The Maddening Lord Montwood: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series Read online

  At the word unchanged, Miss Farmingdale’s chin jerked up, and she stiffened. From across the room, her peridot green gaze speared Frances with a look that seemed to rail at the injustice of such a fate. Standing to the girl’s back, neither Mrs. Hunter nor her ladyship saw it, but both Kaye and Frances did. They exchanged a swift sideways glance of commiseration.

  Frances nodded her understanding, which Mrs. Hunter took as acquiescence. “Very good. Miss North, escort her ladyship and Miss Farmingdale upstairs. Miss Thorne, a word, if you please.”

  Once they were alone downstairs, Mrs. Hunter stepped close. “I needn’t remind you that your position here depends very much on pleasing patrons like Lady Binghamton, need I?”

  As before, Frances said, “No, Mrs. Hunter. I understand.”

  “After the debacle with Lord Whitelock, it is a wonder that I am still in business.” She exhaled audibly and brought her hands up to primp the curls of her wig. “We are fortunate that he is such a kind and agreeable gentleman.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” It was true. Stomping on Lord Whitelock’s foot, while Frances was in the process of instructing one of his very own maids, was unforgivable. She still couldn’t quite figure out how it had happened. Yet accident or not, she was fortunate that he was the one who had insisted on Frances’s keeping her position here. If not for him, then she would have lost not only her job but her rooms as well. Between her and her father, she was the only one earning a wage.

  In the years since her mother had passed away and her father had been branded, their lives had fallen into gloom and chaos. They would be out on the street if she lost her situation.

  “We provide this service of yours without gain. It would be better for the agency if you spent more time remarking on the suitable servants we have listed in our registry than in giving instruction to the ones who are not,” Mrs. Hunter reminded unnecessarily. “As it is, with all that I’ve said and with the new agency down the street, I cannot afford one more mistake, Miss Thorne.”

  A sense of dread filled Frances, reminding her of the booklet up her sleeve. The edges of the paper rasped against her skin, making her itch, but she dared not scratch.

  Not one more mistake.

  After his brief encounter with Miss Thorne, Lucan found himself oddly distracted. And hungry. His stomach felt empty, as if he hadn’t eaten for days. Somehow, he doubted mere food would satisfy his appetite. Miss Thorne, however . . .

  He shook his head before he finished the thought, and aimed to concentrate on food instead of another, more delectable alternative.

  Leaving the servant registry office, he strode directly to the corner bakery. Yet his thoughts remained on Frances. He’d always thought her a rather intriguing woman, hiding a mystery behind those spectacles. Her eyes were sumptuous and smoky, a color somewhere between a velvety brown and a plush gray. With lashes so long they nearly touched her lenses. Her dark brown hair was the color of the burnished bronze lamp on his bedside table. And her plump lips hid a slight overbite. She’d never smiled at him. Even when she was younger, she’d shyly kept that part of her a secret. So each time he’d caught a glimpse of her teeth, he felt a low growl deep in the pit of his stomach, like a beast awakening after a long slumber and in need of sustenance.

  He was grateful for her waspish sting, because he preferred to keep that beast slumbering.

  Inside the bakery, he filled his lungs with the tantalizing aroma of rising yeast and sugar. His gaze honed in on the platter of glazed buns beneath a glass dome. His mouth watered.

  Tempting fate, he made his purchase before returning to the pavement.

  In all his eight and twenty years, Lucan had never tasted a bun. Now, he lifted it up and drew in another breath. This pastry smelled exactly like the ones that the cook at Camdonbury Place had often baked. They had been his father’s favorite. In fact, they might still be, but after being cut off two and a half years ago, Lucan did not know for certain.

  Yet he did not mind. He preferred the severed ties rather than the cruelty he’d experienced in his youth. His father was a brutal man, quick with a backhanded fist. It’d had come when Lucan least expected it.

  “Win the trick, and a glazed bun will be your prize,” his father had said, slurring the words through his drunken lips.

  Lucan remembered looking down at the cards, not yet old enough to know the game, let alone the trick of it. Asking a question that day had earned a beating, no bun, and no supper either. Then, locked in the nursery, he’d cried for himself, wondering why his elder brother—the heir—had never been punished. In fact, Vincent had stood by laughing all the while.

