Page 16 of Thief of Hearts
C HAPTER F IFTEEN
G ILLIGAN’S CROW OF DELIGHT WAS FOLLOWED by yet another sound Lord Howell’s guests had never thought to hear—the bright, merry peals of Lucinda Snow’s laughter. The figure on the stairs froze, trapped in the relentless beacon of the crowd’s attention.
He might have strode straight out of a Royal Circus playbill for a pirate melodrama. From his forbidding eyepatch to the fuzzy strands of his plaited beard to the six pistols strapped across his chest, he sported every pirate cliché known to man with such a haphazard lack of taste that even Lady Howell cringed in sympathy.
All he needed to complete his ensemble was a cutlass between his soot-blackened teeth and some slow-burning hemp fuses tucked beneath his misshapen hat. Had he meandered in with his own severed head tucked beneath his arm, he might have passed for the ghost of the dastardly Blackbeard himself.
He bore as little resemblance to the sleek and ruthless predator Lucy had unwittingly engaged on board the Retribution as she did to one of Mrs. Edgeworth’s intrepid Gothic heroines.
She clutched Gerard’s arm, gasping for breath. “Oh, I’m sorry, but it’s simply too much. That…b-b-buffoon is not Captain Doom.”
His muscled forearm had gone rigid beneath her hand. “I should say not.”
A fresh paroxysm of laughter seized her. “Oh, if only the Admiral had stayed. Can you imagine what he would have thought?”
“Only too well.”
Lucy realized that Gerard was no more amused than her father would have been. Beneath the mask, his eyes had narrowed to dangerous slits. It was so refreshing to see him angry at someone besides herself that Lucy failed to feel even a shred of alarm.
A polite smattering of applause went up from the guests to reward the originality of the newcomer’s costume. The musicians launched into a rousing navy hymn as the Howell boys rushed to examine the mock pirate.
“Excuse me.” Gerard disengaged his arm from her hand. “I’d best see if our host needs any assistance in routing the villain.”
Lucy sauntered after him, surprised to find herself a trifle unsteady on her feet. Although the waltz had stopped, it was as if the ballroom were still spinning. Or maybe it was her head. She cupped a hand over her mouth to smother a belated fit of giggles.
“Aaargh, mates,” the pirate was growling as they approached. “Shiver me timbers, if this ain’t the finest crop o’ lads this side o’ Madagascar. Which one’ll be the first to run away and cast his lot with me crew?”
Christopher Howell shyly lifted his hand. “Me, sir, if you please.”
Sylvie hung back behind her brothers, but that didn’t stop Gilligan from reaching out from her arms to tuck a frayed plait of the pirate’s beard in his mouth.
The brigand dug a finger into the baby’s doughy belly. “Can’t abide children. Except for supper, that is.” He blew Sylvie an insolent kiss. “Comely wenches I saves for dessert.”
Sylvie blushed while her brothers howled with laughter.
Their father was trying to peer beneath the ragged eyepatch. “Confess, Georgie, is that you? A simple mask would have been sufficient. There was no need to go to such expense just to entertain my children. God knows they’re spoiled enough as it is.”
Slender, fourteen-year-old Layne was gazing down the barrel of one of the ancient flintlocks. “Quite impressive, Father. You’d almost think it was genuine.” He fixed his approaching mother in its rusted sights.
Gerard’s hand shot out to snatch the gun away. Lucy was the only one not fooled by the deceptive facade of his smile. “Of course it’s genuine. How else would this scurvy sea dog make war on His Majesty’s mighty navy?”
He slapped the pistol against the interloper’s breastbone. A grunt of pain escaped the pirate.
Lord Howell’s good-natured smile faded as he recognized Gerard. He shot Lucy a concerned glance. She grinned stupidly at him, thinking what a handsome man he must have been in his youth. But not nearly so handsome as her bodyguard.
“Claremont?” Lord Howell confirmed, stiffly drawing himself up. “My, this night is simply rife with intrigue, isn’t it?”
“You don’t know the half of it, sir.” Gerard gave him a curt bow. “Forgive my intrusion, but I found mingling as one of your guests the most effective way to look after Miss Snow.”
