Chapter 28

CHAPTER 28

" I have dismissed the servants," Lucien explained, once the child was bathed, wounds tended, then put to bed in yet another one of his shirts. "I intend to examine you myself, make certain you are not hurt. Sometimes, in heightened excitement, one does not feel pain until the crisis is over."

He led her to the chair beside the fire and she sank down, wincing, her gown smudged, lawn undergarments peeking through rents in the fabric. "Nothing but a few scrapes and bruises, I'm sure," she said, "but I am glad to have you here. I have never been so frightened."

He knelt, slipped off her shoes one by one, then rolled down her stockings seeing a crescent-shaped bruise, likely from someone's bootheel, some scrapes where someone in the crowd had bumped her as they tried to get away. Her skin was warm as he gently felt the bones in her foot, her ankle, her calf. Satisfied that nothing was broken, he urged her to a standing position, unfastening her gown with deft fingers. As he peeled away the layers of cloth, he found more bruises on the creamy white skin, a long, raw scrape marred her left side—from the jagged edge of Sibby Rose's shattered box, perhaps?

When she was naked, He traced the outline of the abrasion with his fingertip, his voice low, rough. "God, when I think about what could have happened when you disappeared in the crowd…."

"I knew you would find us."

Her faith in him made his gut clench, and he knew he would fight his way through lions to reach her.

"Sibby Rose is so little…," Grace said, a catch in her voice. "I tried to shield her…"

"You did." He kissed her bare shoulder. "The child's wounds will heal in no time."

But would Grace's? Lucien wondered. She'd nearly been trampled, experienced violence unlike anything she'd ever seen.

He drew the pins from her hair one by one, her silky locks tumbling over his hands. Gently, he felt her scalp for any lumps or abrasions.

"I fear the cuts will sting when you get in the water, but they must be cleaned."

He took her hand and led her to the copper tub before the fire. The water was still steaming. He held her hand to help her balance as she stepped in, and she gave a soft moan of pleasure as she sank down in the hot water. Lucien rolled his sleeves up past his elbows, he scooped soft, jasmine scented soap into his hands and smoothed it over her skin. He had never performed such a task. Her drawn-up knees were like little islands in the sudsy water, and he noticed bruises darkening the creamy flesh. She must have fallen hard to hurt herself through all of those petticoats.

"Mmm." She closed her eyes and leaned her head back on the rim of the tub as he skimmed a cloth over every inch of her, his little finger straying off to brush the silky, damp skin. He had only ever seen his mistresses after they'd been polished and pinned and rouged to perfection. Never this way. Like Eve in Eden, naked and tousled and so very vulnerable. The slopes of her lovely breasts were just visible, her nipples a mere hint beneath a crest of foam. He couldn't resist lingering over them, his cock hardening beneath the fastenings of his trousers. He wished he could wash away the memories of the altercation at the Theater Royal from her mind as well. Freyne's insinuations, the ugly shouts of the mob, stones and rubbish hurtling through air thick with danger.

And the sudden stomach-churning fear that he wouldn't reach her in time.

"Shall I wash your hair?"

She looked up at him, smiling. "No. I am too tired to dry it by the fire. Perhaps another time."

Lucien felt a jolt of desire at the prospect that there would be another time. He imagined slipping into the tub behind her, cradling her naked body between his legs. Soaping each other languidly until the fire they kindled became too hot. But tonight was for Grace alone.

"As you wish," he said softly, then retrieved the towel warming by the hearth. He helped her from the tub, her skin was rosy with heat, a few stray froths of suds clinging to her breasts and the curve of her hip.

He dried her with a tenderness he hadn't known he possessed. Every scrape and bruise sickened him. He wanted to press his lips to them, cover her with his body, protect her.

But she seemed so fragile as he slipped a nightgown thin as mist over her head. The fabric cascaded down her lissome body, and a wave of scent drifted up to him—jasmine, fresh, clean cotton, and that scent that was Grace's alone. He brushed out her long hair then guided her toward the bed.

