Six

Si x

W ith a firm grasp of Natalie's wrist, Ellen Farnsworth was marching the girl up the winding staircase when Lord Farnsworth appeared on the landing before her, his monocle squeezed tightly between folds of pasty flesh so that his dark frown looked hideously lopsided.

"There's the little chit!" he snapped. "She'll chase away my tenants if you don't do something about her!"

Natalie immediately shrank into her mother's side; Ellen put an arm around her shoulders and sighed wearily. "I'll speak with her, sir. You have my word she will not bother him again."

Farnsworth barked a nasty laugh, then leaned forward, peering at her with one enormous eye. "Your word, Ellen? Don't promise me anything so worthless!"

Lord God, how she despised him. A thousand retorts rattled about her head, but Ellen bit her tongue, unwilling to have a row on the stairs. She gave Natalie a reassuring squeeze. "If there's nothing else, sir, we should like to retire," she said, moving forward.

"Just see to it that she stays in her rooms!" Farnsworth said sharply, and bobbed aside so that Ellen and Natalie could pass. Ellen did not look at him; she forced Natalie along, pushing her up the stairs ahead of her until they reached the next landing, then took her daughter by the hand again, dragging her quickly along to the suite of rooms they shared. She opened the door to her sitting room, sent Natalie ahead of her, then stepped inside and leaned heavily against the closed door, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment to push back a headache that was beginning to rage.

"I'm sorry, Mother," Natalie murmured tremulously.

Ellen opened her eyes and looked at the girl. "Oh Natalie. What am I to do with you?" she asked sadly, extending her hand. Natalie instantly walked into her embrace, put her arms around her mother's waist, and buried her face in the folds of her gown. Ellen held her tightly, wondered what exactly she was to do with her-—with both of them, really. They couldn't exist like this for the rest of their lives.

She sighed, ran her hand across the top of Natalie's head. "Darling, you know you are forbidden from entering those rooms or bothering the tenants."

"I'm very sorry, Mother, truly I am. But…but the captain really is rather friendly."

Ah, Natalie. This beautiful child, whom she cherished above all else, had a wretched habit of inventing tales and altering the truth, of stealing into the tenants' rooms and going through their things. Abominable behavior, but what could she expect? With no friends to speak of, the girl was desperate for companionship and Agatha, bless her, was hardly a suitable playmate.

"I promise I won't do it again," she said helpfully.

Ellen cupped the girl's chin and turned her face upward. "You must mean your promise, Natalie. No more visits to the tenant's rooms. Will you promise me?"

Natalie nodded solemnly.

Ellen kissed her forehead. "Go to your room, then, and write it one hundred times. ‘I will not enter the tenant's rooms,' " she said, motioning toward the bedrooms. Natalie sighed, walked slowly to the door. When she disappeared inside, Ellen walked to the pink-and-white striped silk chaise, tossed her pelisse and bonnet onto it, and moved from there to the windows, where she gazed out across the square at the dreary evening.

Her heart was still pounding.

At first, when she had seen Natalie within his rooms, her heart had seized at the sight of that enormous man with that coarse face towering over Natalie. But she had quickly understood, judging by the way he held himself, that he meant no harm, was more curious of Natalie than anything else. Little wonder, that! Laria and a crippled mother, indeed!

The captain had surprised her on another level, too, after she had recalled their encounter in the park, because he wasn't like the men Farnsworth usually let the rooms to—the previous tenants had been older and decrepit in many ways, usually up from the country for some reason or another, usually alone. The captain (Ellen smiled at the memory of how his chest had puffed up with the mention of his rank) was much younger, obviously vibrant and ruggedly strong…and a Scot! Another surprise, knowing how intolerant Farnsworth could be of the world at large, particularly people who were not of noble English birth. The captain must have offered cash for the let of the rooms, or else the bloody penny-pinching old hypocrite never would have let a Scot into his home.