“Is that really necessary? This is a social occasion. It’s difficult to imagine our Lucy indulging in anything more hazardous than tripping over one of the spaniels.”
“You might be surprised, sir, at the hazards our Lucy is capable of embroiling herself in.”
Lord Howell’s skeptical reply was cut off by the pirate. “Aye, ye must protect ’er agin rogues like me. I’m always on the prowl for pretty young lasses to carry off to me ship.” He shot a convincing leer at Sylvie, his exposed green eye sparkling with mischief.
Sylvie giggled and even Lady Howell tittered nervously.
Caught up in the spirit of the game, Lucy bumped her way past Gerard, tweaked the gold hoop in the pirate’s ear, and gave him a devilish wink. “And just what do you do with ’em once you’ve got ’em there, mate?”
The pirate looked almost as astounded by her boldness as the Howells did. Gerard caught her elbow in a viselike grip. “Some things are better left to the imagination, aren’t they, Miss Snow? Tales of such gruesome atrocities aren’t fit for your tender ears. You should leave the interrogation to a professional such as myself.”
He thrust Lucy behind him, then yanked the pirate from the stairs and dragged him toward an unoccupied alcove.
“Are you going to give him forty stripes? Torture his secrets out of him?” Christopher called hopefully after them.
Gerard bared his teeth in a grimace of a smile. “Only if he resists.”
“Intriguing chap, don’t you think?” Lord Howell murmured. “I thought it was Georgie, but now I’m not so certain. Could it be Sir Marcel’s son? I’ve heard he dearly loves a good prank.”
Lady Howell lifted her lorgnette to her eye and shook her head sadly. “Whoever he is, he has execrable taste in fashion. I’ve never seen a villain quite so…overdressed.”
As the others drifted away, Lucy watched the terse exchange between Gerard and the stranger. She was having trouble focusing her attention on anything of import. Insignificant details pelted her—the strand of sandy gold escaping the pirate’s ratty wig, that single green eye, his lanky height. He was taller than Gerard by a good two inches, but his shoulders lacked her bodyguard’s imposing breadth.
The pirate’s mouth had appeared to be twisted into a smirk of perpetual amusement, but it hardened into a grim line as Gerard marched back to her side.
“Friend of yours?” she asked.
“Old acquaintance,” he replied shortly.
“I’m surprised a Bow Street Runner would have such impressive social connections,” she said, her earnest tone spoiled by an undignified hiccup.
“There’s a lot about me that might surprise you.” He caught her by the shoulders, his eyes searching her face as if to memorize it. The desperation of his grip sobered her.
The spell between them was broken by a commotion near the stairs. A troop of abashed-looking gardeners rushed in, their charge led by a man wearing nothing but a pair of flannel underdrawers and a black eye. Shocked gasps went up throughout the ballroom.
The man’s nasal braying made Lucy wince. “Threw me in the bushes, he did! Just like so much rubbish. I’m the Duke of Mannington, by God! A peer of the realm! I’ll have the villain tossed in Newgate before this night is done.” His finger quivered with righteous indignation as he pointed. “There he is! That mask cost me a pretty shilling. I’d recognize it anywhere. Seize him!”
With exaggerated patience, Lord Howell removed his mask just in time to keep his own gardeners from carrying him off to the jail.
His accuser’s countenance darkened with dismay as he surveyed the sea of masked faces, then brightened as he flung out his arm again. “There! Cowering behind the column! I’d know the rascal anywhere!”
Lucy snickered. “He’s gone and fingered the curate this time.”
Outraged chaos erupted as the irate duke began accusing each male guest in turn. From the corner of her eye, Lucy saw the garish pirate beat a hasty retreat through a curtained alcove.
Gerard drew Lucy toward the terrace doors. “I believe that’s our cue to exit as well.”
She dragged her feet, savoring a rare fit of petulance. “But I wanted to dance some more. I wanted to dance all night long!”
Gerard flung open the terrace doors. Lucy’s cheerful wail was snatched by a blast of frigid air as the night engulfed them. She tripped on an uneven flagstone and would have fallen had he not caught her. Their masked faces, his hard and unrelenting, hers soft with shy uncertainty, were separated by mere inches. The air between them seemed to sparkle, glittering with motes of faerie dust. Lucy’s gaze shifted upward, her eyes widening with fresh wonder.
