ve found his performance to be acceptable, sir. I’ve observed no impropriety in his behavior toward Miss Lucy.” Smythe prayed he wouldn’t have cause to regret his defense of Claremont.
“Ah, but your standards aren’t as exacting as mine, are they?” The Admiral settled his bulk into a wing chair and drew the silver lid off a chafing dish, unveiling the steaming feast of buttered eggs and fresh kippers he always indulged in before joining Lucy in the dining room for dry toast and tea. He gestured toward the newspapers. “Any mention of Doom?”
“None at all, sir. Perhaps he realized it was futile to engage a man of your skill and bravery in open battle.”
Fortunately for Smythe, his employer’s colossal ego precluded any appreciation of sarcasm at his own expense.
The Admiral speared a kipper with his fork. “I should have crushed the worm beneath my boot heel when I had the chance.” He paused, the fork halfway to his mouth. “Has Lucy an engagement tonight?”
“Aye, sir. The winter masque at the Howell estate.”
“Excellent!” He chewed with relish, grinding the fish between his blunt teeth. “See that my uniform is pressed. I shall put in an early appearance, then be off to my own pursuits.”
“Aye, sir. I’ll see to it.” Smythe turned to go.
“Oh, and Smythe?”
“Sir?”
“Tomorrow morning, before oh nine hundred, I’d like you to contact Mr. Benson about a replacement for Mr. Claremont. I don’t care for the man’s attitude.”
Smythe kept his face a careful blank. “What reason shall I give Mr. Claremont for his dismissal, sir?”
The Admiral waved his fork, spattering undercooked egg yolk across the newspapers. “Just tell him we appreciated his services keenly and will be pleased to provide the appropriate references, et cetera, et cetera.”
“Very well, sir.”
Smythe clicked his heels and snapped off a smart salute, thinking it a bloody shame for England that a man of Lucien Snow’s innate military skills had been cursed with the fatal flaw of underestimating his enemies.
The Howells’ winter masque was a cherished annual tradition. It had been conceived by Lady Howell over a decade ago to brighten the long, barren months when the city pleasure gardens were closed and many of the ton had retreated to their country estates. To those remaining, the masque was anticipated more eagerly than Christmas.
As they descended the shallow marble steps to the ballroom, Lucy tucked her gloved hand into the rigid crook of her father’s arm, expecting to feel the familiar surge of love and pride. Instead, she felt curiously empty, as if the hours of weeping she had done in her bedroom that afternoon had washed away her precious childhood illusions, stripping her heart bare.
Longing to recapture even a shadow of emotion, she slanted a gaze up at her father’s face through the eye slits of her silk loo. His own mask of gold tissue was a mere formality, designed to complement the cluster of freshly polished medals that starred his chest. There was no one in this stellar crowd of the military elite who could fail to recognize him. He exuded all the majesty and romance of the Royal Navy itself in his full-dress uniform, fringed epaulettes, and shiny boots. She should be honored that he had chosen to lean on her this night instead of his cane.
His thick mane gleamed like hoarfrost beneath the radiance of the chandeliers. For a fleeting instant, as he angled his head to receive the homage that was his due, that old adoration squeezed at Lucy’s heart. He was once again the most handsome man in the world to her.
She seemed to be shrinking, clinging not to his elbow, but to the starched tails of his uniform, tugging, always tugging, in a wordless plea for him to stop and notice her.
Christ, Smythe, why isn’t she in bed? If there’s anything I cannot bear, it’s a clinging brat .
Lucy’s fingernails clenched involuntarily, digging into her father’s arm. He shot her a disapproving look and disengaged his coat sleeve from her grip to smooth the unsightly wrinkle she’d caused. As their host and hostess approached, he pasted on a jovial smile of greeting.
Lord and Lady Howell’s warm welcome did nothing to dispel Lucy’s chill. It emanated from the empty place where her heart had been before she’d been fool enough to offer it to Gerard Claremont. What must he think of her after her ridiculous divulgence? That she was a light-skirted hussy? A lovestruck child? She had studiously avoided his eyes as he’d assisted them into the carriage earlier, afraid she’d find amusement, condescension, or worse yet, patronizing pity in their hazel depths.
