In Debt To The Earl

‘If you owed him money,’ she said finally, ‘there was no reason to come back today, let alone wait.’ Her voice was very quiet. ‘You could hardly suppose he wouldn’t call on you as soon as he returned. But if he owes you money—’ she bit her lip and he knew an urge to reach out, stroke away the small hurt ‘—then there was every reason to return and wait, wasn’t there?’

‘Yes,’ he said. There was no point denying it, even if he could bring himself to lie to her again.

‘So you lied to me,’ she said, as if being lied to was perfectly normal. ‘How much?’

His mind blanked for a moment. ‘How much for what?’ he countered. What sort of idiot couldn’t keep a lie straight in his head? Somehow this girl unravelled his wits and scattered them to the winds.

She swallowed and the silent jerk of her throat stabbed at him. ‘How much does he owe you?’

He didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved that she wasn’t offering to barter herself for the debt.

He hesitated. She was already pale, her mouth set as if braced for a blow. A blow he didn’t want to strike. He clenched his fists, gritting his teeth. The time for lies was past. Well, almost. ‘One hundred pounds.’ He could not bring himself to tell her the full amount.

* * *

It was a shameful fact that Lucy had never, not once in her life, come close to fainting. Her cousin Jane had prided herself on her ability to faint dead away with becoming grace at the slightest provocation, be it a spider, a snake or the admiring glance of an eligible gentleman. Jane had been as much admired for her exquisite sensibility as for her beauty. Lucy never felt so much as dizzy. Spiders didn’t bother her, she thought the occasional snake she saw was far more scared of her than she was of it and gentlemen never noticed her.

But now the abyss along which her father had skirted, week after week, month after month and year after year, gaped at her feet, a black, fathomless pit that threatened to swallow her whole. Her vision greyed... She couldn’t really be off balance, because there didn’t seem to be a floor to be off balance on, and she was falling...and then, not.

For a blinding instant she was conscious of the power of his arms, the sheer strength of his body, as he caught her, steadied her. For one wild, insane moment she knew the urge to remain there. Safe. Then, with a fierce wrench, she fought to free herself, shoving away from him, willing her head to stop spinning, her knees to hold and her lungs to draw air. Safe? Whatever else this man might be, he wasn’t safe.

‘Let me go!’ She struggled, but he held her tightly.

‘Don’t be an idiot, Lucy!’ he said. ‘You damn near fainted on me!’

‘I don’t faint!’ Somehow she was sitting in the chair he had vacated, his hands still gripping her shoulders. ‘And I have not said you may call me Lucy!’

He snorted. ‘What else should I call you? We both know Hensleigh is not your real name.’

That struck home. She said quietly, ‘Please let me go.’ If he didn’t—

He let her go and she reached up to rub her shoulder where he had gripped her, where the shock of his touch shivered in her flesh.

His brows snapped together. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said stiffly, as though the words shamed him. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

She couldn’t explain that he hadn’t hurt her. She couldn’t explain that shivery feeling even to herself. Her throat worked. ‘One hundred pounds.’ The words jerked out all anyhow. ‘How? When?’ Clearly Papa was not with his mistress—one hundred pounds was a fortune and Papa had run.

And he didn’t take you. Didn’t even bother to warn you. Heat pricked behind her eyes. With that much money she could—

‘That amount shocks you?’

The bitter tone, more than the words, did it. Inside her something shattered into molten shards, drying her eyes in the white-hot blaze. What did he have to be bitter about? Her father might or might not come back. All the money he had won a few weeks ago was gone. At best he had left town to play elsewhere until he had enough to pay off—

‘I suppose Remington is not really your name, sir?’ she forced out.

He looked annoyed as he pulled out an elegant silver card case. ‘Cambourne.’ He handed her a card. ‘Remington is the family name.’

Family name? She looked at the card. Cambourne. And not merely Mr Cambourne, but Lord Cambourne, a belted earl, no less. No wonder Papa had run. There would be very few places he could play profitably in London without having paid off this debt. Fear choked her. She knew her father’s code. A debt like this would be paid before all else. Before the rent for their lodgings, before food—well, food for her. He’d buy himself a meal on the way home, give Mrs Beattie a shilling to keep her sweet and tell his daughter there was no money. Why on earth had she ever thought she owed him the least vestige of loyalty? And yet...he was her father. She remembered him from her childhood before Mama died, kind when he was at home, often bringing her a present, a sweet or a cake. Once a painted wooden brooch—a bird perched singing on a twig.

