Chapter 6

Chapter Six

With the rear entrance of Eleanor's shop boarded to prevent intruders, they had no choice but to park the carriage outside the premises on New Bridge Street.

She shuffled to the edge of the seat, impatient to alight. Debtors' prison awaited her. Salvaging the silk and Chantilly lace might raise enough funds to keep her from the Marshalsea.

"What's the hurry?" Mr Chance opened the door and was first to the pavement. He extended his hand. "Allow me to assist you."

The man was a monument to contradiction. Despite being a dangerous rogue who co-owned a gaming hell, he possessed a gentleman's breeding. Goodness lay beneath his sinful facade. It was an attractive combination.

"Time is of the essence. There's not a second to lose." She poked her head out of the carriage and glanced left and right. The villain could be lurking in the vicinity, waiting to pounce.

Was that why she shivered ?

Was she scenting danger?

"It's four hours until your appointment with Pickering and his mobile library." Mr Chance's warm fingers grasped hers, his gaze falling to her ankles as he helped her descend. "We've plenty of time to attend to matters here."

"We should avoid drawing undue attention." The hairs on her nape prickled. Someone had their beady eyes fixed on them. Living with a distrustful father taught one to have a second sight.

"You fear the villain might be stalking the premises?"

"Yes, if he is keen to retrieve his note."

"But you're to deliver the note today. The damage caused to your property was to ensure you kept the appointment." His gaze moved to the loose curl escaping her simple chignon. "I'm only grateful he took his temper out on the cabinets and not you, Miss Darrow."

Although Mr Chance had seen her without a bonnet before, she felt a little naked beneath the weight of his stare.

"Doubtless he meant to frighten me." The villain wasn't her only problem. "The local shopkeepers will demand to know what happened last night. Gossip spreads like wildfire. Mudlarks who scour the Puddle Dock raided the cobbler's yard last month. They will suspect the same happened here."

Indeed, as she retrieved the door key from her pelisse pocket, the silversmith hurried across the street, calling her name.

"Miss Darrow. Thank heavens you're well." Mr Franklin—a man of thirty with wavy brown hair and a countenance that left her clients drooling—had thrown his coat on in a hurry, for the collar was askew. "I saw two constables searching your premises early this morning and haven't slept a wink. "

Since the shocking theft at the cobblers, Mr Franklin kept his nose pressed to the window most days, searching for the elusive culprit.

"They suspect a vagrant entered my shop, hunting for food." She hated lying but could not confess to being attacked in her yard and hounded by a devious devil. Wielding spades and batons, the shopkeepers would charge down to the Puddle Dock, determined to make someone pay for the crime. "Based on the damage caused, the vagabond must have been ravenous."

She introduced Mr Chance and the air turned frosty.

The men scrutinised each other with obvious suspicion.

"You're the gentleman who was shot by that thug last month," Mr Franklin said, eyeing her companion. "Being so close to the Thames, we get all sorts of riffraff wandering up from the barges and merchant ships."

Mr Chance hardened his stare. "I was shot while protecting my sister. Indeed, I'm duty-bound to ensure Miss Darrow receives no further trouble." He drew his calling card from his pocket and thrust it into Mr Franklin's calloused hand. "Miss Darrow will reside with a friend until her affairs are in order. Should you notice anything untoward, do your civic duty and report it to me."

Mr Franklin arched a brow as he read the elegant script. "You're a gambling man," he stated with a touch of disdain.

"I run a gaming club. Only a fool stakes his future on the dice."

Mr Franklin clearly feared for Eleanor's safety. He leaned forward, his brows furrowed in quiet concern. "If you'd like to remain in Holborn, we have a spare room. Anna would be glad of your company. You've been of great help to my sister. Her needlework is much improved. "

Eleanor smiled. "That is most kind, sir. Miss Franklin is an excellent student, but I hope to return home in a day or two. I have merely come to assess the damage."

Mr Franklin looked a tad disappointed. "Well, the invitation stands if you change your mind."

"I doubt she will," Mr Chance said bluntly.

A tense silence ensued before the silversmith mentioned the vagrant. "I suppose the rascal ruined your silk. I saw Emily moving the bolts this morning. Well, I say this morning, but it was just before dawn. The poor girl was up with the larks."

