Chapter Thirteen

C hapter T hirteen

L ucy woke blissfully, if almost languorously, from sleep, stretching to her heart's content on the softest mattress she had ever lay on in her entire life. It certainly took a long time to pry her eyes open, when she was ready to do so. Faint images of her dreams flashed through her mind while her eyes tried to adjust to the dimness of the room and make sense of the shapes they saw.

She hadn't felt this luxurious upon waking… ever. Not once in her life before this.

And she wasn't living in any sort of luxury at the moment.

She smiled to herself as she recollected the night before—spending the entire evening with Tilda and Willow, laughing and learning card games, particularly ones with gambling, though they taught her how to cheat at them. They had indulged in the Belgian drinking chocolate and Parisian biscuits that Tilda had promised, and she had heard all sorts of stories from them both, none of which she was certain she could believe. They were simply too extraordinary, and yet there was an air of easiness and familiarity as they told the stories that made her wonder.

What time they had managed to decide it was time for bed, she could not have said. There were no clocks in the rooms that she had seen, and windows were minimal. The room she was in had very small windows just at the tops of the walls, and the morning light was streaming in quite brightly, even if the gaps weren't large enough for much effect.

Still, they allowed enough light for her to attest that it, indeed, was morning.

Which meant she ought to get out of bed.

But, oh, she could stay here forever. She wanted to stay here forever. Right here in this bed, knowing she was safe, in spite of her situation. Being this comfortable, this cozy, this delightfully snug and cuddled up in a way she might never be or feel again, without anyone or anything making demands on her time, was utter perfection, beyond even her most wild fantasies, and she had never been more loathe to leave any place in her life.

There was one little thing that could provoke her out of this cloud of heaven she had been sleeping in.

Breakfast.

She knew full well that Tilda would have decided on something marvelous for her breakfast. Not that Lucy was anything special, really, but because having a guest meant that Tilda herself could rationalize a marvelous breakfast. And she had promised Lucy something of the sort the night before, so she knew she was not thinking of it in vain.

Lucy yawned and forced herself to sit up, tousling her hair a little and sighing. "All good things must come to an end, I suppose."

On cue, there was a knock on the door.

"Come on, old girl," Willow called from the other side. "No trays here. Breakfast down the hall. Do you need help with your dress?"

"No, thank you!" Lucy replied, grinning. Once, she might have found dressing impossible by herself, but her time at Miss Masters's had made her quite comfortable in doing just about everything without a maid.

One of the benefits of a diminished style of living, she supposed.

Patting the soft bedding beneath her, Lucy sighed and pushed out of the bed, padding over to the corner of the room where her new clothing items were neatly set out. She shrugged out of her night shirt and picked up the pristine chemise, grinning again as she slipped into it. Stays and petticoat next, though both were a trifle awkward to fasten without another set of hands. Her dress was a simple, unimpressive green version of grey, and she secretly adored the color. She'd admitted as much to Tilda when she'd been pinned up for it, and Tilda promised to make her an evening gown in a similar shade to wear someday.

Then came the grey pinafore, which Tilda thought would help with Lucy's need for a more common appearance, and a simple blue redingote that looked secondhand for her outerwear. How in the world had Tilda managed to make a brand-new coat and have it look so used and worn by the time it was finished? Lucy shook her head as she tucked her arms into the sleeves, and then went to work on the simple stockings and boots for her feet.

When all that was done, she began the now habitual practice of plaiting her hair and twisting it into a low chignon of sorts, taking the few pins left for her and securing the mass of tendrils into place. It was how she always wore her hair to teach, and it had not failed her yet. There was no looking glass in the room, but she could tell by the way it felt against her scalp that it was properly affixed and wouldn't fall or slide without significant effort on her part, which was not anticipated.

But she hadn't talked to Hunter about the day's activities, so it was a possibility, she supposed.

She gasped a little as she thought of him. He had been gone all night, and she had forgotten about him until just now. She dashed to the door of the room, grabbing the redingote from the bed and hurrying out.

Had he found out anything about her father? Had any of his contacts reported in positively for them? Had anything of use actually come of the evening? Had he been in any danger?

Her step slowed as she considered that, her mouth going dry.

Had he been in danger? Was there any chance that he had been wounded? Was he even back?

Her feet began to scramble forward, her heart in her throat, and moved down the corridor as fast as she could go. No exact room had been given for breakfast, but perhaps it would be the same place as supper the night before? Food was the last thing on her mind right now, though. She needed to see Hunter and assure herself that he was safe and well, and perhaps then she would find her hunger again.

