Chapter 2

Two

M en were devils. Lady Alexandra had stopped crying an hour ago and slept soundly now, her head nestled on Lucy's shoulder. Poor girl. Lucy hadn't gotten much out of her except that she was engaged to a man triple her age and seduced by another who'd disappeared after she'd given herself up to him. The girl was bruised, too.

See? Devils. Particularly aristocratic men. A scourge upon humanity.

No wonder Lady Alexandra had cried until she'd run out of tears. And to think, Mr. and Mrs. Beckett, the owners of Hawthorne House, didn't want titled ladies there.

She patted the girl's shoulder and looked across the way at her friend and accomplice. "Peggy, did you get her valise?"

"Naturally." The former actress sniffed. "How many valises have I yanked from rose-decorated rooms over the years?"

"Many, I'm sure."

Peggy nodded. Then giggled. "There's going to be a duel this morning. In Green Park. I heard whispers about it in the stables. Can we stop by and see it before heading back to the house?"

Lucy had heard that bit of gossip, too, tumbling from drunken lips in the room right next to Lady Alexandra's, muffled by the wall, but clear enough. Lady Alexandra's brother had need of a pistol to meet a man in Green Park, and his mistress would rather him stay abed. Apparently even the peerage possessed thin walls.

"No time for that," Lucy said.

"There's always time for drama," Peggy sighed.

"Not when we have a vulnerable charge to carry to safety."

"You're no fun. Not like your sister-in-law. She could have done well on the stage. You won't even dress in men's garb." Peggy sighed. "You'd cut an excellent figure in pants and a waistcoat. And your brother would surely allow you to borrow a greatcoat."

"I prefer my gowns, thank you." They fit her hips better than trousers, allowed for greater movement, particularly with the large slit she'd hemmed up the side of her voluminous skirts. Gowns were simply… prettier. She'd abandoned most of her frivolous self years ago, but not this bit. This inch of girlish Lucy she kept for herself—silks and satins, ribbons and tiny, perfect buttons in a row.

She picked at the split hem of her skirt. She'd lined it with a ribbon the same color of the gown. It added texture and depth, and something to fidget with when trying to order her mind.

There was much to consider. A new lady at the house always meant a variety of things. A visit from her brother, Dr. Jones, to ensure good health, the construction of a list of necessities for the new inhabitant, and the consideration of what kind of life she would like to pursue after leaving their safe haven. Lucy liked that part of her work best: listening to the ladies talk about their hopes and dreams, doing what she could to turn those dreams into reality. Nothing better.

"Lucy." Something hesitant in Peggy's usually boisterous voice sent a ripple of unease down Lucy's spine. Peggy was looking out the window, tapping lightly on the glass. "I've something I need to tell you."

"Oh?"

"I'll not be doing this much longer."

"What do you mean by this ?"

"Kidnapping the women."

" Saving the women."

"Yes, that."

"But why not?"

Peggy finally looked at Lucy. Difficult to read her eyes in the shadows, impossible to guess what she would say next. "I'm getting married."

"Peggy, no!"

"Peggy, yes." She put her fists on her hips. "I've been at this six years now, and it has been worth every minute, but I'm tired. I want to hang up my greatcoat and have another babe or ten."

"Ten!" Lucy shivered. She did not want to imagine. She'd seen child after child come into the world at Hawthorne House. A warm, loving world. But who knew what awaited them once they left with their mothers, once they returned to a world that made Hawthorne House necessary.

"Yes, ten. I like children. And I like Rían ."

"Rían? The blacksmith? Rían Morgan?"

Peggy grinned, and the stars likely fainted. That bright it was, that joyous. "Yes. Rían . You remember the night I ran off in the rain?"

Lucy nodded.

"That's when I realized I needed to propose."

"Right then ? No matter the state of the roads?"

"It happens like that. One moment you're perfectly fine and the next you're riding through a downpour to kiss the man you love." Peggy leaned forward. "Don't be angry with me. You'll find a new partner. Or perhaps a husband of your own."

"Hm." She had been considering marriage of late. For practical purposes. Lucy reached across the carriage, took her friend's hands in her own and squeezed. "I am happy for you, Peggy, and for Rían. You will invite me to the wedding, I hope."