And he sold the jewellery Grandmama left you. Her fingers went to her chest, felt the locket through the threadbare gown. Not quite all. Just what he’d known about. Sold it and pocketed the money. Sworn he’d make their fortunes. He’d made that fortune, all right. She’d been dazed, dazzled, sure that at last she was safe, that she’d have a proper home. And then he’d lost most of it the following week.

Lord Cambourne said nothing and she fought to ignore his presence. One hundred pounds. Papa had won five times as much a few weeks ago. He’d let her have some money that time. Enough to buy food, the beeswax and pay off the arrears on their lodgings. Otherwise Mrs Beattie would have kicked them out. There was nothing left of what he’d given her. And with what she could earn, she would be lucky to have enough to eat for a week if she ate one meal a day, and only then if Mrs Beattie didn’t insist on being paid again next week.

‘I don’t know where he is,’ she said again. Folly to keep repeating it. Either Lord Cambourne believed her, or he did not. There was nothing she could do about it.

He was watching her. Those dark-grey eyes seemed to look right through her and see things she preferred to keep hidden. She lifted her chin, praying that the choking fear was not apparent. Praying that he would leave so that she could think.

‘You should leave.’ Pretending that Mr Remington, or Lord Cambourne, or whatever he wished to call himself, was a welcome visitor was beyond her.

* * *

James hesitated. There was no reason to linger. Any more than there had been reason to stay this long. And yet he didn’t want to go. Lucy Hensleigh, or whatever she called herself, bothered him. The idea of her going out alone, performing in the street for pennies, didn’t exactly shock him; that twisting in his gut wasn’t shock. Oh, there was shock all right. But it was shock at how he was feeling about her. How he felt about her being here alone, her father having seemingly abandoned her. And shock at the feel of her slender body in his arms a few moments ago. He hadn’t wanted to let her go.

Hell’s teeth! If a debt of one hundred pounds had rattled her that badly, how would she have taken the truth? Or that his intention was to sell the debt on?

It wasn’t James’s responsibility. He’d bought coal so she’d have some warmth. She had food. And he was due at a late supper back in St James’s, after which he had a ball to attend. Not that it would matter overly if he were late... Damn it to hell and back! How safe was she here?

‘Beyond the man who followed him home, your father’s friends don’t call?’

She shook her head. ‘No.’

Relief breathed through him. He hoped it would stay that way.

‘And you’ve really no idea when he will return?’

The soft mouth turned mulish ‘No. There’s no point asking again. You either believe me or you don’t. He’s disappeared before. Never for more than a few days.’

The roof creaked loudly and she jumped.

‘Miss Hensleigh, are you sure you don’t mind being here alone?’ James asked gently. He couldn’t blame her for being nervous. And what can you do about it? Offer to remain with her?

‘I’m not alone,’ she pointed out. ‘You’re here. And I don’t like it!’

James clenched his fists. He was making her nervous? He let out a breath. He couldn’t blame her for that. Reluctantly, he walked to the door. ‘I’ll bid you goodnight.’

She stared at him. ‘You’re actually leaving?’

‘Yes. Bolt the door behind me.’

She rose, graceful even in her shabby gown with a threadbare blanket around her. ‘I always do at night.’

‘Good.’ The door wasn’t strong enough to keep anyone out who really wanted to get in, but at least the noise would warn her.

James opened the door, turned and held out his hand to her. ‘Goodnight.’

After a moment’s hesitation she placed her hand in his, slowly, as if she doubted the wisdom of doing so. His fingers closed over hers gently, he felt them quiver, heard the soft intake of breath as his clasp tightened. Such a small hand and so cold in his. A steel band seemed to clamp about his chest as startled green eyes met his, her lips parted slightly, and he fought the shocking urge to lean forward and taste them, find out if they would tremble in response.

Heat licked through him at the thought, but instead he covered her hand with his other one. ‘Promise me that you’ll sit by the fire long enough to warm up properly.’ The thought of her cold and so alone haunted him. She ought not to be left alone, but he couldn’t stay. Didn’t dare. Damn her father to hell for leaving her like this.

Her chin lifted, revealing the slender column of her throat. ‘Do you think I can’t look after myself?’