She flung herself away from him to dance across the lawn. “Oh, look at it, Gerard! I can’t remember the last time it snowed in London! Isn’t it magnificent?”
Gerard barely saw the feathery flakes drifting down from the sooty sky. All he saw was Lucy, throwing her bare arms out as if to embrace the world, catching snowflakes on her tongue like the child she was never allowed to be.
“You’re magnificent.”
At the gravity of Gerard’s tone, Lucy lowered her arms to wrap them around herself. It wasn’t her sudden awareness of the cold that made her shiver, but the strange heat emanating from his eyes. A magnetic heat that drew her across the grass to him.
Snowflakes dusted his shoulders and hair. To reassure herself that he was truly her genial bodyguard and not some dangerous stranger, Lucy reached up to unmask him.
A quizzical smile touched her lips. “Why, Mr. Claremont, I thought you were blind as a bat without your spectacles?”
His eyes darkened, devoid of the sparkling humor she had come to expect from them. “I am. Blind to everything but you.”
Gerard reached down and drew off Lucy’s mask, stripping her exquisite face of its only defense. He knew it was an unfair blow, worthy of the street fighter he’d had to be to survive, but somewhere along the way, winning the game had become more important than playing by the rules.
At his first glimpse of the tender yearning in her eyes, Gerard knew he had to get her home. Out of his reach.
He captured her hand and pulled her into a run. They pelted across the frosty grass, braving the night and the wind hand in hand.
Lucy laughed aloud, exhilarated by the challenge. A thread of memory spun through her brain, but in her state of delightful befuddlement, she couldn’t seem to weave it into a recognizable pattern.
They stumbled to a halt in the cobbled drive to find the Snow carriage nowhere in sight.
“The Admiral must have taken it,” Lucy said, rubbing away a stitch in her side. “He was probably planning to send it back for me later.” At Gerard’s scowl, she added, “You didn’t expect him to walk, did you?”
“Only on water,” he bit off.
He dragged her toward a deserted carriage parked on the opposite side of the drive. The evening was still early and the driver was probably off gambling away his monthly wages with the rest of the servants. The flawlessly matched bays nickered nervously at their approach. Steam puffed from their aristocratic nostrils.
“This will have to do.” Gerard framed Lucy’s slender waist in his hands and swung her into the opulent interior, shooting a glance over his shoulder to make sure they weren’t being followed.
Before he could close the door, she wagged a pink-tipped finger under his nose. “Confess, you wicked man. Were you the one to divest that unfortunate nobleman of his clothes?”
He splayed a hand over his heart as if she had struck him a mortal wound. “You’re accusing me? A man who’s devoted his life to the preservation of law and order?”
“A man who’s not above stealing a carriage if it suits his needs,” she pointed out with a hint of her tart logic.
“Borrowing,” he corrected her.
Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “I’m not sure I should accompany you, sir. What if you should try to divest me of my clothes?”
Gerard’s loins hardened with the decadent urge to press her back into the plush squabs of the carriage and do just that. With a lecherous growl that would have put the faux pirate to shame, he caught her nape in his palm and drew her face down until her succulent mouth was only a breath away from his own.
“Don’t tempt me.”
He gave her a harmless push. She fell back among the cushions, giggling and kicking her slippered feet, giving him a dazzling view of her lace petticoat and pink stockings.
Groaning, he slammed the carriage door. He rested his fevered brow against its cool shell, wondering what madness had possessed him to feed the staid Miss Snow that last glass of champagne.
As he waited for his breathing to steady, he became aware that an eagle was embossed on the gilded door, its outspread wings entwined with an elaborately scrolled name: Mannington . The same ducal crest he had seen that chill autumn night when this very carriage had heedlessly struck a child and left her crumpled in the rain.
Gerard threw back his head with a harsh bark of laughter. He seemed fated to mete out justice to others and damned to never winning even a scrap of it for himself.