"Will you hold me?" she asked softly.

Lucien swallowed hard. It stunned him to realize there was nothing he wanted—no, needed— more.

He turned back the bedcovers, and she slid beneath them, her hair soft on the pillow. He tucked the warm coverlet over her and stood beside the bed. He pulled off his boots, then stripped off his damp shirt and trousers still smudged with dirt from the night's misadventures, leaving only his drawers in place.

He gathered her into his arms. She nestled against him, resting her cheek on his bare shoulder, her breath warm on his chest. The sigh she let out was pure trust, and she melted into him.

"I was afraid something would happen to you," she said softly.

"Me? I was not the one battling the crowd to shield an errant flower girl. You were quite brave."

"Lucien…I—I heard one of the mob yelling something…"

He tried not to reveal the foreboding that trickled down his spine. "And what was that?"

"Someone shouted ‘Find Everdene,'" she said.

This was the second time someone had struck out at him specifically. Someone with a particular grudge, no doubt, but who? The house of Harcourt had crimes enough laid to its score during his father's time. And Lucien had made enemies of his own.

What if the rioter seeking him had realized Grace was his wife? The very thought sent a sliver of fear into his chest. Not wanting to worry Grace, he kissed the crown of her head. "Doubtless someone saw me enter the theater. It is naught to worry about."

"But it is! When I heard the rioters searching for you, feared they might injure you…I knew…"

He tightened his embrace, wanting to protect her from the world. "Knew what, sweet?"

She lifted her head, looked straight into his eyes with an expression that pierced him to the core. "This is not an arrangement anymore. Not for me. I love you, Lucien."

Something inside his chest leapt at those words, as if he had been starving to death and she had offered him life. As if he were stripped bare, overwhelmed by a rush of sensations too exquisite to bear. Elation. Anguish. Disbelief. Fear.

He knew how to take care of things . Business, estates, finances. People…he'd failed when they needed him most. Yet the tumult inside him wouldn't let him go. He remembered his promise to Cassandra, that he had vowed to live far, far away from at Everdene Hall. You have an estate in Lancashire …she'd said. That was not that far from Scotland after all.

"You must not…" Love me . He could not even say the words, the weight of the beliefs he'd carried his whole life pressing down on him. "I warned you not to…" Were those his words? Or were they a belief his father had instilled him? A lash of punishment Lucien had wielded on himself?

"We can't help who we love," she said, an angel's voice, inviting him to step out of his own hell.

He cupped her face in his hand, her cheek warm against his palm. His throat burned as if he'd swallowed thorns. He should tell her now. Tell her about the vow he'd made to take her far away from here, away from his sisters. Confess. But all he could say was, "You are…precious to me."

She smiled, softly, a little sadly. "I love you, Lucien," she breathed again, the words searing into him. "Don't leave me tonight."

He lay awake, holding her until her breathing rose and fell, soft in sleep. Stayed until the fire became a glow of embers. Could a man learn how to love the way he learned to ride a horse or play faro? he asked himself as dawn squeezed through the break in the draperies.

God help him, he would try.

Taking his wife into the Seven Dials was a decidedly bad idea, despite an armed coachman, a brace of brawny footmen and the pistol Lucien had tucked in his coat pocket. He had sent a rider ahead to make certain the violence from the night before had ended, but resentment still thickened the air like the miasma of smells that assaulted the senses: unwashed bodies, open sewers, rotted food and despair.

Avid faces stared at the coach as it squeezed down the narrow streets, shops and street vendors selling secondhand wares to the ragged denizens of the rookery. The Old Curiosity Shop could have been any one of them, and Grace's words echoed in his head. There are Little Nells all over London. They just have names like Sibby Rose …

He glanced across the coach to where his wife sat in a soft blue day dress, Sibby Rose dozing on her lap. The child's little frock had been washed and pressed, a clean white bandage wrapping her head. Even so, angry bruises were visible beyond the strip of linen, the fragile skin beneath her eye purpling.