He doubted it. Not if some bastard decided to help himself. He ignored the urge to behave like one of the aforementioned bastards and trace the ivory line of her throat with one finger, discover the swift pulse beating beneath silk-soft skin... His fingers tightened on hers. ‘I think that you shouldn’t have to,’ he said at last. Wanting her was bad enough, the warring urge to look after her, keep her safe even from himself, make sure she was never cold or hungry ever again, was more than foolish—it ranked close to insanity. There was no point elaborating on the dangers; those wary eyes told him that she knew them already, recognised him as one of them. And if she considered him a danger she was not interested in becoming his mistress. She had not even tried to influence him or buy him off with a little flirtation, or by making play with wet lashes over her father’s debt. He had to respect that.

Reluctantly, he released her hand and stepped back. ‘Bolt the door behind me,’ he repeated. Somehow he got the door open and shut with himself outside it before his resolution failed. He waited, heard the squeak and thud as she shot the bolt with what sounded like unwonted vigour.

His brows rose. ‘Goodnight to you, too, Miss Hensleigh.’

There was a moment’s silence. Then, ‘Goodnight, sir.’ Stiff, reluctant. Rather as if she would have preferred to consign him to Hades.

Chapter Three

Lucy listened to the steady steps and accompanying creaks as he crossed the landing. Heard him descend the stairs and heaved a sigh of what ought to have been relief, and felt frighteningly like regret. Shivering, she lifted the hand he had held to her breast. The strong pressure of his fingers, the enveloping warmth, lingered. He had held her hand as if he cared about her.

He held your hand for a moment in farewell. It meant nothing. Less than nothing to him.

He was gone. So why did the bright edge of tension still score her? Why did it matter that he had held her hand? Worse, why did she wish he was still holding it? She’d been wrong about his motive for waiting; he wanted Papa, not her. Lord! He’d been insulted at the very suggestion. And yet he’d held her hand in that odd way. Tenderly. As if he hadn’t wanted to let her go.

He was kind, that was all. Buying fuel, lighting the fire.

Why? Papa owes him a small fortune.

Suspicious cynicism was not one of her more attractive traits, but she couldn’t afford naivety. In the last four years she’d learned to be wary of seeming kindness. People, especially men, wanted something in return. She’d learnt very quickly what men usually wanted from a girl—­something that meant less than nothing to them, but would spell disaster for her. Papa had also realised that very quickly. It was why he never brought anyone back to their lodgings if he could avoid it. Just the young man who had followed him a couple of months ago and now Cambourne.

He ought to be your enemy. Remember what Grandpapa was used to say? Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.

She wasn’t sure about the origin of the quote, but thought it might be Homer. Someone had been suspicious about the Trojan Horse, as well they might. She had not been permitted to read Homer, of course. Grandmama had frowned on young girls reading anything more inflammatory than a book of sermons and Homer definitely counted as inflammatory.

The roof creaked loudly and she hurried to the window. She pushed the casement open and stepped back. A moment later Fitch swung through the window, to land catlike and dripping.

‘What the hell did his nibs want?’ he demanded. ‘Bit of a dolly roll?’

‘No,’ Lucy said. At least she hoped not if Fitch meant what she thought he meant.

Fitch snorted. ‘Right.’

‘He wants my father. I told you.’

The boy gave a shrug as he dripped his way over to the fire. ‘Just bet he does. But that ain’t to say he can’t chase a bit of tail on the side.’ He held out his hands to the blaze. ‘Nice. You buy fuel with the extra shilling?’

‘He bought it,’ Lucy admitted.

Fitch’s eyes narrowed. ‘Did he now? An’ you reckon—’

The stairs groaned under a heavy, uneven tread. The two of them froze.

‘Mrs Beattie,’ Lucy whispered, panic clutching at her insides.

Fitch made for the window, but voices floated up from the yard. ‘Damn!’ he muttered, hesitating.

‘The bedroom!’ Lucy said. ‘She’s no reason to go in there!’

Silent as a hunting cat, Fitch disappeared into the other room.

Lucy unbolted the door, then sat at the table and strove to appear unconcerned as the steps waddled over the complaining landing. The door rattled under the less-than-genteel knock.

‘Come in!’ She put on her best welcoming voice.

Mrs Beattie came in, eyes darting about. ‘Gorn, is he?’

‘Yes.’ As if you didn’t know! Very little got past the eagle-eyed landlady. ‘And I would prefer it if you did not permit strangers to wait for me.’