“Why, Lucy dear, your hands are like ice!” Lady Howell exclaimed, chafing them between her own.
Her face was a well-worn version of Sylvie’s, blurred by time like a tissue paper mask that had been left in the rain.
The twinkling of her blue eyes dimmed as Lucy coolly withdrew her hands, afraid she would crumble beneath the burden of the woman’s compassion. “Forgive me. It’s quite cold outside.”
As Lady Howell excused herself, gracefully accepting the rebuff, Lucy found it even colder inside. The plastered walls of the ballroom had been draped in layers of white chiffon. Genuine frost sparkled along the panes of the floor-to-ceiling French windows. The marble fireplaces flanking the far ends of the cavernous room shed little warmth, and in keeping with the theme, many of the guests had retained their mantles and hooded cloaks, adding to their air of disguise.
A galaxy of tiny crystal chips suspended from gold threads dangled from the vaulted ceiling in a dazzling imitation of snowflakes. Their reflected light hurt Lucy’s eyes. She couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to re-create winter indoors when the entire universe seemed to be trapped in its frigid grip.
Lord Howell and her father wandered off to discuss Napoleon’s scandalous appointment of himself as lifetime First Consul of France, leaving her standing alone on the stairs. The masked dancers whirled across the Venetian tiles, the invisible notes of the quadrille jerking them to and fro like winged marionettes.
An inaudible groan of dismay escaped Lucy as she saw Sylvie weaving her way through the dancers, her baby brother propped on her hip. Unlike her mother, Sylvie had not yet learned to be politely daunted by rejection.
The Howells held the uncommon belief that children should not only be seen and heard, but fussed and cooed over at great length. The placid Gilligan had been garbed in the hemp-belted robes of a medieval monk. One of his older brothers had pasted a ragged tonsure of horse’s hair around his bald pate. A reluctant smile quivered on Lucy’s lips as the enormous baby reached out without his sister’s knowledge, plucked a fistful of boiled shrimp from a footman’s tray, and ate them, tails and all.
Sylvie’s first words erased her amusement. “There you are! I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever arrive. And where is that handsome Mr. Claremont of yours?”
Humiliation curled in the pit of Lucy’s stomach. She extracted herself from Sylvie’s peppermint-scented embrace, terrified she might burst into tears and make a public spectacle of herself. “He’s not my Mr. Claremont. I assume he’s with the other servants where he belongs. It would hardly do to have him lurking behind the potted palms, frightening your mother’s guests.”
Sylvie shifted Gilligan’s considerable weight to her other hip where he proceeded to yank a handful of pink feathers from her mask. “Isn’t he supposed to look after you?”
Sylvie’s innocent question conjured up a myriad of images: Gerard bundling her against the warmth of his body, carrying her through the icy rain, tucking a faded quilt around her trembling legs. Pressing his lips to the bruise on her throat as if his kiss alone held the power to heal it.
“Champagne, ladies?” The underfootman’s voice interrupted her dangerous reverie.
“Not now, David,” Sylvie said, knowing of Lucy’s aversion to spirits. “Perhaps later when—”
“Why, thank you. I’d be delighted.” Sylvie stared and even Gilligan looked nonplussed as Lucy snatched a fluted glass and downed its sparkling contents in a single swallow.
The tart bubbles made her nose tingle. Infectious warmth spread through her belly although it couldn’t quite smooth the razor’s edge off her yearning.
“You see, Sylvie, I don’t need Mr. Claremont to look after me,” she said brightly, depositing the glass back on the tray. “Tonight I have my father to protect me. And when we’re together, neither of us needs anyone else.”
Sylvie watched as her friend made her way boldly through the dancers to the uniformed crowd slavering over the Admiral’s every word. It was impossible to miss the annoyance that flickered over his face as his daughter tugged his sleeve. But Lucy stood her ground until he was forced to gallantly offer her his arm for a dance or appear the worst sort of lout before his staunchest admirers.
Sylvie absently peeled a soggy feather from Gilligan’s tongue, wondering if it was the unfamiliar sting of the champagne or genuine tears she saw glittering in Lucy’s eyes as she went into the Admiral’s arms.
