“We should repair ourselves,” he said. “We’re almost to our destination.”
“Which is?”
“The Chambers of the House of Lords.”
“What’s the package?”
“Could be a severed head for all I know,” he answered.
“What!”
“No,” he teased. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon is a lot of things but to my knowledge not a murderess. Likely it’s an incentive for someone to do something she wants.”
“Oh.”
The carriage turned and Felicity rebuttoned her pelisse. She didn’t bother to hide her interest as Tristan adjusted himself in his breeches.
“Tell me about your mother?” he asked.
“Why?”
“So I can stop thinking about sucking on your nipples.”
“Oh.” Felicity blushed, not just in her cheeks but the wash of heat flooded every part of her. “Well, she likes to sing. Father discouraged it, but she still sang to us when we were falling asleep or sick or hurt. She has a lovely voice, high pitched and airy like a bird. One time, when I was about eight years old, father was away for the afternoon, and I was helping my mother pull vegetables in the garden. She was singing, louder than I’d ever heard her, filling the air with her voice and it was the loveliest sound I’d ever heard. I wasn’t the only one who thought so. Birds started to perch along the stone wall that separates our garden from the cemetery. More and more arrived,filling the trees around us. There was a little blue bird with a white face and yellow chest—I don’t know what it was, but it kept hopping closer and closer to her. She put her hand on the ground and lowered her voice to a soft lullaby, and that little bird hopped right into her hand.”
He put his arm around her. “What happened then?”
“She told me to hold out my hand, but I was too scared. I’d thought he’d fly away, and I didn’t want to ruin this moment for her, because she looked so happy, singing, smiling, her cheeks red from the sun. But she insisted, so I did. I put out my hand, and to my surprise the little bird hopped into my palm. I didn’t breathe. I didn’t want him to fly away. I swear he looked at me, right in the eyes.” She leaned into him, still astonished by how natural and comfortable it was to be close to him.
“My mother started to sing again, and I swear to you, it was like something magical was in the air. More birds got closer. She put her arms out, and they perched there, chirping. The garden was so loud, and I was smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. My mother finished her song, and she smiled at me, tears running down her cheeks. She thanked the birds, and they flew away, one after another. My little bird too. I’ve never forgotten that day. I’ve never forgotten how happy she was, singing in the sun in her garden and how the world rejoiced with her.”
“That’s incredible, Flick,” he said as he tucked a curl behind her ear.
“I know. I haven’t thought of that memory in so long. But every chance I got, I looked for that little blue bird. There was always a nest of them by that wall in spring, and they’d run along the top, watching my mother garden.”
The carriage came to a stop and Tristan reluctantly pulled away. He opened the door, handing her out. Felicity panicked and patted her hair.
“You look as lovely as ever, Flick.” He leaned closer. “And not at all like I’ve had my hands and lips all over you.”
She blushed and elbowed him. “You’re incorrigible.” She looked around. “Perhaps I should stay in the carriage?”
Tristan looked around the commons. It wasn’t too busy, and no one would notice her, but she could if it made her more comfortable.
“The driver will wait here if that is what you wish.”
She tugged at the wrists of her red gloves. “I think I will.”
“I’ll only be a moment.”
Chapter Ten
Tristan popped histop hat on his head and headed toward the largest building. He had to deliver this right to Lord Hugstead, who may or may not be in his offices, then he’d have a little time to squire Flick around the city and buy her a pasty. He didn’t have much money to spend, but he could afford a pasty for a pretty lady. The way her face had changed when she’d talked about her mother’s singing and the birds... He’d never seen anything like that before. She’d transformed, years melting from her face, lines of worry turning to joy. Her eyes had sparkled, the gold flecks dancing as she talked. He hadn’t been able to look away or stop touching her.
He wished one day she’d remember him that fondly, and not just as the man who helped her find sexual pleasure, but as a man who brought her joy and helped her climb out of the prison of pain and suffering her father and Chadwick Revere—that maggot riddled blackguard—had built for her.
He really hated her father. Damn the man. For a vicar, he sounded like a man with a black heart whose only joy was to snuff the light out of others. He knew the type. He’d had an officer in his regiment in Dover who was just like that. Where did these people come from andwhy were they always in positions of power over others?
Tristan held the package under his arm as he entered the lobby and stopped at a desk where a spectacled secretary sat. He looked up at Tristan, frowning as if he couldn’t place where Tristan belonged in the order of the social classes. Tristan smiled. It was all part of his character. No one knew who or what he was. A lord? A criminal? A tailor? His clothing was just fine enough to pass as gentry, but plain. No silk and embroidered leaves to be found, not that he’d ever spare the expense. He wasn’t a man of color. His clothing served a purpose and that was it. And he enjoyed the confusion of others.