Mrs Beattie shrugged. ‘Called yestiddy, didn’ he? An’ this afternoon, lookin’ for yeh.’ She scowled. ‘Not but what I didn’ know he’d slipped back this evenin’. Not till he come lookin’ for coal.’

‘Oh. I see.’ Getting past Mrs Beattie unnoticed was nigh on impossible, but given the woman’s annoyance, apparently Cambourne had done it. ‘Can I help you with something?’

Mrs Beattie scowled. ‘In a manner of speakin’. You an’ me need to have a little talk about money, missy.’

Lucy’s stomach lurched. ‘The rent is due Friday. And I understood the coal was paid for.’

Mrs Beattie’s lips pursed, and Lucy could almost see her wondering if it was worth trying to gouge a little extra on the coal.

‘It was,’ the woman admitted and Lucy let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. ‘It’s the extra rent you an’ me got to talk about.’

‘Extra rent?’ The words felt thick on her tongue.

The landlady wiped greasy hands on her apron. ‘Aye. Yeh can bring a trick up here, long as yer quiet. But usin’ the rooms fer business, that’s extra rent.’

* * *

James strode back along the Strand towards Whitehall. He was going to be late to supper if he didn’t hurry. He kept an eye open for trouble and a hand on the loaded pistol in his coat pocket.

The streets aren’t safe around here at night.

Nor during the day for that matter. Not for a woman alone. And yet she traversed them daily. Unbidden, the image of her in boys’ clothes, slender legs encased in breeches, came to him. The threadbare, poorly fitting clothes had hidden everything. Perhaps he’d only known because he’d recognised the sound of her violin. Then he’d looked properly, seen the delicate line of her jaw, watched the slender hands coaxing magic from the violin. No one else had spotted the graceful girl hiding in the shabby suit. Even in the tavern. Ill-lit and crowded, she must have passed unnoticed. But it bothered him.

She ought not to be performing in the street.

So is she supposed to starve in ladylike silence to suit your notions of respectability?

Her father is damn well supposed to look after her! Not leave her earning pennies playing the fiddle.

And there was the rub. Her father. The man who owed him a thousand pounds. Who’d set the mysterious Kilby’s enforcers after Nick and left Lucy to shift for herself. The man he’d sworn to ruin.

‘Good God! What brings you down this way, Cambourne?’

James stared at the gentleman descending from a hackney cab. ‘Montgomery.’ He acknowledged the viscount with a cool nod. ‘A business matter.’ He didn’t bother to ask what brought Montgomery this way. The man had an unsavoury reputation for preferring the brothels down here. Brothels that were fussy neither about the age nor willingness of their girls. Or, it was whispered, how the customers treated them.

‘Business? Down here?’ Montgomery looked amused and slightly disdainful. ‘My man of affairs deals with anything to do with the City.’

The cab driver coughed. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, milor’—’

Montgomery turned, scowling. ‘Yes, yes, my good man. Really, such a fuss over a paltry shilling or two.’

The jarvey said nothing, but James saw the anxiety underlying the scorn in his eyes.

‘The man has his living to earn, Montgomery.’

Montgomery sighed, produced the fare from his pocket and handed it over. ‘Really, Cambourne. Next you’ll be telling me that you pay your tailor when he duns you!’

‘Not exactly,’ James said. ‘He doesn’t dun me, because I pay when he bills me.’

Montgomery looked pained. ‘How very respectable. Well, I’m off to partake in the joys of the flesh. I’ve a nice, fresh game pullet reserved. Care to come along? I’m sure we can find something for you.’ The smirk suggested he knew what the response would be.

James didn’t bother to hide his distaste. ‘Thank you. No.’ He glanced at the jarvey, who was easing his horse away from the curb. ‘I’m going back to Mayfair. Do you want the fare?’

The horse stopped at once. ‘Glad of it, guv,’ said the jarvey.

‘Thank you. I won’t hold you up.’ He swung open the door and stepped into the cab.

Montgomery shuddered. ‘Really, Cambourne! You don’t thank a jarvey.’

James leaned on the open window. ‘Is that so? I find thanking people ensures better, more willing service. You might try it with your game pullet.’

Montgomery’s laughter was unpleasant. ‘Willing? I’m not courting an heiress, man. This one’s bought and paid for. Willing doesn’t—’

The rest was lost in the rattle of hooves and wheels as the cab set off. James sat back, frowning. Montgomery always left a nasty taste in his mouth.