Gerard resisted the urge to beat his fist against the frosted glass of the terrace door. Lucinda Snow was back where she belonged. In her father’s arms.
Even knowing better, he caught himself falling prey to their spell as they danced. The Admiral’s uneven gait added an aura of tragic dignity to his regal bearing. With his immaculate uniform and the cluster of medals gleaming on his barreled chest, he resembled an aged king returned from some noble crusade. Once Gerard had idolized such men and would have sacrificed everything he possessed to walk among them.
As if cursed with the same foolish longing, Lucy reached up and gently corrected the angle of one of the Admiral’s medals.
Gerard’s heroic illusions shattered, mercifully, swiftly, as beneath the guise of a clumsy stumble, Lucien Snow harshly thrust his daughter from him. He left her standing alone in the middle of the floor as he swept from the ballroom, pausing only to make the curtest of apologies to Lord and Lady Howell. Not even the brave tilt of Lucy’s chin could completely disguise the naked hurt in her eyes as her father fled her company.
Gerard was tempted to follow, but he’d been at Ionia long enough to know where the bastard was going.
His gaze was drawn back to the Admiral’s daughter. She had wisely eschewed elaborate costumes and feathered headdresses, choosing to adorn herself in a classical Grecian gown with a half-mask cut from the same white silk. Her hair had been drawn back from her face with a gold fillet. An air of ineffable sadness clung to her, as poignant and irresistible as the lemon verbena that lingered in his nostrils even when she was separated from him by an impenetrable wall of glass.
She drifted in a sea of glittering lights and laughing people. As a child, Gerard had only dreamed such places existed. They were as distant to him as the tantalizing glimpse of a single star flung high above soot-laden clouds. As fantastical as the vast expanses of ocean that billowed in his imagination. As out of his reach as heaven itself or the love of a woman like Lucy Snow.
Lucy’s courageous confession echoed through his heart like a bittersweet melody. He curled his hands into hungry fists, flooded with the same blind ambition that had once before cost him both his freedom and his name. He’d been deprived of too many nights such as this in his life. He wanted tonight. One stolen night, its memory sweet enough to last a lifetime.
His gaze dropped in disgust to his worn trousers, his scuffed boots. What the hell was he supposed to be masquerading as? The basest of menials? Lucy’s inferior?
“I say there, chap, can you help me?”
A man garbed in impeccable evening clothes came limping toward him.
“I seem to have stepped in a bit of unpleasantness,” he said with such irritating intonation that Gerard suspected his black half-mask was pinching off his nose. “I’ve warned Lord Howell about those blasted spaniels. Breed some mastiffs, I said! Those dainty dogs haven’t any manners a’tall. I say, have you a rag on you to clean my heel? I’m already appallingly late.”
The man had obviously mistaken him for one of Lord Howell’s servants, a groundskeeper perhaps or a poorly outfitted footman. Gerard opened his mouth to suggest the arrogant dandy lick his boots clean, then snapped it shut. He raked a calculating gaze from the blinding white of the stranger’s flawlessly knotted cravat to the tapered seams of his trousers, then shot a quizzical glance heavenward, knowing he wasn’t deserving of such good fortune.
“Come now, I haven’t all night,” the man snapped, straightening his ruffled shirt cuffs. “Your handkerchief should do. Will you help me or not?”
Gerard blinked behind his spectacles and gave him a feline smile. “Step right over here to the bushes, sir. I’m just the man you’ve been looking for.”
Lucy winced as Sophie’s eleven-year-old brother trod hard upon her toe.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, his ears flushing crimson. “I hope my dancing master didn’t see that. He’ll box my ears tomorrow for sure.”
“Tell him it was my fault,” Lucy whispered to the dusky curls that just reached her chin.
“I couldn’t do that, Miss Lucy.” His adoring eyes devoured her face. “You’re the very best, you know. Brave enough to stand up to the likes of Captain Doom himself.”
He suppressed an impolite “oomph” as Lucy did step on his foot. How could she explain to this earnest child that the kiss of a real man had banished Captain Doom to the realm of fantasy where he belonged?
