In Bed with the Earl Page 10

  She flinched, and he gentled his touch.

  The woman’s earlier bravery appeared restored as her lashes swept up; still, she regarded him with weariness spilling from the spellbinding, purple-blue depths of her eyes.

  Resting the damp rag, now stained crimson, over his shoulder, he stretched a hand between them.

  She shot her hands up protectively once more.

  “Stay calm. Nervousness makes it worse.”

  “And you know because you’ve h-had so many?”

  “You ask a lot of questions.” Even in the sewer, when he’d had a knife at her person and demanded answers, she’d met them with queries. It was another foreign experience for him; people in the rookeries didn’t ask questions . . . unless retribution or revenge waited at the end of that query. “Don’t lean your head on the wall. Tilt it forward.” He reached and angled her head slightly. “Otherwise you’re going to choke on your blood.”

  She blanched.

  Malcom caught her pert little nose between his thumb and forefinger and pressed.

  The young woman resumed thrashing.

  “I’m not trying to suffocate you,” he said curtly. It was foolish to be offended by her continued fear—bloody hell, he should relish her unease, for it would make it easier to have answers to the questions he sought. “If I wanted to, I’d squeeze your neck.”

  “Is that meant to reassure me?” she countered, with some of the strength restored to her voice.

  “Breathe through your mouth.”

  Those perfect rosebud lips formed a little moue, a bow like a cherub in a painting he’d plucked from the sewers and should have sold, and yet had retained for some reason. Malcom released the appendage, and the suspicious hellcat touched her nostrils. “It stopped.”

  “I put pressure on the part of your nose that was bleeding and stopped the flow.”

  “Thank you.” Those words came almost grudgingly, as if it cost her a pound of flesh to deliver them.

  Another smile tugged.

  “What do you want with me?” she asked quietly.

  Not bothering with assurances about his previous promise, which meant nothing to her, he folded his arms at his chest. “You were going to land both of us in trouble.”

  Those thin, arched brows slid back into their proper place, and then a smidgeon lower. “And I’m supposed to trust that you’re some chivalrous figure rescuing a woman who’d become lost in the sewers?” Suspicion swirled in her eyes. “That you’ve brought me here to clean me up and care for my nose?”

  Actually, he had. The sight of her, bedraggled and dazed and her eyes brimming with terror, had reached into a place inside where a softness dwelled, a weakness that he’d believed himself incapable of.

  “I never proclaimed to be chivalrous. Only practical.” And ruthless in his determination to protect that which was his, and to bring down those who’d infringe upon it. But then, something she’d said penetrated those uneasy thoughts. Lost in the sewers . . . Malcom mentally tucked away that unwitting admission. Malcom crossed his arms at his chest. “Have your bath, change your dress, and then we will speak.”

  She darted her tongue out, the pink flesh trailing a nervous path along a rosebud seam he’d failed to note . . . or properly appreciate . . . until this moment. Until that action. “Speak about what?”

  He’d be the one asking questions. Not this minx. Not allowing her the opportunity to pepper him, Malcom started for the door.

  Of course, the impudent spitfire stole another query before he could exit the rooms. “What is your name?”

  “North.”

  With that he left, and found his way to the kitchens.

  Seated at the table, with his broken foot resting on one of the small kitchen chairs, Fowler frowned. “Giles is doing a sweep outside. Water’s ready for you.” He nodded his balding head toward the wood bathtub. “Wot in ’ell are ya doing, bringing a fancy piece back?”

  “She’s not a fancy piece,” Malcom muttered. With the polished speech of a lady and a blustery pride and spirit, she was nothing like the hardened women he’d kept company with through the years.

  The other ancient tosher limped over to the table, his lame left leg dragging as he walked. “Oi went ahead and assumed ya wanted the porcelain one for yar number.”

  “She’s not—” He caught the glimmer in those ancient eyes. “Oh, go to hell,” he muttered. “Both of you,” he said for the pair of them. “I should turn you both out.”