A moment later the trap opened. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, guv. Old horse took off afore you’d finished your chat.’

‘An intelligent beast,’ said James drily. ‘Tell him to take me to Berkeley Street.’

‘Righto, guv.’

The trap shut and James leaned back on the squabs. Damn it. If he ruined Hensleigh completely, then Lucy would be on her own. He let out a breath. Perhaps he didn’t have to break Hensleigh, or Hammersley, or whatever his name was, entirely. He saw again Nick’s battered face and swore.

* * *

Lucy had no idea what trick meant in this context, but the phrase ‘place of business’ gave her the clue.

‘Lor— Look, Mrs Beattie, you’re mistaken.’ Instinct warned her against revealing too much about her visitor. ‘The gentleman is a friend of my father’s.’ That was a stretch, but it would do. ‘He was looking for him.’

Mrs Beattie gave a snort. ‘Listen, dearie, when you an’ your pa moved in I was all set to charge ’im for business, but he insisted you was his daughter, an’ he weren’t selling tricks.’ She sniffed. ‘Can’t say as I really believed ’im at the start, but I gave ’im the lower rate on trial as you might say. But I warned ’im.’

‘Warned him?’ Lucy scowled at the woman. ‘About what?’

Mrs Beattie crossed her arms over her ample bosom. ‘Warned ’im if I so much as smelled a suspicion of a trick up here, he’d be paying more.’

Speechless, Lucy stared at her and she went on. ‘Now, I dunno if he didn’ tell you, or if you just thought you could sneak yer fancy man past me, but—’

‘He is not my fancy man!’ Lucy’s face flamed.

The snort this time was of equine proportions. ‘Right. An’ I’m the Queen o’ France,’ Mrs Beattie said, with a fine disregard for the fact that the last French queen’s head had fallen under the guillotine some years previously. ‘It ain’t no never mind o’ mine, long as you pay up. Mind you...’ She looked around. ‘Flash gent like that, you play ’im right, you oughta get a nice little house to yerself.’

Outrage bubbled up. ‘Mrs Beattie! I am not—’ Not what? Not playing tricks? ‘Not selling myself!’

Mrs Beattie scowled. ‘Well, yer a fool, givin’ it to him for love. Anyone can see ’e’s well-breeched.’

‘He came to see if my father had returned!’ Lucy insisted.

‘That don’t take half an hour, nor it don’t need no coal,’ said the lady with unarguable logic. ‘Three shillings a week extra, missy.’

‘And does that include coal for business purposes?’ Lucy demanded.

The landlady scowled. ‘S’pose I could throw in some coal,’ she said grudgingly. ‘When you pays the extra.’

Lucy blinked. Clearly sarcasm was wasted on Mrs Beattie. Still, if she was going to be bilked for extra rent this week, she might as well get something out of it. Hopefully, once Mrs Beattie realised her mistake, and that Lord Cambourne was not continuing to call, the rent would drop back.

Mrs Beattie, evidently concluding that she’d completed her business, stumped to the door. Reaching it, she looked back. ‘Three shillings extra. Payable Friday.’ She went out, closing the door behind her with a triumphant bang.

Lucy sank on to the chair, staring at the closed door as fear choked her. She barely had enough money left to buy food. Now it was Tuesday night. She had no idea if she could earn three shillings for extra rent, as well as eat, between now and Friday. If only she’d stayed out longer, so that Cambourne had given up and gone away without alerting Mrs Beattie. Or even if she hadn’t indulged in dinner at the tavern, so she had more money towards the rent, or—

‘Well, now there’s the devil to pay.’ Fitch came out of the bedroom and cast a disgusted glance at the door. He stalked to the fire and held out his hands to the blaze. ‘You sure his nibs don’t want a roll?’

‘A—’ Lucy swallowed. ‘A roll. Is that like a trick?’

He nodded. ‘Yeah. You has a quick roll, or turns a trick.’

Lucy stowed the information away. More knowledge unsuitable for the drawing room. But she wasn’t in a safe, protected drawing room.

‘He’s just looking for my father,’ she said. If he’d wanted anything else, there had been nothing to stop him taking it. Although there had been nothing to stop her grandmother’s cat killing a mouse instantly, either.

‘Might get some rhino from him,’ Fitch suggested. ‘Since you reckoned as he owes your pa money, he could pay you some on account like.’