At a loss, she gently excused herself and went in search of another glass of champagne. She ducked behind a chattering flock of guests at the sight of Lord Howell anxiously searching the crowd for her. As if to blunt the impact of the Admiral’s defection, Sylvie and her mother had sicced each of the Howell males on her in turn until she feared she would have to toddle around the floor with Gilligan before the night was over.
She wanted nothing more than to escape the maddening babble and tinny music, but her only refuge was the carriage and that meant facing Claremont again, this time without the Admiral’s dubious protection.
Fresh mortification heated her cheeks at the prospect. After checking guiltily to make sure no one was watching, she filched a brimming glass of champagne from an abandoned tray and downed it in one greedy gulp. As she lowered the glass, she realized she had made yet another grave error in judgment.
Someone was watching her.
A stranger, leaning against the marble mantel with lazy grace, his beautifully tailored evening clothes and black mask making him look both elegant and dangerous. Droll amusement quirked his lips as he lifted his own champagne glass to her in a mocking salute.
Dismayed to find herself the victim of such a shameless flirtation, Lucy ducked between the dancers, hoping to lose herself in their twirling gaiety. But when she dared a glance over her shoulder, the stranger was still there.
Watching her. His heated gaze caressed her bare shoulders.
Inexplicable panic swept through her. She felt trapped, innocent prey cornered by a master hunter. Desperate for escape, she snatched Sylvie’s pudgy eight-year-old brother Christopher from a cluster of his friends.
“Dance with me,” she hissed. “Or I’ll tell your dancing master to box your ears.”
“I d-don’t have a dancing master, Miss Lucy,” he stammered.
“Then I shall box them myself.”
He swallowed his protest, fearful any girl stout enough to best Captain Doom would pack a mighty wallop. They shuffled awkwardly around the floor, Lucy taking mincing steps to match his abbreviated gait. She peeped over his head at the mantel only to discover the man was gone.
His absence taunted her more than his presence had done. She scanned the crowd, searching for any hint of him. Her heart leaped to discover a similarly garbed man across the room only to plummet as she saw the vapid blue eyes behind his ebony mask. Twice, three times, she thought she caught a glimpse of the stranger, but then he was gone again. Elusive. Mysterious. Provocative.
“Miss Lucy?”
“Yes, Chris?” she replied absently, teetering on her tiptoes to gain a better view of the room.
“The music has stopped. May I be dismissed?”
Lucy quit shuffling her feet and dropped her gaze to his cherubic face. “Of course. And thank you, Chris. For being so gallant.”
He swept her a clumsy bow that made his apple-cheeks redden. As he scampered back to his snickering friends, Lucy sighed. Now that she had succeeded in dodging the unwanted attentions of her covert admirer, she felt more bereft than before. She resolved to escape the farce her evening had become only to find a broad expanse of chest blocking her path. A crystal globe of golden bubbles floated before her eyes.
“Champagne?” At the caress of the rich baritone, every pulse in her body throbbed.
Determined to give the insolent rake the setdown he deserved, she presented her back to him, preferring to ignore the fact that he’d just witnessed her gulping champagne with all the finesse of a habitual drunkard. “No, thank you, sir. I don’t drink.”
His voice came again, silky, seductive, so near to her ear that his warm breath stirred the infinitesimal hairs along its lobe. “That’s just as well, I suppose. We wouldn’t want to weaken your moral character, now would we, Miss Snow?”
Lucy spun around, mesmerized by the wicked glitter of the hazel eyes beneath the mask. Hope and fury warred in her heart. Her mouth widened to an accusing circle, but before she could let fly a string of recriminations, her bodyguard gently pressed the rim of the wineglass to her lower lip. Their gazes melded as she drank deeply and without hesitation.
Gerard didn’t need champagne. He was intoxicated by the graceful motion of Lucy’s throat as she swallowed, the tantalizing dart of her pink tongue as she licked an errant drop from the corner of her mouth.
He twirled the fragile stem of the wineglass between his fingers. A bemused smile curved his lips. “I knew I had to shut you up before you denounced me, but I feared kissing you might cause a scandal.”