When the coach reached the location Sibby Rose had given them, the street barely wide enough to allow entry, Lucien rapped on the roof of the coach to signal the driver to stop. "Wait here," he warned Grace, checking the pistol in his coat pocket.

A footman opened the door and Lucien stepped out onto the filthy street.

A woman with a face like a shriveled apple squinted up at him. "Well, if it isn't another swell slinkin' round. Lookin' fer a bawdy house or a gaming hell to lose a fortune? Or did ye just come t' gawp an' laugh at us like animals in a cage?"

While Lucien was doing nothing of the sort, he couldn't help the swift feeling of shame. God knew, misery always drew crowds—hangings at Tyburn, houses made famous by grisly crimes or famous criminals who once lived there, asylums where the quality entertained themselves by gawking at the wretched inmates. His father dragged him on such an excursion once to frighten him, no doubt, warning that melancholia was overtaking his mother…

He shoved the gut-wrenching memory away. "Can you direct me to the Nolan family. I've brought their daughter here. The little flower seller."

"Yer got Sibby Rose? Moira's been tearing up the neighborhood since she didn't come home last night. The last thing she needs, with her husband up and gone." The woman's eyes sparked with disdain. "Won't believe what the rest of us know. Darragh Nolan is not comin' back. Come along, an' I'll take ye there."

Lucien, thinking she could full well be leading him into some sort of trap to be robbed, was a bit surprised when the old woman made a clucking sound with her tongue, her expression one of compassion. He glanced over to see Grace already framed in the carriage door, the little girl in her arms.

Though he wanted to take the child from Grace as he helped her disembark, Sibby Rose looked so comfortable there, so secure…God, what would it be like to feel so damned…safe? Was that what Grace would look like with his child one day? The babe that might even now be growing in her womb? He felt a sting of panic at the possibility.

The old woman rapped sharply on a nearby door. "Moira, some swells got Sibby Rose here."

A woman flung open the door, saw her daughter and Grace, then rushed at them. Lucien could taste her fear and the flood of relief as she tearfully cried out, then stopped, as if too afraid to approach. "Sibby! Oh, Sibby!"

She had been beautiful once, he guessed, her face heart-shaped, her wide green eyes and glowing coppery hair like her daughter's. But hunger and worry had etched deep lines in her skin and sharpened her cheek bones. Those traits, a stark contrast to the sprinkling of freckles dusting her nose, which made her look more like Sibby Rose's sister than a mother barely holding her family together.

A boy older than Sibby, but just as spindly, wedged his way through the door and glared at Lucien. "What have you done to my sister? Run her over in the street?"

"Robert!" the mother cried.

Young Robert put hands on hips. "Why else would they have her?"

"There was a riot last night," Lucien explained. "She was hurt, so we carried her out of the mob." He wanted to get his wife away from here, but Grace carried the girl inside. He followed her in, taken aback by what he saw. He had seen poverty before as he traveled the city streets and on farms struggling through bad times. But he'd never stepped inside such poor quarters. This was unlike anything he'd ever witnessed. Rush lights gave a faint, oily glow to the single, cramped room. It was dark, what passed for a window boarded up and covered with scraps of old newsprint. Even so, Lucien could see that what little was there was as clean as possible. Carefully mended clothes far too large for anyone there dried on a rack drawn up by a rope to the ceiling. A kettle hung on the hearth. Three chairs, a lone bedstead, and a scarred table were crowded into the room.

"Mammy?" Sibby Rose's little voice broke in.

Mrs. Nolan bent over her. " Mo chroi , oh, treasure, are you well?"

"My head aches."

At that moment, there was a blur of motion from a nest of rags beside the hearth. Worried eyes lit up as they locked on Lucien. "Dado!" Scrap squealed. He ran over, trying to scale Lucien's leg like a kitten escaping a hound. There was nothing for it but to disentangle the boy before he tore the fabric.

"Scrap!" the oldest Nolan boy shouted. "Get off him, ye daft bugger!"