On the ride to Ionia, Lucy kept Gerard entertained with several inventive, if somewhat obscure, verses of “That Banbury Strumpet, As Sweet As a Crumpet.” Truth be told, he rather suspected her of making them up as she went along. He rolled his eyes at a particularly ribald turn of phrase, knowing she hadn’t the faintest idea what she was implying or the effect her throaty contralto was having on his ravenous body. He slapped the reins on the horses’ backs, driving them to a brisk trot.
He brought the carriage to a halt at the far end of the drive, hoping to avoid attracting attention to his borrowed vehicle and his inebriated young charge. No groom ran out to greet them. As he’d intended, their early return from an event that traditionally lasted until dawn had caught the household staff off guard.
He yanked open the carriage door, not sure himself whether he should spank Lucy for her naughtiness or kiss her even more insensible than she already was.
He staggered as she tumbled face first over his shoulder, putting her in an ideal position for the former. He gave her bottom a sharp whack, keeping his palm molded over her delectable curves. She kicked her feet in protest, setting up a flurry of silk.
“Dammit, Lucy, stop wiggling,” he commanded, more out of self-preservation than genuine annoyance.
His hands seemed to have a life of their own. He could feel the right one creeping up her stocking beneath her skirt, intent on some devilish mischief beyond his control.
“How dare you!” she gasped out as he started across the lawn, bouncing her unceremoniously with each step. “My father never spanked me.”
“He should have. Daily. With great vigor.”
Her injured sniff was ruined by a giggle. “I gave him no excuse. I was a good girl. Don’t you find me a good girl, Mr. Claremont?”
“Delicious,” he replied as his questing fingertips came into contact with the smooth, bare skin above her garter.
“Sylvie’s oldest brother taught me a new song while we were dancing. Would you care to hear it?”
“No.”
Undaunted, she threw back her head and roared:
Across the midnight sea sails Cap’n Doom .
Yer noble birth he’ll make ye rue .
He’ll snatch yer lady’s heart right from her bosom
Then rob her of her virtue .
Gerard winced and gritted his teeth. Christ, he hated that bloody pirate! He only regretted that Lucy’s position made it impossible to put his hand over her mouth and under her skirt at the same time. That enticing vision made his palms sweat so profusely that he almost dropped her.
The front door swung open as they approached. Gerard hesitated, fearful of exposing Lucy’s undignified state to a smirking footman. He sighed with relief when Smythe stepped to the fore, the candle in his hand casting wavering shadows over his bland face and flowing dressing gown.
Without so much as blinking an eye at Lucy’s unusual mode of transit, the butler said, “Good evening, Mr. Claremont, Miss Lucy. I trust it was an enjoyable one.”
“Tolerable,” Gerard replied. “We had to end it a bit prematurely.”
Smythe addressed Lucy’s squirming bottom. “A prudent idea, it seems, sir.”
Lucy twisted around to see him. Gerard obliged her by turning sideways.
“I learned a new song tonight, Smythe. Would you care to hear it?” she asked earnestly.
The butler laid a finger against her lips. “Perhaps in the morning, Miss Lucy. I’m suffering from a dreadful megrim.”
The man did look pale, Gerard noted. Lines were etched around his eyes like the shading in one of Lucy’s drawings. He couldn’t help but wonder if Smythe was suffering from an ailment more severe than a simple headache.
“Poor Smythe,” Lucy crooned, adjusting the tassel on his nightcap. “Poor, dear Smythe.”
The butler rested his candlestick on a pier table and held out his arms. “May I, sir?”
Gerard’s arms tightened around the limp bundle draped over his shoulder in primitive reflex. He hadn’t realized how unprepared he was to let her go.
As if sensing how little it would take to make him bolt into the night with Lucy in tow, Smythe offered him a smile that was both kind and weary. “I’ll look after her, sir. I always have.”
Gerard lowered Lucy into the cradle of the butler’s arms. Smythe wasn’t a large man, but he bore her weight as if it were no burden at all. She snuggled against his chest, already half asleep.
Gerard’s arms ached with emptiness.
As Smythe started toward the stairs, Lucy peered over his shoulder, blinking drowsily.
“’Night, G’rard.”
“’Night, mouse.”
Her wistful little wave tore at his heart. He touched his fingers to his lips in one final salute. Then there was nothing left for him to do but melt back into the darkness where he belonged.