“So might plying me with champagne.” Lucy’s airy tone belied the treacherous thunder of her heart. “A weakened moral character can be a very dangerous thing.”
“Ah, but dangerous for whom? You? Or me?”
He opened his arms, inviting her to share the risk. As Lucy went into them, the barriers of class that separated them dissolved. He swept her into the waltz with a natural grace that defied convention.
The marble-tiled floor rolled beneath their feet like the deck of some majestic ship. Lucy was caught up in Gerard’s masterful rhythm and the miracle of being enfolded in the warmth of his arms.
“How did you learn to dance so beautifully?” she asked over the swell of the music.
He gave her one of those enigmatic smiles that drove her to distraction. “In my profession, a man must learn to be the master of many talents.”
It was as if Lucy had spent her entire life with her senses wrapped in cotton batting only to have them tingle to awareness in that moment with an acuity that was almost painful. Every sensation was heightened, deepened. The notes of the Viennese waltz reverberated through her soul, rich and shaded with secret layers of meaning. She gloried in the sweet burn of the champagne through her veins, the shift of their muscles beneath their finery, the hard press of Gerard’s thighs as he guided her through an intricate turn, splaying his powerful hand at the small of her back.
She tossed her head back, answering the smoldering challenge in his eyes with a reckless smile of invitation.
From the corner of her eye, Lucy saw the crowd melting before the inevitability of their twirling flight. Many, like her father, still considered the waltz the height of depravity and sought to have it banned. She knew they were making a public spectacle of themselves. Knew society must have stared at her rebellious mother in just such shocked fascination. But for once she didn’t care what anyone thought of her but the man who held her in his arms.
It was as if she and Gerard were floating in one of the champagne bubbles, the only two people suspended in an arctic wonderland. The faux snowflakes glittered above them like stars over the indigo expanse of the ocean at midnight.
Every head in the ballroom turned to follow the path of the handsome couple, struggling to fathom that the vivacious creature whirling in the stranger’s arms with such abandon was truly Admiral Snow’s sallow, cheerless daughter.
Lucy’s cheeks were hectic with color, her gray eyes sparkling with emotion. As she tilted her head toward her partner, her cheek dimpled in a provocative smile. Unable to tear their gazes away, several of the eligible young men nudged each other. They had never even suspected Lucinda Snow of being pretty. Now they realized her looks defied the shallow precepts of prettiness. Her beauty was of the classical variety, as timeless as her transparent adoration for the man who held her so scandalously close.
“Oh, my,” Sylvie breathed, studying Lucy’s partner from the gleaming crown of his head to his polished slippers. “Who is that glorious creature?”
“I haven’t the foggiest.” Her mother lowered her lorgnette from her eye, her brow crumpled in a perplexed frown. “Shouldn’t you step in, Eustace? With her father called away in such haste, you should stand in his stead.”
Lord Howell shook his head sadly. “I hate to spoil it for her. God knows the poor girl’s had little enough happiness in her life with Lucien so devoted to serving His Majesty.”
From his vantage point on the floor, where he’d been quietly sucking his fingers until he could scavenge something more tasty, Gilligan tugged at the hem of his sister’s gown. Her imagination had been so thoroughly captured by the vision of romance gliding past them that she paid him no heed.
Young Christopher came rushing up, his plump hands curled into fists. “Shall I call him out, Papa? I won’t stand for anyone accosting Miss Lucy.”
The waltz hurtled to a magnificent finish, its last majestic note ringing in the air. Gilligan tugged at Sylvie’s skirt again. She absently waved him away, holding her breath along with the rest of them as they waited to see if the mysterious stranger would dare to break the enchanted tableau with a kiss.
Gilligan cared nothing for kisses. His own rapt attention had been caught by the figure sneaking silently down the stairs. Spotting the wide-eyed baby, the man laid a finger to his lips in an exaggerated plea for discretion.
Gilligan pried his fist from his mouth, pointed at the new arrival, and squealed the first intelligible words anyone had ever heard him utter.
“’Ook, Syllie! Cap’n Doom!”