Something about Robert Nolan's disgust brought out the contrariness in Lucien and he lifted little Darragh into his arms.

"Robert, stop yer yellin'," Sibby said. "These're the nobs I tol' ye about—the gent 'at pulled Scrap down from the statue and the lady who gave me my ribbon."

"Well, we got ye home, so they can go now." Robert jutted his chin up at Lucien. "It's hard enough around here without folks thinkin' some milor' is tupping me ma."

"Robert Nolan!" his mother said, her voice sharp. She turned toward Lucien, her cheeks red. "Your worship, he doesn't mean it."

"Ye know full well I do." He balled his hands into fists. "Swells come around here only after one thing! Ye can't have Sibby Rose, or me ma!"

Lucien had always loathed the idea of how vulnerable women were in such situations, ripe for procurers should they become desperate. But now that he had met Sibby Rose and Moira Nolan, those women and children had a face, a voice…The thought suddenly hit home. He could feel Sibby Rose in his arms as he carried her to the coach, picture Sibby Rose at Raven's Court, Grace brushing and freshly plaiting the tangle of coppery hair and tying the end with the cherished red ribbon. The child was such winsome little thing with her pointed chin, rosebud mouth and eyes that did something strange to Lucien's chest.

Moira's eyes darted fearfully to Lucien. "My lad, he means no harm, your worship. Listens too much to troublemakers at the factory."

"Robert, is that your name?" Grace inquired in a voice that might soothe an injured fox. "This is the Viscount Everdene and I am his wife, Lady Grace. Perhaps you've glimpsed me when you let out from Sunday School. I have seen Sibby Rose waiting for you there."

"Got better things t' do than gawk at ladies who shriek when I brush by their dress. And what's that have t' do with Sibby not coming home?"

Grace, unperturbed, continued on, "Your sister was alone, in the midst of a violent mob. We took her to our home until the streets quieted down for her own safety, and then brought her here, that is all." She turned to a drawing in a crude homemade frame at the mantel, a rosary draped over it. A man's face. It was the work of an obviously untrained artist, but the natural gift was evident and compelling. A man of about thirty years, with a shock of dark hair and a scar on his chin.

"Is this your father?"

"Aye," Robert said.

"Sibby mentioned he is away at present."

Mrs. Nolan lovingly touched the worn rosary adorning the sketch. "He'll be back any time now, my Darragh."

"Where is he?" Grace asked.

She stared at the drawing a moment more, before looking at Grace. "Saw a strapper whipping a child at the factory. Couldn't bear it and interfered. They fired him."

Grace's eye widened as she turned to Lucien.

Young Robert curled his lip in disgust. "Even that weren't enough for 'em. Put out the word so naught in London would hire me da."

Lucien looked at the picture of Darragh Nolan, wondering if he'd simply left his family to search for work so they could survive. Or had he deserted them like the old woman said?

Grace moved beside him, examining the drawing as well. "I have to admit…he looks a bit like you."

"Aye, if ye strangled him in one o' those stupid neckcloths an' made 'im look like a peacock," Robert sneered.

The similarities were a trifle disconcerting, but then, it might have been any one of a hundred other dark-haired men in London. However, to a little boy, longing for a father he didn't remember, it was enough.

"Darragh's friend Tom O'Malley drew it," Moira said. "He's a fair hand with capturing likenesses, when he can get the paper."

Robert thrust out his thin chest. "O'Malley doesn't need to be muckin' about here either. I've got things well in hand."

Lucien felt a pang, seeing the boy trying to be the man of the house.

"Do you, now?" Moira Nolan scolded, not unkindly. She brushed a limp curl away from her forehead. "We're lucky to have Tom's help, Robert." Then, to Lucien, added, "The three of us grew up together in Connemara. He and my husband worked together on the railroad up north for a while before coming here. When my husband lost his job at the factory, Tom wrote a letter for Darragh to give to a foreman in a mine up near Glasgow. Said there was no steadier hand at blasting than my Darragh."