  Later on, after Father drank himself into a stupor, Mother had stolen away to comfort him. “Poor little spare,” she’d often crooned during these nights, rocking him gently. “Why was the sweetest boy born second?”

  The next time he’d stood in the Great Hall, Lucan had known better than to ask a question but had earned a backhand for not figuring out the trick all the same.

  It had been worse when he’d won, however. Because then his mother had borne the brunt of his punishment. “Why are you clapping, whore?” his father had bellowed as his fist hit the side of her head with a sickening thud.

  To this day, Lucan remembered that hollow sound, the sharp, interrupted cry that had followed, and the crack-thump of his mother’s head hitting the hard stone floor.

  He’d hated feeling powerless. Hated feeling hungry. And hated the sight of those glazed buns. In fact, he’d vowed long ago never to eat one.

  Gradually, he’d found other methods to gain his supper. He’d learned to charm the cook and the maids, and by the time he’d left for school, he’d developed a talent for it. He’d used his prison wisely, mastering all sorts of tricks and games. He’d even discovered that playing the miniature nursery piano had helped with his dexterity, eventually making him a master of sleight of hand. It was during this time that he’d first begun to realize that he could pour out everything he felt through music—fear, frustration, hatred . . .

  Yet while he was away at school, there had been no one to save his mother from his father’s daily requirement of violence.

  “She fell down the stairs and hit her head, son,” Hugh Thorne had said during a special visit to Lucan in his fourth year of school. “She never woke up.” But they’d both known the truth.

  More than anything, Lucan had wanted to save her. He’d devised so many plans for her to stay with families who’d lived closer to him, but each time, she’d declined, stating that her place was by his father’s side and that she would be ashamed if anyone knew.

  In the end, that choice had killed her.

  Abruptly, his thoughts shifted to the present. A feeling of resolve washed over him now, helping him resist taking a bite of the glazed bun he held. Each time he resisted, he felt in control. Not at all like his father.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Lucan spotted a familiar tuft of wheat-colored hair in the crowd and was reminded of his purpose. Leaving his spot in front of the bakery, he rounded the bend and then dashed across the street between a cart and a phaeton before slipping into the narrow alleyway to wait.

  It wasn’t long before the boy appeared. That dried wheat hair stuck out straight from his head. There wasn’t much to the lad—he was all arms and legs, with a long neck supporting a round face, most of which was spattered with freckles. Resting a hand against the wall to catch his breath, the boy wiped beads of sweat from his brow.

  “It . . . ain’t . . . fair,” the boy said, panting after each word. “You could at least pretend not to see me.”

  Lucan resisted the urge to smile. “It is your job not to be seen, Arthur. I’ve been trying to teach you that since you first tried to pick my pocket, nearly two years ago now.”

  At the time, to make matters worse, when caught, the lad had opened his mouth and unleashed a torrent of prior crimes. Yet the sheer panic in the boy’s eyes had kindled Lucan’s sympathy.

  He’d seen
too much of himself in those eyes. Therefore, to calm Arthur, Lucan had used a few sleight-of-hand tricks as a distraction. Soon, he’d gained an avid follower. The little scamp was a wily one too. No matter where Lucan was, Arthur would find him and beg to learn more. Lucan had agreed, but only if the lad promised to stop picking pockets. To aid Arthur in that endeavor, Lucan had found him a job as an errand runner at White’s.

  “Even though I’ve been away these past months, that is no reason for you to forget all that I taught you.” Lucan had been in Lincolnshire, plotting to marry off his closest friends.

  “I’ve been busy, I have,” Arthur said, taking in a few gulps of air.

  As an orphan, his was a typical tale of a street urchin. The only difference was that he had an older sister. Henny Momper had been attending the Winchester Asylum in the hopes of learning a proper servant trade. Unfortunately, when their parents died, she left the school to watch over Arthur.