While Eleanor reeled from the surprising news, Mr Chance said, "Emily?"

"A seamstress I employ when work demands it." She kept a calm tone though many questions danced in her mind. Emily had no reason to visit the shop, and certainly not at the crack of dawn. "Emily mentioned borrowing her father's cart, hence the early hour."

That was another lie.

But how else was she to gain information?

"Yes, she came with an older man I didn't recognise."

"I'm visiting Emily this evening to take an inventory of the stock she saved. I'm sure she will be relieved to learn business will resume soon." She thanked Mr Franklin and bid him good day.

Mr Chance waited until the fellow crossed the road before offering his expert opinion on the minds of men. "Franklin wants you."

She wasn't being vain when she said, "I know."

"I expect many women think he's handsome."

"I expect they do." Her fingers shook as she unlocked the door. A fear of what she might find was the cause, though Mr Chance presumed otherwise.

"Does Franklin always make you nervous?"

She might have fed him a tale as part of their game but could not risk paying a forfeit. "He doesn't make me nervous. You're the only man who raises my pulse."

"I am?"

"Don't sound so pleased. Most of the time I'm angry."

The overhead bell tinkled as Eleanor entered the shop. The once welcoming melody had a sad ring to it now. Her gaze fell to the mess on the floor, her property scattered like the remnants of a shipwreck washed ashore. She doubted anything was salvageable.

"It grieves me to admit it, but I have made a dreadful mess of everything." Tears welled. Misfortune had plagued her since birth. This shop was her mother's dream, her father's legacy. Disappointed, her parents must be turning in their graves. "I have felt powerless many times. None more so than now."

The stab of failure cut deep.

The gentle touch of Mr Chance's hand on her back preceded his thoughtful comment. "Things aren't as bad as they seem. I could have the place straightened in no time."

To prove the point, he retrieved two pairs of gloves, dusted them off and placed them neatly on the glass counter.

The man's charm was impossible to ignore. Confidence oozed from every pore. Eleanor stole a glance at his muscular thighs as he crouched to complete the task. While the sight roused heat in her belly, the kind gesture made her heart race like a runaway carriage.

She bent down to help him.

Their fingers brushed as they reached for the same glove .

"You don't need an excuse to touch me," he said, a teasing twinkle in his eyes. "You don't even need to ask."

Like a moth to a flame, his allure was irresistible. "After our interlude at the theatre, why would I want to touch you again? You satisfied my curiosity."

His smile turned sinful. "Did I? I don't see how. The things a man can do with his hands are limitless."

It took mental strength not to conjure an erotic image.

"Mr Franklin said a similar thing only last week." The lie left her lips before she could reclaim it.

Being as sharp as a tack, he grinned. "You owe me a forfeit, Miss Darrow." He looked at her lips, and she felt sure he would demand another kiss. "I believe I shall claim it now."

"What do you want me to do, Mr Chance? Cluck like a chicken?" She wasn't ready to kiss him again. Not when he weakened her defences.

"Where's the pleasure in that?"

She swallowed hard. "What would give you pleasure?"

"Education is everything, is it not?" Still crouched, he flexed his fingers. "The touch of a man's hand was the catalyst that brought down Troy."

She suspected the feel of his hand would be her ruin, too.

"Let me begin with something simple to prove my point," he said softly. "Let it be an exercise in the power of anticipation."

He waited for her permission to begin.

"I'll not stop until you demand it," he warned her before caressing her cheek in slow, mesmerising circles.

The heat of his skin warmed her face and soothed her restless spirit. She closed her eyes briefly, finding solace in his touch. Tenderness was a potent drug for a lonely heart. Everything about this man was addictive.

"Relax," came his whispered command.

Her shoulders sagged as if willed by the gods.

"I've never seen lips so plump," he said, an undeniable hunger in his gaze as he traced the shape with his thumb. He worked closer to the seam, seeking entrance. "I'll never forget how soft they were. You'd drunk wine before coming to the theatre. That, or you always taste like dark berries."

"You'll never know."