Lucy's eyes darted along each of the doors she passed, and her feet skidded on the floor when she finally found the breakfast room, as it were. Willow was seated there, sipping something steaming in a teacup, her plate laden with pork, eggs, and toast with marmalade. She saw Lucy and smiled, setting her teacup down. "Come in!" she called. "There's plenty!"

She did so, looking around the room, but only finding Tilda and two other women.

Lucy bit her lip as she moved to fetch her plate of breakfast. "Has anyone seen or heard from Hunter? I mean, Trick. Has anyone heard from Trick this morning?"

Tilda's brows rose, and she folded her silk shawl around her more tightly as she cradled a steaming cup at the head of the table. "I have. The man smelled dreadfully, even for me, and I sent him off for a wash and a shave. Amazing to think he could walk back here at all, given the stench of such alcohol. And I will not tell you what else he smelled of, but it is not something to be experienced again." Her eyes widened meaningfully, and she shook her head, exhaling in a huff. "He will be along shortly, I have no doubt. Men always are when there is food."

The offhand, almost short, manner in which this report was given did little to assuage Lucy's concerns, but it did lower her panic and allow her hunger to push through. Surely, if Hunter had been injured, Tilda would have mentioned it.

Blood would have to come before a poor smell, would it not?

But Tilda was watching her carefully, and Lucy did not dare make her think more of the question than she already would. So she returned her attention to the food and carefully filled her plate enough to be appropriate, but not enough to draw comment.

It reminded her of being at home with her father.

"Coffee, tea, or chocolate?" one of the other women asked her kindly, gesturing to the three teapots nearby.

Lucy's stomach lurched left at the idea of anything. "Tea," she said in a rush, though she would probably kick herself later for not indulging in chocolate once more when she could have tea anytime she wished in her life. But she needed something simple to drink at this moment, if she wished to drink anything at all. Or to appear to drink anything, as it were. She had to keep herself above suspicion until she could get the answers that would return her sanity and calm, if not control.

He was here. She let herself be consoled in that. The plan would still go forward with her staying in his protection until they had enough information to return her home, wherever that was. He would undoubtedly check on her as soon as he could, and if Tilda hadn't made him clean himself up, he would probably be doing so now.

Odd that she should feel so concerned and protective over her protector, considering how little she had thought of or about him the night before while they had been having a lovely and enjoyable evening. She hadn't dreamed of him or anything, hadn't grown fonder of or fanciful about him, and certainly hadn't been thinking whimsically about any sort of a future with him, but suddenly she couldn't—wouldn't—feel right or whole until she saw him for herself.

It was an unnerving feeling, to say the least.

"How did you sleep, my dear?" Tilda asked Lucy as she set her plate on the table and began to sit.

Lucy managed a smile and a swallow as she scooted in her chair. "Like heaven, as it happens. I was more than willing to stay there forever, but the prospect of breakfast was very appealing."

Tilda chuckled in her warm, natural way. "Let it never be said that the wealthy and influential in Society have everything better than the rest of us."

"Hear, hear," one of the women said with a wry, scratchy laugh as she raised a piece of toast in salute.

Lucy didn't have to work so hard for her smile at that. She knew all too well that there was plenty lacking in the lives of the wealthy and influential, or those who could appear wealthy and influential, and she had never seen any person so content and satisfied as Tilda was. Whatever life Tilda led, she adored it, and there was a natural enviousness beginning to bud in Lucy's heart about that.

Freedom was difficult for a woman in her station, unless one were born independently wealthy or widowed from someone wealthy. Lucy had neither, and thus was susceptible to the plans and whims of others to guide her life.

Perhaps if her father continued to lower them in station and standing, Lucy could be more independent as a teacher and distance herself from him. She would need to speak to some kind of solicitor about that. What power her father held over her was unclear, and if she was permitted to go her own way at her age…

She would need to find her father in order to find his solicitor, and at the present, she was perfectly content to remain where she was.

Carefully cutting into her pork, Lucy focused on keeping her expression vacant and on looking like she was enjoying her breakfast. After all, once she was with Hunter out and about in London, there was no guarantee that she would enjoy a decent meal.

"Your new clothing suits you, Lucy," Willow said with a quick grin. "How do you like it?"

Lucy took a bite of her breakfast and swallowed with a smile. "It is remarkably comfortable. You are quite gifted, Tilda."

Tilda inclined her head as though the compliment was simply her due. "Thank you. It is functional as well. You will find pockets in the skirts. A woman should always have pockets at her disposal, regardless of the garment."