"Naturally." The carriage rocked to a stop and Peggy looked out. "We're here. Now let's wake up the new girl and get her inside." Her eyes glinted wicked in the dim morning light. "You think the Devil Doctor will be up and about yet?"

"Don't let him hear you call him that."

"Or he'll scold me." Peggy threw open the coach door and jumped to the ground. "Not much of a threat when he's so attractive angry."

"Don't let Rían hear you say that."

"He has my heart in his big, strong hands, Lu, not my eyes. Though I'm sure you'll agree my blacksmith is sweeter to the eyes than even the estimable doctor." Peggy winked and strode toward the house. "So many delicious muscles. All mine."

When Peggy disappeared inside the house, Lucy looked to the sleeping beauty in the coach, shook her shoulder lightly. "Lady Alexandra. My lady, wake up. We're here."

Lady Alexandra sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes with her fists. "Hawthorne House. Are we really here?" She never even looked at Lucy, her gaze drawn to the house outside the coach like a moth to the flame, but not nearly as dangerous. Not dangerous at all, in fact.

"You are home, my lady, for however long you need to call this place home." Hopefully. The Becketts had not been keen on bringing a titled lady here.

They stepped out of the coach together, but Lady Alexandra took the lead, her steps long and eager. "It has seemed like a fairy tale to me. But there it is. And here I am. Is this a fairy story, Miss Lucy?"

"Not at all. It's real." Lucy squeezed the other woman's hand. "And you are safe."

The door popped open, and the Becketts spilled out. They were of the same height, short for a man and tall for a lady, and they wore opposing expressions, Mr. Beckett a wide, welcoming grin and Mrs. Beckett a cautious, serious sort of half smile. Both possessed dark, tightly curling hair and open arms.

"You are Lady Alexandra?" Mrs. Beckett asked with a deep curtsy.

"Oh yes, and do not do that. Please." Lady Alexandra hugged herself. "And please, call me Alex. I… do not wish to stand out. And my brother calls me that, so I am used to it."

Mr. Beckett took Alex under his wing and ushered her into the house.

Lucy followed them inside, but Mrs. Beckett stopped her short in the hall. She peered over her shoulder at her husband and Lady Alex until they both disappeared up the stairs. "Did anyone see you?"

"Of course not."

"Her father's a marquess. If he discovers where his daughter is, he'll?—"

"I'm aware."

"Powerful men do not enjoy having their political and dynastic pawns simply… disappear. If they know where she is, they will use all that power to chase after her. And to destroy Hawthorne House if they must. Do you understand the risk we take in doing this?"

The walls seemed to narrow, and chains squeezed Lucy's lungs. She left the house, the morning air no easier to breathe than that indoors.

Not when Mrs. Beckett followed closely behind. "We risk the futures of those who need us."

"Not all those who need us." Lucy spun, standing her ground on the gravel drive. "Just those who won't be missed, the working women, the plain miss and missus. But there are others." Like her mother. "It may seem they do not need us because they have lovely gowns and jewels and—" She exhaled a large push of air. "Wealth does not protect them. Not really. They need us, too. Lady Alex needs us."

"It is a risk."

"But shouldn't we try? Shouldn't we at least discover if it is possible?"

"You know I'd like to, but…" She cursed, looking up at the house.

"Lady Alex will be our great experiment, Mrs. Beckett."

"Or our great ruination."

"It will not come to that. I have an idea." She took Mrs. Beckett's hands, pulled her into the shadows close to the house, and lowered her voice to a whisper. "We need someone in their circles, a woman who can move among them, learn their routines, gain their trust."

"And you know someone?"

"Me."

Mrs. Beckett pulled away.

"No, listen. My grandfather is a viscount, and though my mother fell out of favor with the ton"—a euphemism for having birthed a bastard and married a farmer—"my father is wealthy, and I have a large dowry. My sister-in-law's father is an earl. For the right price, I can find the right husband. One who will not question what I'm doing as long as I appear to do as he says." Or one who supported the cause as well. Finding that sort of man would be like finding a fresh inch of water in the Thames—impossible.

"You'd marry yourself off for Hawthorne?"

"In a blink." It was her whole life, her meaning, her only purpose.

"That might work," Mrs. Beckett said after a pause. "You'd have to be careful. It still has its risks."

"But I would better know which risks were worth taking and which were not."

"I can't let you marry like that."

"Not everyone can enjoy a great love like you and Mr. Beckett do."