His languid smile stole her breath. "There's always a way to achieve one's goal," he said, penetrating the seam where her mouth was moist. He wet his thumb before taking it in his own mouth and sucking hard. "Hmm. I feel a thorough inspection is needed. But not today."

Her heart pounded now.

Perhaps he saw the rapid beat of her pulse in her throat. Perhaps he knew the muscles in her abdomen were tight. That heat pooled between her thighs.

Exploring further, he drew featherlight fingers down over her lips and chin, down the column of her throat.

The hairs on her nape prickled. Tingles ran down her spine. She thought of halting his in-depth study, but the thrill of anticipation left her eager to know what he planned to do next.

He paused, his fingers lingering at the base of her throat, his brow rising in silent challenge.

"Is something wrong, Mr Chance?"

"Not at all."

"Does that conclude the end of the lesson?"

"Not quite. Shall I continue?"

The answer should have been no, but she nodded .

Those dangerous digits moved again, trailing slowly southward, leaving a scorching path in their wake. His wicked blue eyes remained fixed on her, waiting for her to say stop.

He paused again when he reached her left breast.

She arched a brow, daring him to continue.

The pads of his fingers grazed her nipple.

She inhaled sharply. Not because she felt his touch through the layers of material or because lust had her in its powerful grip. The fire in his eyes stole her breath. The slight tremble of his fingers said these feelings were not one-sided. This wasn't part of the game.

"I think that concludes the lesson for today, Mr Chance."

A sensual hum escaped him. "Thank the Lord. You're killing me, Miss Darrow."

Eleanor smiled to herself as she gathered more gloves off the floor and rose to her feet. "I concede. A man might work miracles with his hands if his partner is willing."

"A fact we may explore if you lie to me again, madam."

"I won't make the same mistake, sir," she said, placing the gloves on the counter. They couldn't be sold as new, but that was the least of her concerns.

"Mistakes are regrettable." He rose and adjusted his trousers. "Nothing that happened between us a moment ago could be deemed so."

Being careful not to lie, she said, "No, you did a superb job of proving your point. There's a reason they call you the King of Hearts. I'm told you collect hearts and break them. I mean to guard mine with my life."

"You, of all people, should know not to listen to idle gossip. Particularly when it comes from the mouth of Lady Lucille Bowman." He did not give her an opportunity to refute the claim. "Where did you leave the book the villain placed in the coal shed?"

"Under the boards in my bedchamber." Glad of a distraction, she dusted off her hands and beckoned him to follow her upstairs. She realised the room might be in a dreadful state, too. "Did you happen in there last night?"

A muscle in his jaw twitched. "Yes."

His tense shoulders told her all she needed to know.

"Prepare yourself," he said, mounting the stairs beside her. "The room is a shambles. The intruder left no stone unturned in his search for your box."

Part of her wished she had inspected the upper floors last night. Then she would know the face of her tormentor—assuming she had lived to tell the tale.

A whimper escaped her when she peered inside the storeroom and saw the empty shelves. The small tapestry boxes had been tossed aside. Gold and pearl buttons littered the boards like pretty shells on a beach. She stood rigid, gripping the doorframe before her knees buckled and she collapsed in a heap.

"I'm ruined." The words were a whisper, but they hit her like a punch to the gut. "I pray Emily took the silk for safekeeping. I have no hope of raising the funds to replace what's lost."

Mr Chance stood behind her, his warm hand settling on her shoulder. Like a sturdy shelter in a storm, his presence brought a sense of calm.

"Write a list of what's missing and I shall have it replaced." His thumb moved in soothing circles on her nape. "You have troubles enough without worrying about bankruptcy."

"I cannot take your money. "

"You can and you will. I'm to blame for this debacle."

"You're to blame for taking my sewing box. You're not to blame for this. I agreed to play the messenger. My father always said I lacked my mother's common sense."

"I imagine he would eat his words if he knew you dressed the most prestigious ladies in London."

"He would find fault. Nothing was ever good enough. I could never reach the mark." There was always room for improvement. The beef was never tender. The chunks of apples in the pie were too big. She read too slowly. Ate too quickly. Walked with a sloppy gait.