"What am I supposed to put in the pockets?" Lucy asked, thinking the idea one of the more ridiculous ones she'd ever heard.

"Whatever you like, my dear," came the laughing reply. "A handkerchief, some spare coins, a knife." Tilda shrugged and sipped her drink. "That fan with a blade hidden in its spine would fit nicely in such a pocket, if I do say so myself."

"I keep toffees in my pockets," one of the other women offered helpfully.

"I knew a woman who kept a spare pair of stockings in her pockets," someone else said. "She was always finding holes in hers."

"My sister likes to keep a bit of charcoal pencil in her pockets. And some paper, just in case she wants to draw."

"My neighbor's pockets are filled with whatever she can pick from the pockets of others."

The room went silent as they all looked at the young woman.

She met all of their eyes without shame. "I've told her to stop, but she refuses. What else can I do?"

Lucy shook her head, marveling at the differences in something so simple as pockets between the classes of women. What was not obvious to her was clearly a staple of the wardrobe of these women, and nothing could have illustrated the differences between them in such a blatant fashion. Pockets, for heaven's sake. She could see the use of them, of course, but pockets were for coats or aprons in her world. And rarely used when they were in coats, given she always had a reticule.

Dresses with pockets. What a new world she was going to inhabit now.

"I'd stuff scones and cakes in the pockets of my gowns. Just saying."

The rumbling, bemused voice made Lucy's heart leap, and she looked at the entrance to the room with a bright smile.

Hunter stood there, hair dark with dampness, surveying the room with the sort of ease and comfort one might have done with one's own family. His eyes caught Lucy's, and his smile spread as he nodded briefly.

"Ugh," Tilda scoffed. "Men." She waved her hand towards the food. "Get yourself some breakfast, for heaven's sake. You're so ridiculous on an empty stomach."

Hunter's eyes flicked to the woman in response, and he moved obediently to the food without another word.

Lucy watched him as though her life depended on it. Her eyes traced over every single aspect of him without shame, looking for injury or dishevelment, any hint of trouble that he might portray. The slightest limp or guarding motion, halting movements, winces, grimaces, bruising… She looked for absolutely anything that was out of place in, on, or around him.

As though he could feel her eyes on him, Hunter glanced over his shoulder directly at her. He raised a brow, no doubt curious about her blatant staring and lack of embarrassment over doing so.

She only continued to stare, waiting for him to give some indication one way or another as to his condition or his night. Any bit of information would do, and she was certainly entitled to that.

Surely, he ought to know that.

He seemed to be fighting a smile as he resumed fixing his plate, and Lucy did not understand that. What could possibly be so amusing about this situation? How could he be laughing at her right now? It was not only rude, but remarkably inconsiderate.

She could feel the tension in her brow as she continued to watch him, wondering if one could injure the brow by excessive force.

As though determined to test her question about her fiercely furrowed brow, Hunter took a seat at the table far enough away from her to make private conversation impossible and where her continued focus would be noticed by anyone around them with the power of observation.

His tiny smile as he did so told Lucy he knew exactly what he was doing and was taking great pleasure in it.

Perhaps Tilda would take on a murder plot on Lucy's behalf today. She had no money to give her for the crime, but she was sure she could come up with something.

Despite her focused glare and concentrated fury at him, Hunter did not so much as glance in her direction even once as he pointedly ate his breakfast.

Death was going to reach this man rather quickly once they were separated from witnesses.

Moodily, Lucy returned her attention to her own meal, deciding that the infuriating man was clearly well enough to not be deserving of her care and consideration, let alone her attention. If he were unwell, he would have looked it, and been less of a devil in his behavior towards her. If he had learned anything that would be useful to her in the course of his evening, he would surely have said something right away, as he claimed to be a gentleman.

But then, it was entirely possible that he was no such thing, and thus could hold any information that might concern her to only release when he felt like it. He could tell her tomorrow, if he liked. He could tell her never, if he liked.

And apparently, he did like, and wouldn't tell her anything one way or another until his mood persuaded him to.

She might as well enjoy her food, then. He certainly wasn't going to give her anything to enjoy for the rest of the day. Would it be dreadfully improper to ask Tilda if she could stay here instead? After all, being alone with a man wasn't proper for a woman of any station. It was a far better option for her reputation, as well as her sanity, to remain where she was while Hunter figured out where her father was.

Surely, no one would mind that.

"What is your plan for the day, Trick?" Tilda asked from the head of the table. "Where will you and Lucy go?"

Lucy blinked at being mentioned, then again when she realized Tilda's insinuation that she would be leaving at some point.

So much for remaining here, then. Blast.