  Then a year ago, Arthur and Henny were taken off the streets and began working for Lord Whitelock. Since the viscount was known for his generosity, in addition to taking in the less fortunate and providing them employment, this normally wouldn’t have gained Lucan’s interest. However, since he owed Whitelock ten thousand pounds, it had.

  “Ran all the way from Lord Marsen’s, I did.” Arthur’s gaze lingered on the pastry in Lucan’s hand. “I heard Lord Whitelock tell the driver that his meeting would take a while and to find himself a cup of tea in the meantime.”

  Marsen. Lucan had lost a monkey to him last night. It could have been worse—a thousand pounds instead of only half the sum. The pity was, he’d actually assumed that Marsen was a good sort. Of course, that was only until the jack of hearts had made a sloppy appearance from Marsen’s cuff.

  Lucan’s odd friendship with Arthur had taken a turn when the lad began to work for Whitelock. While it might not be scrupulous, Lucan started using an unsuspecting Arthur as an informant.

  He hadn’t set out to, but one day, Arthur had been chatting on as he usually did and mentioned Whitelock’s meeting with a gambler—a man to whom Lucan had lost at the tables the night before. Then the following week, Arthur had reported a meeting with a different gentleman. That story was similar, as well—it had been with another man to whom Lucan had lost a substantial sum of money.

  Of course, the fact that Lucan had run into a two-year losing streak at the tables, defeated by the very men who had met with Whitelock, could all be happenstance.

  But Lucan didn’t believe in coincidence. In fact, he suspected—for reasons unknown—that Whitelock wanted to make sure he couldn’t pay back the debt of honor. And if Lucan didn’t come up with ten thousand pounds in the next few months, Hugh Thorne would go back to gaol and soon face the hangman’s noose.

  Was it any wonder why Lucan had had to resort to a wager amongst his own friends? Ten thousand pounds to the last bachelor standing in a year’s time. And now, with Everhart and Danvers happily settled, in a few short months, Lucan would finally win and remove this debt for good.

  Lucan handed over the bun, watching the boy’s eyes grow as round as his head. It always helped to have a spy who was employed by the one you were spying on. “And here I was, about to let this go to waste. It’s good thing you came along when you did. I would offer a cup of tea, but clearly I wasn’t thinking of entertaining.” He gestured to the brick walls of the narrow alleyway and the damp cobblestones at their feet.

  “There’s always tea tomorrow,” Arthur said around a mouthful. Then, after taking a moment to swallow audibly, he wiped the glaze from his lips and stood ramrod straight as if he were imparting news from the royal palace. “My sister is now the housekeeper of Lord Whitelock’s hunting box in Wales.”

  From chambermaid to the viscountess’s companion and now head housekeeper? Usually, servants worked their whole lives to reach such prestige. Not to mention, usually only educated, highborn women—most likely a dependent relation—became companions. Yet Henny Momper had managed the implausible in a year’s time. If it weren’t for Whitelock’s unblemished reputation, people might start to make assumptions.

  For the boy’s sake, however, Lucan bit down on his suspicions. “I offer my congratulations. What a boon for your sister and, I imagine, for you as well.” Whitelock’s reputed benevolence was one of the reasons that Lucan had accepted the debt on Thorne’s behalf. It made no sense that Whitelock would make it impossible to pay it back.

  Yet circumstances suggested otherwise.

  Arthur puffed out his chest. “Before Henny left at the end of last month, she said that after a while she’d make sure to set me up as a groom in the stables there.”

  “Good on you.” Lucan ruffled his hair, glad for the boy. At the same time, however, he would miss him. He’d grown fond of the former pickpocket.

  “His lordship is still looking for a new companion for Lady Whitelock. He’ll go to Mrs. Hunter’s tomorrow.”

  This surprised Lucan. Whitelock was returning to Mrs. Hunter’s so soon? That would make the second time this week. Moreover, if his purpose was to find a new companion for his wife, a servant registry was hardly the standard method.

  Yet, the fact that he kept returning to that particular servant registry tolled a warning through Lucan. He’d learned years ago not to discount this instinct.

  With the Hugh Thorne’s life hanging in the balance once more and with Whitelock’s sudden interest in the agency where Frances Thorne worked, Lucan almost wished that he did believe in coincidence. But this was starting to feel like a game—one of which he didn’t know the trick. Not yet.