  “Aye,” Fowler agreed, a dimple marring his sunken, wrinkled cheeks. “But you won’t.”

  Nay, he wouldn’t. And they knew it. Malcom removed his shirt and tossed it aside. Shucking out of his damp garments, he submerged his frame in the steaming water, slid under, and hurriedly scraped his hands through his hair.

  He was greeted with a flask under his nose. Malcom took a long swallow, then handed it over.

  “Ya ’ave to admit. This ’as been a bit of a surprise,” Bram noted, tenacious as a starved St. Giles pup with a bone tossed to the cobblestones.

  “What?” Malcom asked between tight lips.

  Fowler shrugged. “Well, it’s just it ain’t every day that ya bring back a foine one loike her and her foine talk . . . and let her into your rooms.”

  A fine one like her . . . and her fine talk . . .

  Malcom scrubbed the water from his eyes.

  “I’ve questions to put to her,” he said, unable to keep a defensive edge from creeping in.

  The other man snorted. “Ya’ve put questions to lots of women . . . lots of people before. Never done it in yar private suites.”

  Malcom washed the filth from his body. “This one is . . .” He clamped his lips closed. Different. She was—

  “Different?” Fowler drawled, taking another sip.

  Malcom rinsed off the soap. “Go to hell,” he muttered, earning a round of laughter from the old codgers.

  The mouthy former tosher tossed a towel to him, and Malcom caught it and wiped the water from his eyes. “And she’s got ya repeatin’ yarself? That ain’t loike ya. Over yar heels for a pretty piece.”

  She wasn’t a pretty piece. “This has nothing to do with . . .” The fact that she’d enormous siren’s eyes, eyes that had been filled with an innocence he’d believed to be mere fiction splashed upon the pages of literature. Or the way her wet gown had clung to her every curve.

  Fowler lifted a bushy brow.

  “We were set upon. And I’d have answers as to who was after her and what she was doing in my sewers.”

  Bram’s thick brows crept up a fraction, creasing that already heavily wrinkled forehead. “She was in the sewers? That one?”

  Unease trickled in. Were the toshers truly incorrect in their skepticism? As a rule, Malcom didn’t trust anyone.

  “Aye.” Precisely. “Fowler, get the hell out so I can enjoy a moment’s peace.” And so the old man could get some proper rest. No good could come from him being on his still-unsteady feet.

  The battered tosher levered himself to a standing position.

  Malcom frowned. He wasn’t careless. It was a charge that had never been leveled at him . . . in large part because he’d no people that he called friends or family. In larger part because he was nothing if not cautious at every turn. Or he had been. “Bram—”

  “Oi’m already headed up there now,” he assured him, not bothering to look back. “Oi’ll stand guard until ya’re ready for her.”

  Malcom hurried through the remainder of his bath so that he might seek out the enigmatic Miss Verity Lovelace and determine what in hell a woman like her was doing in a place like the rookeries.

  Chapter 7

  THE LONDONER

  FROM BEGGAR TO EARL . . . !

  There have been reports that since he was kidnapped, the Earl of Maxwell survived on the streets by begging . . . It is hard to expect any such person might fit in within the world of Polite Society . . .

  M. Fairpoint

  Verity remained motionless l
ong after the man—North—had brought the panel shut behind him.

  Heart hammering, she pressed her cold, bloodstained palms against the door, and borrowed support from the frame. And concentrated on drawing in slow, steadying breaths.

  Since her parents’ deaths, she’d prided herself on the life she’d made as a reporter. She’d conducted research and crafted stories that society had craved more of. But those? The men and women whom she’d written of in her articles . . . they had all been people of the peerage. Their lives largely comfortable with the exception of scandals that, though interesting on-dits, had not been dangerous. In short, her work, and that which had gone into it, all had been safe.

  Turning, Verity rested her back against the panel and hugged her arms around her middle, bunching the muslin fabric of a quality she’d enjoyed only long, long ago when her father had been alive and there had been funds to attire his by-blow daughter in fine garments. She took in the rooms belonging to Mr. North—her prison?