Lucy kicked off her slippers just outside the door to her room. “I’ve been a very wicked girl, Smythe. I had three glasses of champagne. Are you shocked?”
“Scandalized.” Smythe’s dry tone implied the opposite.
Without bothering to undress her, he tucked her beneath the counterpane with his usual matter-of-fact efficiency, then moved to add a fresh log to the bedroom fire.
Lucy was caught off guard by the sudden plunge of her mood into dejection. “It doesn’t truly matter, does it?”
Smythe lowered the poker and straightened. “What, Miss Lucy?”
“Whether I’m wicked. Or good. Or even perfect. The Admiral’s never going to love me, is he?”
Smythe gazed into the dancing flames, his profile pensive. “I don’t think he’s capable of it, miss. It’s really not your fault.”
Defiance and pride swelled in her heart. “Mr. Claremont said I was magnificent.”
Smythe came over to sit on the edge of her bed. He’d been her nanny, her governess, her cherished friend for as long as she could remember. Her earliest memory was of his sober face bending over her cradle. She knew only too well when he was about to do something he dreaded.
“You’re rather fond of your Mr. Claremont, aren’t you?”
The champagne had robbed Lucy of any eloquence she might have possessed. She could only nod. Her head felt loose, as if it might topple off her neck if she didn’t take care.
“Would it make you terribly sad if he went away?”
An icy fear seized her. She gripped Smythe’s arm. “What is it, Smythe? Are you afraid the Admiral will dismiss him if he discovers what a goose I’ve made of myself tonight? You won’t tell him, will you? I’ll swear off champagne for the rest of my days, but please don’t tell him.”
He eased her back to the pillow. “Your secrets are safe with me, dear. Just go to sleep. Everything will be better in the morning.”
His hand was on the doorknob when Lucy softly said, “You’re a poor liar, Smythe.”
He gave her a sad little smile. “I’m afraid I’m a much better liar than you’d ever suspect.”
Lucy lay flat on her back, watching the reflection of the fire flicker across the tester. Smythe’s enigmatic words had deflated her golden champagne bubble, leaving only its bitter aftertaste in her mouth. Her mellow glow faded to bleak gloom as she contemplated a future without Gerard.
There was really nothing new to contemplate. Her life would revert to its former orderly state. She, Smythe, and the Admiral would grow old together in this house, their daily habits carved from her father’s indomitable will. The regimented minutes stretched into eternity, the sand in her father’s treasured hourglass trickling through one agonizing grain at a time.
Lucy moaned and turned her face into the pillow, haunted by a ghostly melody—the vibrant notes of a Viennese waltz. Tonight she had danced in the arms of the man she loved and felt young and carefree for the first time in her life.
Now she felt ancient. She could almost feel her skin drawing, her bones stiffening, her heart crumbling to dust from both past and future neglect. She lay there, steeped in misery, until she heard her father’s uneven step on the stairs.
She held her breath as he approached her room just as she had always done. Beneath his exacting tutelage, she had clipped the wings from most of her flights of fancy, but her stubborn heart had clung to one childhood dream, nurturing it in the secret hours between midnight and dawn.
If she kept her eyes shut very tightly and feigned sleep, her father might ease open the door and tiptoe over to the bed. He might bend down to touch her hair, kiss her brow, and tell her what a good girl she was, how proud he was to have her for a daughter. Then she would open her eyes and fly into his arms. They would laugh and cry at the same time, finally free to confess their love.
Lucy’s hands curled in the bedclothes. If he came tonight, she vowed to herself, she would promise to forget Gerard. She would strive even harder to be the dutiful daughter he’d always wanted.
Her entire body started violently as something crashed to the floor outside her bedroom.
“Goddammit!” came the Admiral’s voice, harsh and ugly, faintly slurred. “How many times have I told that stupid girl not to scatter things about on the floor? Won’t be satisfied till I break my bloody neck.”
Lucy kept her eyes closed until his lumbering steps had faded. From somewhere high in the house came the hollow slam of a door.
Once, Lucy would have curled into a miserable ball and cried herself to sleep.
Now, she rose, dry-eyed, and slipped silently from the room.