  Now, he needed to figure out how Frances Thorne factored in to Whitelock’s new interests. Which meant that Lucan needed to stay close to her, even at the risk of awakening the hunger inside of him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Frannie?”

  Frances pretended not to hear her father’s voice and continued down the stairs from their third-floor apartment in the ramshackle boarding house. She was in no mood to speak with him. This morning, when it had come time to pay their landlady, Mrs. Pruitt, there had been no money left in crockery hidden in the floorboards beneath Frances’s pallet. He’d done this before. Most likely, it had ended up in an alehouse. He tended to imbibe too much when he was anxious. The only problem was, he never came to her with his worries. He only came to her with his excuses. She should have known better and found a more secure hiding spot. But deep down she wanted him to find the strength to be a real father once more.

  Now, Mrs. Pruitt was waiting by the front door—barring it, really—with her stubby hand open. Without any further delay, Frances took nearly the last of her wages and placed the shillings in the older woman’s palm. Not saying a word, the landlady scrutinized each coin. And to each coin, Frances silently bid a final, painful good-bye—one that she felt in the pit of her stomach. Those shillings should have gone to their grocery account. When satisfied, Mrs. Pruitt sniffed and leveled a hard look at Frances before moving to the side.

  Opening the door, Frances looked over her shoulder at her father who’d made his way down to the landing. She was already running behind schedule because of the pointless search for the rent money. “I don’t have time this morning, Da.”

  She couldn’t afford one more mistake or else Mrs. Hunter would let her go.

  Once outside, she could hear her father’s shuffled footsteps behind her. In the more affluent parts of town—where they used to live—there wouldn’t be much traffic on the street at this time of morning. Yet here, early risers gained the advantage. Therefore, it came as no surprise that the pavement was just as crowded as the street. As was her usual method, she kept close to the buildings and walked at a steady clip. Beneath the awnings and overhangs, she was less likely to have the contents of a chamber pot dumped on her head.

  “Frannie, you’re walking too fast,” her father complained, catching up to her. He added a short wheeze at the end until she relented and slowed her stride. Gradually, he
matched her pace. “There’s a good girl. Now, hear me out.”

  She already knew he was going to pour out a list of excuses for why he took the money—excuses that would hold as much weight as a handful of air. “This wasn’t the first time.”

  “You know how hard it’s been.” Beneath his glove, he rubbed the place over his branded thumb. “I can’t find work.”

  “I have found work for you.” She’d put her professional reputation at risk by calling in favors from the housekeepers and lady’s maids for whom she’d helped find situations. Yet each time, her father disappointed her.

  “I am too old to be a footman—carting trays, buckets, and portmanteaus up and down the stairs.”

  “That was a last resort, Da.” And he well knew it. She let out an exasperated sigh. “The clerk’s position at the solicitor’s office was perfect for you. Mr. Youngblood did me a great favor by even offering his consideration. Yet you did not last a month.”

  Hugh Thorne opened his mouth, uttered a monosyllabic sound, and then closed it again. Removing his hat revealed a short crop of graying hair, which had receded to form a soft U shape above his forehead. He tried again. “I wasn’t ready for that job at the time, but I am now. If you could find it in your heart, Frannie . . . You know how much I love you. I never wanted to be a disappointment as a father. If your mother were alive today, I would be a different man. I’m sure of it. One more chance. That’s all I need.”

  She closed her eyes. One more chance. Yet she didn’t have another chance. And asking for another favor from the names on her dwindling list just wasn’t something she was willing to risk. Not today. Not when they could both be out on the street tomorrow.

  During Miss Farmingdale’s instruction yesterday, the scandalous booklet had fallen out of Frances’s sleeve, opening directly to the backside page. If Miss Farmingdale had been determined to remain unchanged all the days of her life, she would have gasped or even swooned. Fortunately for Frances, when Miss Farmingdale lifted the slender pages from the floor, her brows had gone up, followed by the corners of her mouth. She’d passed the booklet back to Frances surreptitiously, but it could have turned out drastically differently.