  She’d nearly been drowned, eaten by sewer rats, and then set upon by a stranger. And by the weapons he’d pointed at her and Mr. North, there could be no doubting how that exchange would have gone—had it not been for Mr. North. He’d delivered her from certain peril. A panicky laugh bubbled past her lips. He’d delivered her from peril . . . this same man who’d placed a blade to her throat, demanding answers.

  Who was he? Hero or beast?

  Or was it possible for a man to be both a redeemer and monster, all rolled into one?

  Her gaze found the painting hanging near Mr. North’s bed, that gilded frame better suited to the articles her late father, the earl, had brought to Verity’s mother and personally hung about the modest cottage. The rendering upon that canvas, done in oils, captured a blissfully peaceful, bucolic country scene. It was an image so vivid and still so real.

  And yet, this . . . ruthless Mr. North hung that work here. In fact, now that her terror had receded to a disquiet she could control, Verity took in the other details of her surroundings. Of Mr. North’s rooms. His mahogany bed frame. His porcelain bath. The muslin he’d pulled from an extravagant walnut armoire with its beveled mirror and painted floral scene upon the heavily carved wood panels.

  Verity’s mind raced with questions. He wasn’t a tosher; so what was he? Who was he? He wasn’t her business. Any interest in him was irrelevant to the information she truly sought—nay, needed. So why was she unable to shake the countless questions tumbling around her mind?

  Verity wandered over to an exotic green-and-pink embroidered chessboard. Intrigued, she gripped her towel in one hand, and with the other picked up the pink queen. She ran her thumb along the contoured ribbing of that most powerful piece before setting it down.

  Verity did another sweep of the place she’d been brought to.

  How did such a man come to be in possession of such wealth? Furthermore . . . who was he, this man who prowled the streets in fine garments and spoke flawless King’s English, but carried himself with the ruthless ease of any London street tough?

  He’d gibed her at every turn, then tended to her injury. Granted, there’d been nothing warm about his ministrations; he’d been perfunctory, as methodical as a doctor tending a patient . . . And yet, he’d cared for her. And he’d not left her to fend for herself in the streets. Therefore, that surely said something about the stranger?

  Or mayhap you’re merely telling yourself that. Mayhap that was far easier than considering the possibility that she’d, in fact, traded one threat for another.

  Unable to shake those misgivings, Verity loosened her death grip on the dress North had given her and made her way to the bath.

  “A bath.” She exhaled those two words for the reverent prayer they were.

  Nay, not just any bath . . . not the tepid water at best, cold water at most, dunkings she suffered through in the name of cleanliness and hygiene. But rather, a bath that beckoned with steam that rose from the water like little puffs of white clouds.

  Verity warred with herself in a shamefully short battle before shucking the borrowed dress aside, and her soaking undergarments. Before logic screamed at the folly of climbing into a stranger’s—a strange man’s—bath, she stepped in.

  A blissful sigh spilled from her lips, and her eyes slid closed; the temperature of the water was so hot it nearly hurt. It did hurt. Her toes tingled, and those needlelike pricks radiated up the expanse of her legs. And she reveled in them. But it was the most glorious form of pain. The heat penetrated the chill left by the sewers.

  Verity sank into the water until it covered her shoulders.

  Then she closed her eyes and simply welcomed the warmth driving away the cold. The aches in her arms from descending into the tunnels eased.

  And for a moment, she allowed herself to forget that she was, in fact, in the home of a stranger who wielded a weapon with dangerous ease.

  Forget . . .

  Cursing, Verity sat up so quickly water sloshed over the edge of the tub.

  Bertha would be waiting.

  If she’d even remained when Verity failed to return.

  And Livvie would be beside herself.

  But neither could Verity return to them as she’d been, her face bloodied and the stench of the sewers clinging to her garments and person.

  And the man who’d sought to drag her off . . . and who undoubtedly would have if Mr. North had not intervened . . .