Another possible explanation for the father's absence, Lucien thought as he adjusted Scrap in his arms. The mines lost so many men on the job that they were always looking for someone else to send into the warren of caves beneath the ground. One misstep, cave in, or explosion, and no one would ever know.

There was a flurry of noise in the street, then Lucien's footman, Wells, shouting as a man shoved his way through the door.

Wells was a step behind him. "Sorry, my lord. He just pushed his way past."

"Moira! There's a carriage out front…" The man's face could have been a map of Ireland. He looked like he'd been dragged through hell. "God, tell me Sibby's not…"

"It's all right, Wells," Lucien told his servant. "Wait outside." Whoever the Irishman was, he obviously knew the family. He saw Sibby Rose on the bed and rushed over to where the child sat. "Jaysus, Mary and Joseph," he cried, taking in the swath of bandages around her head, "how bad is she hurt?"

"They say she'll be fine," Mrs. Nolan said, with a nod toward Lucien and Grace.

The man wheeled on Sibby Rose, his relief changed to anger. "What the devil were you thinking, girl? I've turned over half o' London lookin' for you! Ye promised t' leave for home when the crowd went in after intermission!"

"I waited 'til the play was over to see my lady. She's my friend."

"No lady is your friend!" O'Malley all but spat the word. "Jaysus, girl, when I heard some nob scooped you up in a coach, I thought you'd be locked in some bawd's house an' we'd never find ye! What the devil happened?"

"The angry men came an' knocked me over and hit me in the head. My box broke an' the strap got all tangled and I couldn't get loose. Then my lady was there and put her arms around me, and people were bumping her and stepping on her an' tryin' t' run right over me, but she wouldn't let them." Her voice broke, then she turned a wary gaze toward Lucien. "He grabbed me up an' next I knowed I was in a coach."

Scrap had found the chain to Lucien's pocket watch, and pulled the timepiece free, his chubby hands opening it and closing it.

The Irishman spun to glare at Lucien, no hint of deference in his eyes. "Who the devil are ye?"

"Lord Everdene. My wife became acquainted with the children through one of young Darragh's misadventures. She was going to speak to Sibby Rose just before the mob overran Drury Lane. We thought it best to take the child to our townhouse until it was safe to bring her here."

If anything, O'Malley looked as if he trusted them less.

"They've a house big as a castle," Sibby piped up, "An' a bed with curtains, an' my lady teaches me letters…S is a snake and I is a candle?—"

"See, Bippy Wo? Pwitty." Scrap dangled the watch toward his sister. "See?"

O'Malley's gaze flashed to the boy, and his gaze locked on the gleaming gold. "For Christ's sake, Scrap!" he swore, stalking over and pulling the child out of Lucien's grasp.

"Dado!" Scrap flailed, reaching for Lucien, but O'Malley held fast to the child.

"Let go o' the bauble." O'Malley pried the watch out of the little hand. "Next y' know this swell will be tellin' the Charlies you pinched it!"

"The devil I would," Lucien replied, the child's wails raking his nerves.

The man thrust the watch at Lucien. "You're not needed here. You're not wanted here. Take this and go back to where you came from."

Gritting his teeth, Lucien took the timepiece, returning it to his waistcoat pocket.

Grace extended her hand in a placating gesture. "Mr. O'Malley, I fear you misunderstand?—"

"Oh, I understand quite well. The famous Lord Everdene. In the broadsheets, aren't ye? One more rich bastard tramplin' workin' folk under yer boot. But we'll get what we want sooner or later. Give us voice in parliament or we'll take it from your hands. It matters not a damn to me."

O'Malley smoothed one half of his worn coat to the side and laid his hand on something that gleamed above the waist of his baggy trousers. Lucien's gaze locked on the worn, battered butt of a pistol.

A threat or a warning? He thought of the news article, the branch of Chartists willing to resort to violence. Was O'Malley one of them?

Lucien felt the weight of his own pistol. Was O'Malley merely trying to survive in this hell hole? Or was he something more?