"Your brother and Ophelia."

"They are rare."

"Your father and mother, too. Perhaps it's not as rare as you imagine." Mrs. Beckett wrapped Lucy in a hug. "I say no. But as far as I know, no one's ever stopped you when you've made up your mind. Go home now. We'll speak more on this later." Mrs. Beckett whirled her around and nudged her toward the stables, then disappeared inside.

As Lucy passed the stables and headed toward the field that led most directly to her brother's home in the village, the warmth that usually hugged her after a successful mission drained away, replaced by… nothing. A chilling emptiness pulsed through her. She changed direction, moving toward the gardens instead.

Slowly, light spilled across the horizon like a yellow ribbon unspooling, but the hope that accompanied a new day (or a new ribbon) did not lift her spirits. Peggy was moving on. And Lucy was considering moving on, too—marrying a stranger. For a good cause. That mattered more than cold air and an empty chest.

She passed beneath a tree and flicked a leaf. Green and gold and breathing—the world possessed such beauty, such joy. The sunrise passed perfectly through the arched doorway in the tall hedge at the back of the garden, a riot of pinks and purples. It was the sort of sky lovers kissed under, making promises.

She had no need for such skies or kisses or promises.

Then why did her chest ache a bit, and why was her cheek wet?

"Don't cry, angel."

She screamed, jumped, whirled and raised a fist, as her brother had taught her to face her attacker.

Who also screamed and whirled around with fisted hands held high to face… no one.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

He whipped back around, fists loosening as his arms dropped to his sides. "You terrified me. Whew." He bent double and braced his hands on bent knees, his dark hair falling over his brow. "What a fright you gave me. At least you're not crying anymore. Would rather cough up my heart than see that again."

"Who are you?"

He froze, then slowly raised to his full height many, many inches above her own. Not that she had many inches. "I'm, erm, the new stable hand." He straightened his waistcoat. "You picked me up in London, remember?" He wore simple, dusty, ill-fitting clothing in overlapping shades of brown. Yet, somehow, he did not look like a stable hand at all. How he held himself… the precision of his haircut, the width of his broad shoulders, the haughtiness and confidence of his expression, the cultured tones of his voice…

"They must make stable hands differently in London," she said. "You sound like a toff."

"Indeed they do craft us from a different mold. I worked for a fine family, and they hired only those capable of using accents that didn't offend their sensitive ears. And they only accepted the best-looking lads. As you can see, perfect specimen that I am, they hired me immediately." He grinned, a flash of even, white teeth behind firm, well-shaped lips. His thick dark brows arched playfully above eyes the blue of the delphinium lining the walkway behind her. A brown hat perched atop a mop of thick black hair.

Her heart thumped. "Pardon… What were we speaking of?"

He laughed. "I have that effect on women."

Ah, there—the cursed conceit all men exuded. "You should return to your new work, Mr.…"

"Keats."

"Mr. Keats, you'd best return to the stables or you'll find yourself reliant on your good looks to find another position."

"After you tell me you won't cry anymore."

"I wasn't crying." She pulled her cloak hood up and over her face.

"Oh yes. Water just leaks from my eyes, too. Quite natural."

"It's true. Not that water leaks from—oh. I wasn't crying. And I'm returning home. Good day." She dropped a curtsy and headed for the garden arch that opened up into a field beyond. The sun had risen entirely above it now.

He followed, hands stuffed in pockets. "I'll escort you home. My uncle won't mind if I'm a bit late for shoveling the horse dung if my reason is so noble."

"You find irritating women noble?"

"I find saving women noble." A hard edge to his voice, sudden and shocking like the first winter wind on a warm August day.

She stumbled to a halt, and he slammed into her from behind. He grabbed her out of the air as her body lurched forward. He steadied her, straightened her against his own body. Hard and warm. When she didn't remove herself immediately from his embrace he flattened his palm against her back, pulling her closer.

"Careful, Miss…?" He arched one brow.

"No need for you to know my name."

"Every need." He stroked his hand up her spine then back down. Entirely unnecessary, scandalous, riveting… Then he set her firmly away from him.

Why had she not moved away first? She shook out her skirts, releasing some of her irritation into the movement and set off once more to the village.

He kept pace. "The girl you brought with you from London, the?—"

"The first rule of Hawthorne House, Mr. Keats, is that we do not speak of Hawthorne House. Do you understand?"