  Taking a deep breath, Verity slipped under the surface of the tub and soaked the dirty strands of her hair. She ran her fingers through the mud caked upon the tresses, and emerged, gasping for air. Wiping the water from her eyes, Verity searched for a bar of soap amongst the items that the hulking figure who’d come carrying the water must have set down at some point.

  Except . . .

  Going up on her knees, Verity peered at the peculiar item atop the towel, and then grabbed—

  “A bar of soap,” she whispered, sparing another glance at the door Mr. North had departed from, and then back once more to that finest of luxuries. She weighed the smooth item in her hand, turning it over. For not only was it a bar of soap, it was a clear one at that. Almost too glorious to use.

  Almost.

  Alas, the desire to scrub her body free of that filth overcame her reticence, and she dunked the soap and proceeded to lather herself from head to toe. The slightly bitter orange scent of the bergamot was crisply masculine, and yet so very preferable to London’s grime that streaked her skin and turned the white soap bubbles black. Returning the sudsy bar to the tray, Verity hurriedly rinsed. She inhaled deeply, then sank under the water; her ears immediately filled, the previous quiet becoming a muted, muffled ringing in her ears. She cleaned the soap from her hair, and emerged from the water.

  Even as the pull of regret was strong, Verity forced herself from the bath. Limping over to the neatly folded towel, she dried herself off, and then mindful Mr. North would return, she reached for the undergarments—and a blush instantly scorched her red as she took note of the details that had escaped her while Mr. North had been here and she’d clung to her gown to keep herself shielded from that piercing stare.

  Midnight-black lace—she turned the article over in her hands—delicate lace of the finest quality. A quality befitting one of means, and yet—her cheeks warmed—scandalous for the color . . . and the cut of the neckline. When presented with the option of donning the outrageous article or stepping into the filthy garments resting at the foot of the bath, she chose the former. Hurriedly, Verity tugged the chemise on. She smoothed it into place, taking in the ornamental crimson tie that wrapped about the middle, and ended in a bow at the juncture of her legs.

  Her stomach muscles tightened, bunching the fabric of the piece North had given her to wear. And just like that . . . all the reservations flooded to the surface. The reminder that he was a stranger. That she’d entered not only his household but also his bedrooms, and now, now wore shameful numbers only ever worn by a mistress.

  It was an un
derstanding Verity had from being the daughter of a woman who’d filled that very role for a man of power and influence.

  Once again, questions whirred and swirled about the identity of this man—she could not determine whether he was friend or foe.

  No man who put a blade to your chest would ever be considered friend.

  She shivered, the dread tripping along her spine having nothing to do with the cold. The same fear to grip her in the sewers found its way to the surface. For fine baths and soap and garments aside, there could be no doubting the man who went by the name North was dangerous. And along with that revelation, something else grounded her . . . those questions she carried about her unlikely savior.

  With hands that shook, Verity hurried into the dress and drew it overhead. It clung slightly to her bosom, but as she slid the garment into place, it proved an otherwise remarkable fit that one might have believed had been designed specifically for her.

  If gowns were designed for her.

  Which they had been . . . once upon a lifetime ago, when she’d been the cherished daughter of a lord, who’d lavished her with fancy ribbons and fineries. And slippers. Her eyes went to that luxury. She lunged for them, ignoring the pain that shot along her scraped feet, and scrambled into the delicate scraps. Her eyes slid closed at the bliss of the satin cushioning within.

  A quiet knock sounded at the door, and Verity jumped. “J-just a moment.” She made her legs move to the oak panel, and against all better judgment, she turned the lock to let the stranger . . . North . . . into his rooms.

  Framed in the doorway, he made no immediate move to enter. Rather, he eyed her through thick, dark lashes that obscured his gaze, and yet somehow she still managed to be seared by the directness of it. “May I?” It was a slightly mocking request, one that sought to illustrate the ridiculousness in him asking permission to enter his own chambers.

  And yet, they were his chambers, the place he slept. With an enormous bed situated in the center of the room. Verity’s fingers clenched and unclenched on the panel.