"Criticism is rooted in insecurity. Perhaps your father blamed you for his own failings. Noting your flaws boosted his own sense of worth."

Eleanor faced him, confusion and wonder fighting for supremacy. She had been conditioned to believe the problem lay with her.

"You surprise me, Mr Chance. I never expected you to be so?—"

"Sensible?"

"Wise."

"We all play roles, Miss Darrow. How does the youngest of four fearsome men find his own identity?" He answered before she could. "He becomes what his brothers are not. Playful. The jester. The King of Fools. An amusing distraction amid life's troubles."

"You do yourself a disservice."

"I do?"

"You're a better man than you claim."

Love for his sister had shone from him like a brilliant beacon. His kindness towards Delphine knew no bounds. He was fiercely loyal. Strong. Dangerous. Unafraid to fight for what he believed.

"You have seen the best and the worst of me, Miss Darrow. You're one of the few people who knows me as I really am."

While she still felt the imprint of his teasing fingers, his remark fostered a deeper intimacy. Warmth gathered in her chest, not her loins.

"In a world where most people wear masks, know you can always be yourself with me, Mr Chance."

His slow smile said he had mischief on his mind. "I'm glad you said that. Veracity is something to be admired. Might you permit a scoundrel to show his gratitude?"

The sudden pounding in her throat made her swallow. "I spoke the truth. There is no need for me to pay a forfeit."

"This has nothing to do with our game," he said, wetting his lips. "I cannot concentrate on any task until I've paid homage to the only woman who understands me. Consider it my way of saying thank you."

"You're referring to a kiss, I trust?"

"I wouldn't presume to ask for anything more."

"Very well." Suppressing a grin, she offered him her cheek. "You may kiss me, Mr Chance. After which, you will pay a forfeit."

"For what?"

"You don't want to kiss me out of gratitude. You've had the same sinful look in your eyes since you touched me downstairs."

He laughed and slapped his hand to his heart. "I confess, you have the measure of me, madam, though you're wrong. I've had the same sinful thoughts since our interlude at the theatre. "

That kiss had stayed with her, too.

She had been out of her depth, floundering in a wild sea of emotions. During those amorous seconds, the weight of her burden had lifted. The touch of Mr Chance's lips had made her feel like someone worth loving.

She would do well to remember it was all an illusion.

A strategic move in his game.

Eleanor pointed to her cheek. "Well? Will you kiss me? We have work to do and cannot dally all day."

A shiver raced down her spine when his fingers brushed her waist. His mouth was hot on her skin, the pressure light. He didn't kiss her once but worked his way across her cheek, each featherlike touch lingering a little longer.

Her eyes fluttered closed when he reached the corner of her mouth. It was a mistake. She should have prised them open because Theodore Chance was an overload on a lady's senses.

The sound and feel of his breath stirred the hairs on her nape. The sweet, aromatic scent of sandalwood flooded her nostrils. He was everywhere, his masculine aura teasing every nerve in her body to life.

Seeking more, she turned her head a fraction.

Then their mouths met—a sudden desperation igniting.

Eleanor had felt many emotions in her life: shame, guilt, a profound inadequacy. She had never felt a rush of passion so strong it almost knocked her off her feet.

The kiss they'd shared at the Olympic had been slow and tender.

This … this was raw. Unbridled.

This was lust, a greedy battle to feed the hunger.

Heaven help her. She couldn't resist him.

She gripped his coat lapels as he pushed her back against the wall. They kissed in an open-mouthed frenzy. Heat pooled low and heavy. The pulsing between her thighs was like the incessant beat of a drum.

Sweet mercy!

This was madness.

"Mother of all saints! Tell me to stop," he panted but claimed her mouth again with a need that defied logic.

A sweet moan rumbled in her throat.

He cupped her nape and deepened the kiss.

There was something savage, something reckless about the way he drank from her. Like she was the only woman who could slake his thirst. Every kiss was a desperate attempt to ease an ache, to sate a longing that knew no bounds.

The thought proved sobering.

Keen to guard her heart, she dragged her mouth from his, gasping to catch her breath.

Mr Chance looked at her, his gaze smouldering, his lips moist. "I suppose now I must pay a forfeit," he said huskily.

