Sarah was innocent of any cruder meaning in Caroline’s words, but Lucy couldn’t miss it, not with the disordered bedbehind her and the faint soreness between her legs. The whole room probably smelled of him—of man and passion and bodies and all that they’d done. She hid her blush, pretending to be intent on rummaging for something in her dresser drawer, and dismissed her maid.
Downstairs, she paced the parlour, went into her studio and left it again, then sat abruptly down at Caroline’s writing desk and penned a note to Jack. She could write to her fiancé, could she not?
Jack, I have heard—her pen sputtered—of yourdifficulties.Please come at your earliest convenience.She paused, then signed it,Yours, L.
But Caroline’s footman returned not long after she’d sent him, the note still in his hand.
“I beg pardon, Miss Fanshaw,” said William guiltily, returning the letter. “I did try, but they wouldn’t let me in, wouldn’t so much as take the note from my hand. That old butler of Lord Orton’s, he’s ever so severe, acted as though I was nothing but a dirty beggar, no matter how I told them I was come from Miss Sedgewick’s.”
They’d probably thoughthewas a creditor, Lucy thought, embarrassed on William’s behalf—embarrassed too at what he must think of her, denied by her own fiancé’s staff! But she’d heard enough stories of bankrupts to know how it could be, the debtor hounded with writs, bailiffs attempting to seek entrance by any means fair or foul. Jack’s house was probably locked up like a citadel. No wonder his servants were suspicious.
“Thank you, William,” said Lucy, her voice carefully calm. “It was of no importance.”
“Sorry again, miss,” he said and returned to his endless work.
Lucy resumed her pacing, several times almost resolving on visiting his house herself. But she was already regretting her note, feeling unequal to facing Jack, her emotions too new, tooraw. Better to be mistress of herself. And Jack was unlikely to be at home; he was never at home; who really knew where Jack ever was…
“But I bet there’s brandy, and horses, and cards. Or worse!”
Nell’s words, spoken what seemed a lifetime ago on that carriage ride to Almack’s. Well. They were all common enough reasons for a man to get into debt, were they not? It was all common enough, a hundred thousand Childe Harolds, debauching themselves into despair.
“There are forever ruined nobles fleeing,”Jack had said last night,“most of them to escape their creditors…”A last resort, if a rich enough wife could not be found. But she wasnotrich.
“You don’t know, Lucy,”Jack’s voice again,“You may well be—what could be more natural? The rumour has good foundations.”
“It’s a hell of a gamble, Jack!” she told the empty room. “Or was gambling the problem?” And she still didn’t believe it, could not, would not. It was real. His feelings were real. She knew it.
“How fortunate…”
With a growl at her own useless, spinning thoughts, Lucy tossed her undelivered note aside and went resolutely upstairs to don her coat, gloves, and bonnet. She rang for her maid. She would go and buy pastels. She would work on her picture. She would be sensible and sane.
The problem with attempting to stay sane was that almost everyone she met on her shopping trip stopped to congratulate her on her happiness. And every tall, well-dressed man seen from the corner of her eye appeared to be Jack. Every gleaming carriage and well-matched pair seemed to be folly, every shop window seemed to be profligate indulgence, and every darktavern entrance seemed to be ruin. The short shopping trip exhausted her more than the whole of her first day in London had, when the loud, dizzying streets had left her breathless.
Her maid had found a hackney cab and stepped up inside with the bulk of Lucy’s purchases when a man’s voice hailed Lucy. She turned to find Mr Warde driving a pair of chestnut horses. Very familiar chestnut horses, she thought, as she eyed their foam-flecked mouths with unease.
“Miss Fanshaw,” cried Mr Warde, sweeping the hat from his head. The action necessitated him placing both reins in one hand. An unwise move, given the way the chestnuts tossed their heads, making the curricle lurch forward. Warde muttered something under his breath and got the pair under control, smiling once more at Lucy.
“You recognise these beauties, Miss Fanshaw?”
“They look remarkably like Lord Orton’s.”
“The one and the same! I couldn’t miss the opportunity to add them to my own stable when he was so sadly obliged to break up his own. Always had a good eye for horses, Orton. Pity he’s never had the same head for money.”
Lucy said nothing. The bait was not to her liking.
“Good eye for women too,” continued Mr Warde with a cruel smile, clearly deciding he needed a sharper hook. “Though I daresay he’s had you in his back pocket all along, ready to play the marriage card the moment the bailiff came a’knocking. Oh, don’t look so affronted, girl. It’s no secret how you spend your Friday evenings. If you want the liberties of acting like a man, you have to expect to be spoken to like one.”
Cheeks burning, Lucy lifted her chin and turned to go. But Mr Warde wasn’t done.
“What was wrong with George Simmons, eh?” he called loudly enough for several passersby to turn and stare. “His fortune didn’t tempt you? Not compared to Jack’s face, I suppose. Morefool you, miss. But you’ll have a lifetime to repent. He’ll burn through your fortune soon enough, and how pretty will he look then, when he’s staring at you in resentment over the dinner table, saddled with that freckled face and not even any juice left to squeeze out of it?”
Lucy probably shouldn’t have, the poor horses were innocent, but she stepped up to the nearest one and landed it a hearty slap on the rump. Mr Warde cursed as the horse half reared, setting the other one into a frenzy.
“Enjoy your drive, Mr Warde,” she said sweetly, as the out-of-control pair tore off down the street, Mr Warde cursing and red faced behind them.
It was the last enjoyment she knew for some time. Nell and her mother arrived at Miss Sedgewick’s moments after Lucy returned.
“We couldn’t stay away,” exclaimed the dowager viscountess. “Indeed, it seems so strange that you’re living here when you’re already almost a daughter to me—always have been! How jolly we’d be living all together at Ashburton’s until your wedding.”