He mimicked putting a lock between his lips, turning it, and pocketing it.

"Excellent. Give no one the key. You should not speak of what happens at the house. Not to anyone. Ever. I assume your uncle has told you what we do here."

He hesitated then nodded.

"That is for your information only. The village thinks we are an educational facility, training young women to be governesses, maids, seamstresses, cooks, and the like."

"You live there? In the village?"

"Sometimes. With my brother. He is a doctor."

"Where do you live at other times?"

"That is not for you to know." She glanced at him. "What happened to that key, Mr. Keats?"

"Dropped right out of my pocket. There's a hole. What else should I know to work here?"

"Mr. Sacks or Mr. Geddings will know your duties in the stables better than I. But… I can tell you… if you see any strange men lurking about, you must inform Mr. Beckett right away. The footmen we employ are former boxers and army men. They either know how to throw a punch or hit a target."

He tugged at his neckcloth. "And what happens to strange men found lurking about?"

"They find out which sort of footman has caught them lurking."

"The boxing sort or the shooting sort."

She nodded. Far off in the trees, a bird burst into song, and it seemed to be the final thing to break the fog's hold on the morning. The sun's gold scattered over everything with the bird's music, and with this stable hand cutting his long strides short to remain by her side as they crossed the field, her loneliness went the way of the fog. Mr. Keats knew the knack of annoying a body, but he was a treat to look at, and… perhaps… his conversation at times tended more toward the amusing than the annoying. Her soul expanded into airy thinness, and she smiled. If she was going to marry for a practical reason, she could enjoy a few stolen moments with a handsome man before she sealed her future. Surely.

"God, you're beautiful."

She stumbled again, then stopped to face him, her hood falling down her back.

He seemed to waver, as if his legs might give way. "I want to drop to my knees before you. I shouldn't. I don't know you, but… maybe the body knows what to do better than the mind sometimes."

"I… well… do not kneel, Mr. Keats." But… wouldn't he just look delicious on his knees before her? Her stomach twisted into knots, and a place a bit lower seemed to shiver, ache.

"And why not? You deserve it."

She ripped her gaze away from his and walked faster than before. "You do not know that."

He caught up quickly. "Are you one of these women? The Hawthorne House women I shouldn't talk about?"

"No. I'm something different. The doctor's sister. A spinster."

He snorted. "A goddess like you?"

"You must not flirt."

"Another rule?"

"The most important one. If Mr. Beckett discovers any sort of flirtations, he'll let you go right quick. These women don't need the inconvenience of a vapid man who thinks more of himself than he should."

"Ouch." He rubbed his heart. "You're more dangerous than the footmen. Your words both sword points and fists."

"Remember that." She didn't smile. A victory, that.

They walked in silence until the village appeared beyond a thin line of trees.

She stepped onto the nearby road, intending to leave him behind, but he grasped her wrist, stopped her, forced her to turn around.

As his thumb rubbed havoc into the pulse at her wrist, his blue, blue eyes made her forget her name. She didn't even pull away. He did not move, but nonetheless, she felt as if he bound her, weaving with her undeniable attraction to him a connection she had no use for.

"I apologize." His brow pulled low, and his hat tipped over his eyes, yet he could not hide his expression, serious for the first time since he'd scared her in the garden. "For flirting. The whisky's wearing off and the emptiness is setting in. Flirting is the next best distraction."

Birds chittered around them, the sun made sapphires of his eyes, and oh how she wanted to agree. "Thank you for apologizing. Do not flirt again. And no whisky." Where had he even come by it? No matter. Men always had their ways.

He squeezed her wrist then released her. "As you wish." He turned and made his way down the road back toward Hawthorne House, and she watched him until he disappeared.

The thread of yearning he'd tied about her stretched out with his wandering form. It seemed to have wiggled its way around her heart. It tugged loose some drop cloth that had settled there years ago like a shroud. She rubbed at her chest, trying to dislodge the thread, keep the shroud in place.

She did not yearn for him . But… but for the idea of him. He was the kind of man she might have married had she not settled upon this new scheme. A simple, working man with a jovial spirit who sparked desire in her body. She yearned for what she'd never have. But she snipped the thread and headed to her brother's house. What mattered her own desires when so many others suffered?