"Don't look so pleased. I might ask you to wrestle a wild dog." In truth, she had no idea how to make this game enjoyable. How did one keep a man like Theodore Chance entertained? More kisses, perhaps?

"I would wrestle wolves for one more taste of your lips. When it comes to kissing, you more than meet the mark."

"You possess the skill," she said, struggling against the weight of his praise. "I am merely a novice."

"You need to learn to accept a compliment."

Heat crept to her cheeks. "It's hard when you have been the constant cause of a man's misery. I feel compliments are undeserved."

He studied her before tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "There is beauty in your modesty. But when the fire of confidence blazes in your eyes, you're breathtaking."

Breathtaking? She had always believed herself quite plain.

"I—I'm not sure what to say to that."

"You say thank you."

She smiled. "Thank you."

He stepped back. "Now, what is it you'd have me do?"

Watching him prance like a peacock would be wholly amusing. But he had used his forfeit to rouse her desire. While the need to kiss him again was a potent beat in her blood, she wished to know him better.

"Answer one question."

"Which is?"

"What is your greatest fear, Mr Chance?"

He jerked, apparently shocked by the question. Deep furrows marred his brow. No doubt he would rather yap like a Pomeranian than divulge something personal.

"My greatest fear has nothing to do with my life," he said, leaving her more than intrigued. "Few things frighten me, but I'm afraid of what will happen to my brother Aaron if he's left to live alone."

It was an answer worthy of the King of Hearts.

It was an answer that caused a flutter in her chest.

"Aaron Chance is the most formidable man in town," she said. He was a dangerous devil who seemed happy his siblings had married. "I imagine nothing fazes him."

"Aaron thrives on solving problems. He lives to protect his family. Every sacrifice he has made has been for us."

"I'm sure he will adapt." Living alone could be daunting. It had taken her months to sleep through the night and not wake thinking every creaking board was an intruder. "Is that the reason you're avoiding female company?"

"I'm not avoiding your company." He smiled as his gaze raked over her body. "And you're every bit a woman, Miss Darrow."

"And you're a scoundrel who lives to tease me."

"I'm merely helping you forget your troubles."

He had certainly done that.

"Then there is a more efficient way to spend your time. Gather anything of value. Fill a drawer with gloves. Search for bolts of material. We must take everything we can carry."

Putting distance between them would prevent Eleanor from falling into his arms again. Salvaging the small things might pay for a ticket to Boston. A modiste who had dressed the haute ton would easily find work overseas.

"I shall pack a valise and fetch the villain's book." She gestured to the sprinkling of buttons on the floor. "These will fetch enough to cover a few months' rent."

She didn't linger on the first floor but hurried upstairs.

Mr Chance's soothing scent seemed to follow her, though it did little to prevent the wave of despair when she saw the devastation in her bedchamber. Clothes lay crumpled and scattered everywhere. The bedclothes had been torn from the mattress and now trailed forlornly across the floor. Amidst the chaos, she searched desperately but couldn't find the patchwork blanket her mother had made—the cherished blanket she had clung to all these years.

Suppressing the need to cry, Eleanor dropped to her knees by the loose board. She brushed the mound of clothes aside and raised the plank.

Her heart sank.

The hollow space was empty .

No leather-bound book.

No record of those who had paid her to deliver their missives.

It wasn't enough that the intruder left her feeling violated. He had stolen her only means of putting an end to this nightmare. How could she deliver his note? Mr Pickering knew to accept a specific book.

Eleanor tried to recall the title.

It was something obscure, like Falkirk or Falkland .

She could not locate another copy, not in time to deliver it to Mr Pickering. A different book would have to suffice, along with an explanation.

She stuffed garments into a valise and hurried from the room, keen to assist Mr Chance and leave the premises before the silversmith came prying. A quick peek inside the adjacent chamber confirmed it was a shambles, too. It looked like a whirlwind had whipped up the contents.

Stemming her tears, she made for the stairs.

That's when she heard a creak behind her and felt a sudden breeze. A hard shove in the back made her lose her balance. She cried out, her valise slipping from her grasp as she went tumbling down the stairs, hitting her head on a wooden step and landing with a thud.