Lucy stabbed at a piece of pork and shoved it into her mouth, clearly not needed for this conversation, and not entirely caring what answer Hunter gave on the subject. In fact, she concentrated hard on the sounds of her own chewing rather than the sound of his voice, and it was working. His words were only a faint murmuring at the moment, like the babble of a brook she didn't quite care about.

Wherever he decided to take her, she would simply go, making whatever noises she pleased regardless of how he felt on the subject, and only smiling when she reached her father's house.

Of course, even in her present ire, she knew that was wrong. She wouldn't enjoy returning to her father's house. Her personal belongings had escaped with the carriage, and whatever her father had of hers at his new residence could hardly be sentimental to her. She had learned long ago not to leave valuables unattended, which was why most of them were at the school and not anywhere her father could reach.

But at the moment, she found the prospect of returning to his house less irksome than spending the day with the maddening man intentionally sitting apart from her and avoiding giving her any information when it was clear she wished for it. How could a person as perceptive, quick, and handsome as he also be the most irritating creature she had ever met?

Ridiculous man.

"They're talking about you, Lucy, you know," the woman next to her whispered with a nudge of her elbow.

Lucy raised a brow, keeping her eyes on her plate. "Well aware. But if I give them attention, they will only get worse."

"Dunno about that, I think Hyde Park sounds lovely."

Lucy jerked and looked at the woman in surprise, ignoring the pox scars and scanning her features for any sign of jest instead.

She found none.

Reluctantly, but with some curiosity, Lucy slid her attention down the other end of the table to Hunter, forcing her ears to tune in.

"Hyde Park," Tilda was saying, snorting loudly. "And be mistaken for street hawkers who have lost their way? Who in the world would think you both belong in Mayfair dressed as you are?"

"Other people go to Hyde Park than just the ton, Tilda," Hunter told her. "We'll just be deferential."

The older woman waved her hand at him in the most patronizing manner possible. "Idiot. Don't blame me if you both get insulted. What else?"

"Well, since the evening was a loss for information on her father, I thought we might try another tactic and go see Hal." He shrugged his broad shoulders, apparently feeling he'd said enough, as no other explanation followed.

Now, Tilda looked outright alarmed. "You don't think that's taking a terrible risk?"

"What's risky about it?" he shot back. "We need a picture of the man at this point to get Lucy home, and there's nothing dangerous at Hal's for her."

"Risky for you, Trick. Honestly, you can be so dense." Tilda shook her head rather pointedly and sipped her beverage, brow creasing so deeply Lucy was a little taken aback. "Risking your neck, going there, if you ask me. If you need Lucy to see Hal, have someone else take her."

"No, it has to be me," he said simply. "And it will be fine. And if it's not fine, I'll have Lucy brought back here to you. She can hide among your fabrics until the coast is clear." He chuckled to himself, though the joke seemed to be lost on the rest of them.

Lucy looked back and forth between them, the real concern in Tilda's face raising all sorts of questions in her mind, and the utter disregard for that concern in Hunter's face creating even more havoc in her mind.

Tilda huffed loudly. "At least tell me that risking yourself in such a way will also benefit your own tasks? I'll not have you sacrifice yourself for something else."

Something else being Lucy and her father? Was she really so small in comparison to whatever it was Hunter was doing? She felt no self-pity at the idea; it was rather more awestruck than that.

Hunter's smile for Tilda was rather warm, all things considered. "It will. I have several questions that need answers, and between Hal and Sphinx, I will have the resources I need to get them."

"At least send a note to Weaver that you're going," Tilda suggested, her tone turning almost pleading. "For my peace of mind."

Hunter's eyes rolled heavenward. "You may send him a note, Tilda, if you wish. Tell him whatever you please. I'm still taking Lucy there later."

Still not addressed by either of the parties involved, and still not having an explanation that seemed to make sense to anyone else at the table, there wasn't much else to do but drink her tea, wishing she had opted for chocolate, and wait for her opinion to be requested.

If it ever was.

"Do you feel a little like one of those small dogs that ladies carry around when they gad about London?" the woman to Lucy's left asked her with a small giggle. "No say in anything, but still forced to endure whatever excursions their mistress has in mind?"

Lucy choked a laugh on her tea, swallowed, then very carefully said, "Woof."

Their snickering earned them a stern look from Tilda, but thankfully, nothing further.

"I'll find you a lovely collar before you go," her new friend whispered. "Our little secret."

Feeling a little brighter, loving nothing so well as a good private joke, Lucy nodded and resumed her breakfast with a smile she did not have to force.