With a perplexed shake of her head, Ellen turned away from the window and walked from the sitting room into a small adjoining dining room. She paused at the door, surveying the room with a frown. Like most rooms in the mansion, this one was marked by Farnsworth's austerity. Only one painting (a poor rendition of a fox hunt) graced the walls; the sideboard boasted only one service (tarnished silver), and no china or crystal. The table, once polished to a sheen, was dull and scratched. The chairs were in various stages of dis-repair, and the silk-covered seats were worn. Not from a lack of funds; Farnsworth was wealthy. He was just a miserable old miser.

Had it not been for the crates of quality furnishings and accoutrements she had brought from the country, the rest of the suite Ellen shared with Natalie would be as barren and devoid of character as this house. Their suite was the one bright spot in it, actually. It was done in soft pastel silks and brocades; thick rugs scattered about the floors warmed the austere rooms. With the exception of any notable pieces of art, which Ellen really didn't miss, they were comfortable. Thank God for small favors, she thought to herself, for that was the only thing about this house or her life that was comfortable.

Yes, well. No point in spending yet another evening dwelling on futile hopes, sliding deeper into misery with each passing hour. Too much of her life had passed laboring from one day to the next, wishing things were different, wishing she were different. And she had at last reached the point where she hardly remembered or felt anything anymore—the point at which she'd just as soon be drawn and quartered than fall into the abyss again. So Ellen pressed her lips together, walked to the bellpull, and yanked hard, signaling to the bare-bones staff below that she and Natalie were ready for their evening meal.

Below them, Liam was staring at his evening meal with a mixture of disgust and awe. God only knew what the cook had intended it to be, but the kindest thing Liam could say about it was that it looked and tasted like a batch of gruel gone off. Yet it was something to tide him over until he could leave again under night's dark cloak to look for his cousin and find something decent to eat. Until then, he was a man who lived by a soldier's rules. He ate.

Afterward, while his body attempted to digest the stuff, Liam propped his feet up near the brazier to warm them, and amused himself with thoughts of Natalie's mother, summoning the image of her as she had stood in his door, angelic. Beautiful. Voluptuous. Breasts as soft and full as…as goose-down pillows (the most luxurious thing he could conjure). That image inevitably led to other, more provocative thoughts; he imagined her somewhere in this very house, perhaps preparing for a bath (as best he could, being terribly ignorant of how a woman actually prepared for a bath, knowing only that Mared took a ridiculous amount of time in the process). Perhaps in her bath. Ah… now there was an image that he could hold on to for quite some time.

Until it became physically uncomfortable to imagine it any longer without taking matters into his own hands, so to speak.

At which point, Liam realized he was acting like a green-horned schoolboy, and thought it time to put himself to more productive endeavors. He went to his knapsack and rummaged about until he found one of several pieces of vellum he had carried to London with him, and the pencil his mother had given him. He wrote a terse letter home to inform her that he had arrived safely in London, and that their plans were moving along smoothly. He did not say more than that, because, first, he was not much of a correspondent, and second, if the letter should somehow be confiscated, it would be perceived as nothing more than an innocent epistle home. He wrote:

Dearest Mother, greetings and salutations from London. The weather is quite wet. The parks are large and green and all proceeds as planned. The buildings are of stone, but they are blackened with the soot of many chimneys. I do not care for the food. Devotedly, L.

Liam studied the contents for a moment, decided that while it lacked the poetic nature of Griffin's letters, it was practical, innocuous, and clear. He folded the vellum, used the single candle Farnsworth had allotted him to seal it, and tucked it away until the morrow to post. Having accomplished that small task, Liam walked to the window and peered outside. Night had fallen at last, and he was eager to get on with his task and get out of this ugly town as soon as possible. He crossed to the basin, washed his face, combed his hair with his fingers, and retied his neckcloth. Then, Liam slipped out through the window to the alley, pausing below to look up at the lights above his rooms, wondering if she was up there.